HERR SCHLAGER.
Four hundred and sixty mackerel, besides about twenty "tinkers," was a
big fare for that season; but when this fish bite they make a business
of it and an expert in the art may catch from forty to sixty in a
minute. It was exciting work, and the blood of Leopold and Stumpy had
been up to fever heat. But this violent agitation had passed away,
though it was succeeded by a sensation hardly less exhilarating. Though
the fish were caught and in the boat, the game was not played out--to
return to the comparison with the gambler. The excitement still
continues and would continue until the fish were sold. The great
question now was, What would the mackerel bring in the market? Even a
difference of a cent in the price of a single fish made four dollars and
sixty cents on the whole fare. Leopold had received a large price the
day before, and he could only hope he should do as well on the present
occasion. He was almost as deeply moved in regard to the price as he had
been in regard to catching the fish.
"I have made a big day's work for me, Le, whatever price they bring,"
said Stumpy, shortly after he had finished counting the fish. "If you
sell them at five cents apiece, I shall have five dollars and three
quarters; and that is more than I can generally earn in a week."
"I won't sell them for five cents apiece, Stumpy," replied Leopold, very
decidedly.
"If they won't bring any more than that, what are you going to do about
it?" laughed Stumpy.
"Mackerel are very scarce this season, and I don't believe they have had
any over at Rockland. If the folks in the fish market don't give me ten
cents apiece for the lot, I shall sail over there. I am almost sure I
can get ten cents for mackerel as handsome as these are. Besides, about
all I brought in yesterday were sold before sundown."
"Then I shall be eleven dollars and a half in," added Stumpy. "My mother
wants about so much to make out her interest money. If she don't pay it
we shall be turned out doors before the sun goes down on the day it is
due."
"Do you think so?" asked Leopold, with a deep expression of sympathy.
"O, I know it. My grandad is an amiable man. He don't put off till
to-morrow what can be done to-day, when anybody owes him any money."
"It seems to me I would rather go to jail than owe him a dollar."
"So would I; and I only wish my mother could pay off the mortgage!
Things have gone up in Rockhaven, and the place that cost my father
eleven hundred dollars seven years ago, is worth eighteen hundred or two
thousand now. My affectionate grandpa knows this just as well as my
mother; and if he can get the place for the seven hundred we owe him, he
will do it. He says it is too expensive a place for poor folks who
haven't got anything."
"But if the place is worth two thousand dollars, your mother will get
all over the seven hundred, when it is sold," suggested Leopold, who had
considerable knowledge of business.
[Illustration: THE BIG CATCH OF MACKEREL. Page 85.]
"The house and land are worth just what I say; or, at least, they were a
year ago, though the war has knocked things higher than a kite just now.
Nobody except my loving grandpa has got the ready cash to pay down; and
mother thinks the place wouldn't fetch much, if anything, over the
mortgage. But in time it will be worth two thousand dollars."
The arrival of the old boat at the wharf, and the commencement of the
excitement in and around the fish market, terminated the conversation on
Stumpy's worldly affairs. As the dingy craft approached the pier, a
crowd gathered at the head of the landing-steps, for it had been noised
about the town that Leopold had brought in a fare of mackerel the day
before; and people were anxious to know whether he had repeated his good
luck.
A great many boats had gone out that morning after mackerel, but none of
them had yet returned. Foremost in the crowd on the wharf was Bangs, the
senior member of the firm that kept the fish market. He was excited and
anxious, though he struggled to be calm and indifferent when Leopold
fastened the painter of his boat to the steps.
"What luck to-day, Le?" shouted Bangs, who could not see the fish, for
the careful Leopold had covered them in order to keep them from injury
from the sun, and so that the extent of his good fortune might not at
once be seen by the idlers on the wharf.
"Pretty fair," replied Leopold, striving to be as calm and indifferent
as the dealer in fish on the pier.
"What have you got?" inquired Bangs.
"Mackerel," answered Leopold, as he seated himself in the stern-sheets
of the boat, with affected carelessness.
"Tinkers?"
"No; the same sort that I sold you yesterday."
"What do you ask for them?" inquired Bangs, looking up at the sky as
though nothing on the earth below concerned him.
