TRACKING THE THIEF.
With some agitation Scott addressed the clerk. "Has the gentleman who
came with me left the hotel?" he asked.
"Yes," was the answer, "about an hour since."
"Isn't he coming back?"
"No. He told me to tell you that he was called suddenly to the West. He
will write to you from Buffalo."
Scott felt limp and helpless. He turned pale and clung to the counter
for support.
He was only a boy, and he realized that with his companion went half his
scanty means.
"Didn't Mr. Lane take breakfast here?" he asked. "Perhaps he is still
here."
"No; he said he could not wait. He wanted to catch the early train. It
is strange he didn't tell you he was going. You are young to be left
alone."
"I don't mind that," said Scott, bitterly, "but he has robbed me."
"Eh?" returned the clerk, briskly. "What's that?"
"He stole ten pounds in English notes from my pocket while I slept."
The clerk whistled.
"Is he a relation of yours?" he asked.
"No; he was only a fellow passenger on the ship _Arcturus_, which
arrived in this port yesterday morning."
"Then you haven't know him long?"
"No."
"I am very much surprised. He seemed like a gentleman."
"What shall I do?" asked Scott, feeling that he needed advice from some
one who knew the world better than he did.
"You might inform the police."
"But if he has already left the city, I am afraid it wouldn't do much
good."
"Did he take all you had?" inquired the clerk, with the sudden thought
that in that case Scott would be unable to pay his hotel bill.
"No; I divided my money into two parts. He only took half."
"That was lucky," said the clerk, relieved. "Perhaps he hasn't left the
city yet," he added, after a pause.
"But he was going for an early train, you told me."
"That is what he said. He might wait till after ten o'clock to change
the notes. Have you the number of them?"
"No, or--yes, I can tell what they would be from those I have left.
Probably they would come directly before or directly after those."
"Then you stand a chance to recover them, or at any rate to have him
arrested. It is too early to do anything yet. You had better eat
breakfast, and then go down to Wall Street. That is where the brokers
have their offices, and you may meet him there."
"Thank you."
"Do you mean to remain here?"
"Yes, for the present. I shall probably stay till to-morrow, at any
rate."
Scott went in to breakfast, and notwithstanding his loss he ate
heartily. He was of a sanguine temperament and disposed to make the best
of circumstances. So he congratulated himself on having retained a part
of his money.
"When do the brokers' offices open?" he asked, when he again saw the
clerk.
"At ten o'clock."
"I will walk leisurely toward Wall Street, then. If Mr. Lane comes
back----"
"If he does, we will keep him. But I don't think there is any chance of
it."
Scott walked down to the City Hall Park, and then proceeded down
Broadway in the direction of Trinity Church, which, he was told, faced
the head of Wall Street.
As he was passing the Astor House, he espied a familiar face and figure.
It was the boy who had spoken to Crawford Lane the day before--John
Schickling.
"Good-morning!" he said, touching the boy's arm.
John Schickling looked round with a puzzled expression, for he did not
recognize Scott. The day previous he had only taken notice of Crawford
Lane, and not of his companion.
"I don't remember you," he said.
"I was walking with Mr. Lane yesterday when you spoke to him."
"Oh, yes. Where is he now?"
"That's what I want to find out. He and I stopped at a hotel on the
Bowery last night. When I woke up this morning I found that he had
stolen some of my money and disappeared."
"He's a rascal!" said John, warmly. "It is just like him. Had you known
him long?"
"No; we met on board the ship that brought us over from Liverpool. I am
a stranger in the city, and he agreed to act as my guide."
"You didn't expect you would have to pay so dearly for it?"
"No."
"What are you going to do?"
"The money he took was in English bank notes, and the hotel clerk
thought he might go down to Wall Street to exchange them there at some
broker's."
"Very likely. And you are going there now?" asked John.
"Yes."
"Then I'll go with you. I want to collect that money he owes mother."
"I will be glad of your company. I feel strange in America. I am an
English boy."
"I'll help you all I can. I am on an errand for my brother. He is a
young man, and I work for him, but I know he won't mind my following up
this fellow and trying to make him pay me. Say, how old are you?"
"Sixteen."
"I am fifteen."
"You are the first American boy I have met."
"I hope you will like me better than Mr. Lane. He is an American, but
isn't much credit to the country."
The two boys reached Wall Street about ten minutes past ten. They turned
the corner and entered the great financial artery of New York.
Soon they reached a broker's office, and went in.
Advised by John, Scott went up to a small window, behind which stood a
clerk.
"I have some English notes which I would like to exchange for American
money," he said.
"Hand them to me."
As he looked them over, the clerk's face showed surprise.
"I have just bought some," he said, "the numbers of which correspond
very nearly with these."
Scott grew excited.
"What was the appearance of the man who presented them?"
The description was given.
"They were my notes," said Scott. "The man stole them from me. Where did
he go?"
"I can't tell, but perhaps our messenger may know. Wait a minute."
The messenger--William Doon, a boy of eighteen--remembered that Lane had
gone as far as Broadway, and turned to go uptown.
"Come along," said John, "we may catch him yet."
Scott gave himself up to the guidance of his boy friend, and hurried up
Broadway, but without much hope of finding Lane. He had not yet sold his
notes, feeling that he must if possible catch the thief who had
plundered him.
Just above Chambers Street, on the west side of the street, was a
cut-rate railroad ticket office.
"Suppose we go in there," suggested John. "He may buy a ticket for some
place out West. He wouldn't dare to stay in New York."
This seemed not unlikely, and Scott followed young Schickling into the
office.
It was a lucky thought. No sooner had they entered than Scott recognized
his faithless acquaintance at the counter inquiring the price of a
ticket to Chicago.
"I can give you a ticket this morning for fourteen dollars," said the
agent. "It is a rare chance, but it will have to be used within three
days."
"I will take it," answered Lane, drawing a roll of bills from his
pocket.
It was the money he had received from the broker.
Scott was exasperated at the man's coolness. He was no milk-and-water
boy, but a lad of spirit.
"Mr. Lane," he said, grasping the other's arm, "give me back that money
you stole from me."
Crawford Lane turned and gazed at Scott in dismay. He had never expected
to see him again, and could not understand how he had got upon his
track. But he decided to brazen it out.
"What do you mean, boy?" he demanded, roughly. "You must be crazy."
"I mean this, that you stole some English bank notes from me at the
hotel where we slept, and----"
"That is absurd. I leave it to this gentleman whether these are English
notes."
"Certainly not," said the ticket agent. "This is American money."
"If you don't leave this office and stop annoying me I will have you
arrested," blustered Lane.
"No, you don't," interposed John Schickling, whom until now Lane had
not noticed. "We're on to your little game. We've just come from the
broker's office where you exchanged the money."