A LEGALIZED PICKPOCKET
"I've got ter go ter Boston," said Uncle Terry to his wife a few days
later. "Thar's some money due us that we ain't sartin we'll git. You an'
Telly can tend the lights for a couple o' nights, can't ye? I won't be
gone more'n that. Bascom's to take me up to the head, an' if the boat's
runnin' I'll be all right."
This plan had cost Uncle Terry a good deal of diplomacy. Not only did he
have to invent a reasonable excuse for going by exciting the fears of
both Bascom and Oaks regarding money really due them, but he had to
allay the curiosity of his wife and Telly as well. In a small village
like the Cape every one's movements were well known to all and commented
on, and no one was better aware of it than Uncle Terry. But go to Boston
he must, and to do so right in the dead of winter, when to take such a
trip was an unheard-of thing, and not excite a small tempest of curious
gossip, taxed his Yankee wit.
At Bath he had a few hours' wait, and went to the bank and drew a
sizable sum of money from his small savings.
"Lawyers are sech sharps, consarn 'em!" he said to himself, "I'd better
go loaded. Most likely I'll come back skinned! I never did tackle a
lawyer 'thout losin' my shirt."
When, after an all-night ride, during which he sat in the smoking-car
with his pipe and thoughts for company, he arrived in Boston, he felt,
as he would phrase it, like a cat in a strange garret. He had tried to
fortify himself against the expected meeting with this Frye, who he felt
sure would, like all his profession, make him pay dearly for any
service. When he entered the rather untidy office of that legal light he
was not surprised to find that its occupant much resembled a vulture.
"Well, sir, what can I do for you?" asked Frye, after his visitor had
introduced himself.
"Wal," answered Uncle Terry, taking a seat and laying his hat on the
floor beside him, "I've come on rather a curis errand;" and taking out
the slip he had a few days before placed in his wallet, he handed it to
Frye with the remark: "That's my errand."
Frye's face brightened.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Terry," he said, beginning to rub his
hands together. "If you have any facts in your possession that will aid
us in the search for an heir to this estate we shall be glad to pay you
for them, provided they are facts. Now, sir, what is your story?"
Uncle Terry looked at the lawyer a moment before answering.
"I didn't come here to tell all I knew the fust go-off," he said. "I
know all 'bout this shipwreck, an' a good deal more that'll consarn ye,
but fust I want to know who is lookin' for the information, an' what's
likely to cum on't."
It was Frye's turn to stare now.
"This man won't be any easy witness," he thought; and then he said:
"That I am not at liberty to disclose until I know what facts you can
establish, but rest assured that any information you may have, if it be
proved of real value, will entitle you to an ample reward."
"I reckon ye don't quite ketch on ter my drift," replied Uncle Terry. "I
didn't cum here lookin' fer pay, but to see that justice was sarved and
them as had rights got thar dues."
"Well, sir," said Frye, in a suave voice, "we too are looking to see the
ends of justice served, but you must understand that in a matter of this
importance we must make no mistakes. An estate awaits a claimant, but
that claimant must establish his or her identity beyond the shadow of a
doubt, in order, as you must see, that justice may be done."
"Wal," replied Uncle Terry, stroking his chin with his thumb and finger
while he deliberated, "I s'pose I may as well tell ye fust as last. I
cum here for that purpose, an' all I want to fix is, if thar's nothin'
in it ye'd keep it a secret and not raise any false hopes in the minds
o' them as is near and dear to me."
"It's a lawyer's professional duty never to disclose any business
confidence that a client may confide to him," answered Frye with
dignity, "and in this matter I infer you wish to become my client. Am I
right, Mr. Terry?"
"I didn't cum here exactly purposin' to hire ye," answered Uncle Terry;
"I cum to find what's in the wind, an', if 'twas likely to 'mount to
anything, to tell all I knew an' see that them as had rights got
justice. As I told ye in the fust on't, I'm keeper o' the light at the
end o' Southport Island, an' have been for thirty year.
"One night in March, just nineteen year ago comin' this spring, thar was
a small bark got a-foul o' White Hoss Ledge right off'n the pint and
stayed thar hard an' fast. I seen her soon as 'twas light, but thar was
nothin' that could be done but build a fire an' stand an' watch the poor
critters go down. Long toward noon I spied a bundle workin' in, an' when
it struck I made fast to it with a boat hook an' found a baby inside an'
alive. My wife an' I took care on't, and have been doing so ever since.
It was a gal baby and she growed up into a young lady. 'Bout ten years
ago we took out papers legally adoptin' her, an' so she's ourn. From a
paper we found pinned to her clothes, we learned her name was Etelka
Peterson, an' that her mother, an' we supposed her father, went down
that day right in sight o' us. Thar was a locket round the child's neck,
an' a couple o' rings in the box, an' we have kept 'em an' the papers
an' all her baby clothes ever since. That's the hull story."
"How did this child live to get ashore?" asked Frye, keenly interested.
"That's the curis part," replied Uncle Terry; "she was put in a box an'
tied 'tween two feather beds an' cum ashore dry as a duck."
Frye stroked his nose reflectively, stooping over as he did and watching
his visitor with hawk-like eyes.
"A very well-told tale, Mr. Terry," he said at last. "A very well-told
tale indeed! Of course you have retained all the articles you say were
found on the child?"
"Yes, we've kept 'em all, you may be sure," replied Uncle Terry.
"And why did you never make any official report of this wreck and of the
facts you state?" asked Frye.
"I did at the time," answered Uncle Terry, "but nothin' cum on't. I
guess my report is thar in Washington now, if it ain't lost."
"And do I understand you wish to retain me as your counsel in this
matter, and lay claim to this estate, Mr. Terry?" continued Frye.
"Wal, I've told ye the facts," replied Uncle Terry, "an' if the gal's
got money comin' I'd like to see her git it. What's goin' to be the cost
o' doin' the business?"
"The matter of expense is hard to state in such a case as this,"
answered Frye cautiously. "The estate is a large one; there may be, and
no doubt will be, other claimants; litigation may follow, and so the
cost is an uncertain one. I shall be glad to act for you in this matter,
and will do so if you retain me."
It is said that those who hesitate are lost, and at this critical moment
Uncle Terry hesitated.
He did not like the looks of Frye. He suspected him to be what he was--a
shrewd, smooth, plausible villain. Had he obeyed his first impulse he
would have picked up his hat and left Frye to wash his hands with
invisible soap, and laid his case before some other lawyer, but he
hesitated. Frye, he knew, had the matter in his hands and might make the
claim that his story was false and fight it with all the legal weapons
Uncle Terry so much dreaded. In the end he decided to put the matter in
Frye's hands and hope for the best.
"I shall want you to send me a detailed story of this wreck, sworn to by
yourself and wife," said Frye, "also all the articles found on this
child; and I will lay your affidavits before the attorneys for this
estate, and report progress to you later on."
When Uncle Terry turned his face towards home his pocket was lighter by
two hundred dollars. With most of us when we take an uncertain step, the
farther we get from it the more sure we become that it was an unwise
one, and it was so with Uncle Terry.
"I s'posed I'd git skinned," he muttered to himself after he was well on
his way home, "an' I reckon I have! That dum thief, like all the rest o'
lawyers, knows a farmer at sight, an' when he ketches one he takes his
hay! He's taken mine fur sartin an' I begin to think I'm a consarned old
fool, that don't know 'nuff to go in when it rains! How I'm goin' to
git the wimmin to give up them trinkets, 'thout 'lowin' I've lost my
senses, is one too many fur me!"