"Ten cents," replied Leopold, looking up at the sky in turn, as though
nothing sublunary concerned him, either.
"All right," said the dealer, shaking his head, with a kind of smile,
which seemed to indicate that he thought the young fisherman was beside
himself to ask such a price, after apparently glutting the market the
day before. "That will do for once, Le; but they won't bring ten cents
at retail, after all I sold yesterday. I should have to salt them down."
"Very well," added Leopold; "that's my price; and I don't know of any
law that compels you to give it, if you don't want to, Mr. Bangs."
The dealer began to edge his way through the crowd towards the fish
market, and the idlers hastened to the conclusion that there would be no
trade.
"What do you ask apiece for two or three of them?" asked some one on the
wharf.
"Twenty cents," answered Leopold. "But I don't care to sell them at
retail."
"I will take three, if you will let me have them," added the inquirer.
This conversation startled the head of the fish firm, and he returned
once more to the cap-sill of the wharf. He saw that if the young man
attempted to sell out his fare at retail, the business of the market
would be ruined for that day.
"I will give you eight cents apiece for all you have," said Bangs.
"You can't buy them at that price. If you don't want them at ten cents
apiece, I shall take them over to Rockland," replied Leopold, who did
not wish to offend the members of the fish firm, for they had often
bought out his fare, and he wished to keep on the right side of them for
operations in the future.
Mr. Bangs considered, parleyed, and then offered nine cents; but
finally, when Leopold was found to be inflexible, he yielded the point,
and agreed to pay the ten cents. The mackerel were unloaded and conveyed
to the market, when the sale of them at retail commenced immediately.
The fish were so large and handsome that twenty cents did not appear to
be a very extravagant price for them, considering the scarcity of the
article in the market. In the settlement, Leopold received forty-six
dollars; Stumpy's share, according to a standing agreement, was one
quarter of the proceeds of the sale; and the eleven dollars and a half
which he put into his wallet was quite as satisfactory to him as the
thirty-four dollars and a half was to Leopold. Both of them felt that
they had been favored by fortune to an extraordinary degree, and they
were very happy. The old boat was sailed back to her usual moorings. The
tinkers were equally divided between the young fishermen, and they went
home.
By eleven o'clock Stumpy had poured into the lap of his astonished
mother the proceeds of his morning's work, and Leopold had informed his
father of the second big haul he had made that season. As before, Mr.
Bennington--but with some additional cautions--told his son to keep the
money he had made.
"The sick man is in a peck of trouble this morning," added the landlord
of the Cliff House, when the exciting business of the occasion had been
disposed of.
"What's the matter of him?" asked Leopold.
"He has lost his book, his record, or whatever it is," added Mr.
Bennington. "He has sent for everybody belonging in the house, including
many of the boarders. He wants to see you."
"I'm sure I don't know anything about it," replied Leopold, who,
judging by what the invalid had said about the book, realized that the
loss of it must distress him very much.
"No one seems to know anything about it; and the sick man will have it
that some one has stolen the book. I laughed at him, and told him no one
would steal such a thing, for it was worth nothing to anybody but
himself. But go up and see him, Leopold."
The young man hastened to the room of the sick man. Harvey Barth was
certainly very miserable on account of the loss of his diary. He spoke
of it as he would have done if it had been some dear friend who had been
taken away from him by death; but then he was sick and rather childish,
and the people about the hotel pitied and sympathized with him.
"Where did you put it?" asked Leopold, when he had heard all the
particulars the steward could give in relation to his loss.
"There isn't any cupboard in this room, and I hadn't any good place to
keep it; so I just tucked it into the flue of that fireplace," drawled
Harvey, with the frequent hacking which impeded his utterance.
"That was a queer place to put it," added Leopold.
"I know it was; but I hadn't any better one. I thought it would be safer
there than in any other place."
"Are you sure that you put it there?"
"Am I sure that I am a living man at this moment?" demanded Harvey.
"That diary is worth more to me than all the rest I have in the world,
and I shouldn't forget what I did with it."
But Leopold searched the room in every nook and corner, in spite of the
protest of the sick man that it was useless to do so, for he had looked
everywhere a dozen times himself. The young man was no more successful
than others had been who had looked for the diary.
"Though you value it very highly I suppose the diary is not really worth
very much," suggested Leopold.
"There are secrets written out in that book which might be worth a great
deal of money to a bad man," replied Harvey, in a confidential tone.
"Well, what do you suppose has become of it?"
"I'll tell you. I think some one stole it," added the sick man
impressively.
"Did any one know about the secrets written down in it?"
"Not that I know of. Some one may have taken it in order to get my
account of the wreck of the Waldo. It may affect the insurance on the
vessel, or something of that sort, for all I know. I think I know just
who stole it too;" and Harvey related all the particulars of the tipsy
man's visit to the chamber the night before. "He pretended to be drunk,
but I think he knew what he was about all the time, just as well as I
did. In my opinion he took that book."
"Why should he take it?" asked Leopold, who thought it was necessary to
prove the motive before the deed was charged upon him.
"I don't know but I think he sat at the window of the room over there,"
continued Harvey, pointing to one in the L of the house, which opened at
right angles with his own. "I believe he saw me put the diary in the
flue, and then came into my room in the night and took it, while he was
blundering about over the chairs and tables. I am sure that none of the
folks who came in to see me in the afternoon could have taken it without
my seeing them--not even the newspaper man. You may depend upon it, the
tipsy man--if he was tipsy--took it. What he did it for is more than I
can tell; but he may have thought it was money, or something else that
was valuable. I saw him at that window after I had hid the diary in the
flue."
Harvey Bath was entirely satisfied in regard to the guilt of the tipsy
man, and had already ascertained that the fellow was a "drummer"--in
Europe more politely called a "commercial traveller." He had also
obtained the name of the man, and the address of the firm in New York
city for which he travelled. With this information he hoped to obtain
his treasure again, by shrewd management, when he went to New York. But,
in spite of his grief over his loss, Harvey wrote the account of the
wreck of the Waldo for the newspaper, in the course of the next day, and
sent it off by mail.
After Leopold had done all he could to comfort the invalid,--though he
failed, as others had, to lessen the burden which weighed him down,--he
left the room, and walked down to the principal street of the village,
on which the Cliff House was located. A few rods from the hotel he came
to the smallest store in the place, in the window of which were
displayed a few silver watches and a rather meagre assortment of cheap
jewelry. On the shelves inside of the shop was a considerable variety of
wooden clocks, and, in a glass case on the counter, a quantity of
spoons, forks and dishes, some few of which were silver, while the
greater part were plated, or of block tin. Over the door was the sign
"LEOPOLD SCHLAGER, WATCH-MAKER." The proprietor of this establishment
was Leopold's uncle, his mother's only brother, which explains the
circumstance of our hero's having a foreign name.
Of course, if Leopold Schlager was a German, Mrs. Bennington was of the
same nationality, though any one meeting her about the hotel would
hardly have suspected that she was not a full-blooded American. Over
thirty years before, she had emigrated with her younger brother, when
the times were hard in Germany. Her father was dead, and her elder
brother, Leopold, was not yet out of his time, learning the trade of a
watch-maker. The younger brother went to the west, taking her with him,
and established himself on a farm. He was not very successful, and his
sister, at the age of twelve, went to live with an American family in
Chicago, the lady of which had taken a fancy to her. She was brought up
to work, though her education was not neglected. Before she was
twenty-one her brother in the west died. But by this time she was
abundantly able to take care of herself.
When the family in which she was so kindly cared for was broken up by
the death of the father, she went to work in the kitchen of a large
hotel, where she enlarged her knowledge and experience in the art of
cooking, till she was competent to take a situation as the cook of a
small public house. In this place she increased the reputation of the
establishment by her skill, till the proprietor was willing to pay her
any wages she demanded.
Peter Bennington, a native of Maine, was employed in the hotel; and he
was so well pleased with the looks of the German cook that he proposed
to her, and was accepted. Katharina Schlager spoke English then as well
as a native; and she was not only neat and skillful, but she was a
pretty and wholesome-looking woman. Peter married her, and, after a
while, bought out the hotel. But he was not successful in the venture;
and, with only a few hundred dollars in his pocket, he returned to
Rockhaven, his native place, where he soon opened the Cliff House.
Leopold was born in Chicago, and his mother had insisted upon naming him
after her brother in Germany.
Mr. Bennington had done very well in the hotel; but he was ambitious to
do business on a larger scale, and was revolving in his mind a plan to
make the Cliff House into a large establishment, which would attract
summer visitors in great numbers. He had bought the present hotel, and
paid for it from his profits; and he hoped soon to be able to rebuild it
on a larger scale.
His wife was faithful and devoted to him and the children. She had
always done the cooking for the Cliff House, which had given it an
excellent reputation. She was not only a good and true woman, but she
was an exceedingly useful one to a hotel-keeper. For years she had
tenderly thought of her absent brother in Germany. She often wrote to
him, and learned that he was doing a good business in a small city.
After years of persuasion, she induced him to join her in America. He
was met on the wharf in New York, when he landed, by Mr. Bennington and
his wife, and conducted to Rockhaven without delay. He could not speak a
word of English then; but for six months he devoted himself to the study
of it under the tuition of his sister and her children, till he was
competent to carry on his business in the town. He was a very skillful
workman, and all the watches in Rockhaven and on the island came to him
to be cleaned and repaired. Even the rich men of the place found that he
could be safely trusted with their valuable gold time-keepers, and he
became quite celebrated in his line. He sold a watch occasionally, and
had a small trade in clocks and other wares, so that he really made more
money than in his native land. He had brought with him a considerable
capital, and was enabled to stock his store without any aid from his
sister.
If Herr Schlager missed his "sauer kraut" and "bier," he enjoyed the
company of his sister and her children. Leopold was his favorite,
perhaps because he bore the watch-maker's name. They were fast friends;
and in the undertaking which Leopold was laboring to accomplish, he had
made his uncle his confidant.
When the young man entered the store, he bestowed his first glance upon
a small iron safe behind the counter, in which the watch-maker kept his
watches, silver ware, and other valuables at night. Leopold was
interested in that strong box, for the reason that it contained his own
savings. For six months he had been hoarding up every penny he earned
for a purpose, and he had placed his money in the hands of his uncle for
safe keeping. Perhaps Herr Schlager's iron safe was as much the occasion
of his confidence in his uncle as the fact of their relationship.
Leopold's present visit was made in order to dispose of the proceeds of
his morning's work, before he lost it or was tempted to spend any
portion of it.
"Ah, mine poy! you have come mit more money. I see him in your head,"
said Herr Schlager, as, with a cheerful smile, he left his work-table.
"Yes uncle, I have more money," replied Leopold; and his success had
covered his face with smiles. "_Ich habe viel geld diesen morgen._"
"_Sehr gut!_" laughed the watch-maker, who was delighted to hear his
nephew use the little German he had taught him. "_Wie viel geld haben
sie?"_
"_Mehr als vier-und-dreisig thaler_," replied Leopold, who had been
preparing himself, during his walk from the hotel to the store, to speak
what German he had thus far uttered.
"_Viel geld!_" cried the watch-maker.
"How much have I now?" asked Leopold, in plain English, forgetting for
the time all the rest of the German he knew.
"_Sprechen Deutsch!_" exclaimed the watch-maker.
"I don't remember any more German," laughed the young man. "How much
money have I now?"
Herr Schlager opened the iron safe and placed in one of its draws the
sum just given him by his nephew, and took therefrom a slip of paper.
Leopold added the sums he had deposited, and made the amount
eighty-seven dollars and some cents.
"Das is nicht enough, Leopold--eh?" asked the uncle.
"No, not yet."
"How many more you want of dollars?"
"I don't know exactly. They ask two hundred; but, as it is rather late
in the season, I think they will take one hundred and fifty," replied
Leopold, thoughtfully.
"You shall buy him now."
"Not this year, Uncle Leopold; and next spring they will put the price
up again. I haven't even a hundred and fifty dollars."
"I shall let you haf de rest of das geld."
This proposition produced an argument; but the nephew finally consented
to borrow the balance of the sum required, if one hundred and fifty
dollars would answer the purpose. Leopold left the shop with an anxious
heart; but in a couple of hours he returned for his own money and the
loan.