James Barclay’s disappointment was intense when he discovered that his
father had eluded him. He was almost penniless, and had nothing of
sufficient value to pawn. Had he raised the sum which he had expected
from old Jerry, it is doubtful whether he would have returned to his
family in Jersey City. As it was, he had no other resource.
His wife, who took in washing to do at home, was hard at work ironing
when the door opened and her husband entered. A frown was on his face,
and he was evidently in ill temper.
A cat, the family pet, being in his way, he kicked her brutally, and
the poor animal, moaning piteously, fled in wild dismay.
“Get out of the way, you beast!” he said, angrily.
“Don’t kick poor Topsy!” pleaded his wife. “I am afraid you have hurt
the poor little thing.”
“Keep her out of my way, then,” growled Barclay. “I hate cats. You must
be a fool to keep one.”
“The children love poor Topsy, James,” said his wife.
“I suppose you’d keep a snake for them, if they liked it.”
“A kitten is very different from a snake.”
“I shall kill it some time if it gets in my way. Have you got anything
to eat in the house?”
Mrs. Barclay paused in her work long enough to get some bread and meat
from the pantry, which she set before her husband.
“Where are the children?” he asked, after a while.
“They have gone to school.”
“They ought to be earning something at their age,” growled Barclay.
“They are very young yet, James. You wouldn’t have me take them from
school?”
“School won’t do ’em much good.”
“You wouldn’t have them grow up ignorant, surely?”
“They have got to earn something. I can’t support them in idleness.”
As it was some years since he had contributed a cent to their support,
his wife didn’t quite appreciate his complaint, but she knew too much
of her husband’s temper to argue with him.
“Jimmy sells papers when he gets home from school,” she said.
“How much does he earn that way?”
“Sometimes from fifteen to twenty cents.”
“He’ll need to earn more, I can tell you that. I’m very poor, Ellen,
and cursed unfortunate, too. I haven’t money enough to buy a ten cent
cigar.”
“I will try to support the children if you will take care of yourself,
James.”
Any man with a spark of true manhood in him would have been shamed by
such a proposition, but James Barclay was a thoroughly selfish man. It
seemed to him that his wife ought to support him, too.
“Have you got a dollar about you, Ellen?” he asked.
“Ye-es,” she answered, hesitatingly, “but I must buy some bread and
groceries this evening, or the children won’t have their supper.”
“Seems to me you care more about the children than you do about your
husband. A pretty wife you are!”
“I don’t deserve that, James. Of course you are welcome to your share
of the supper.”
“Thank you! So you want to treat me as a child.”
The man was utterly unreasonable, and his wife can hardly be blamed if
there rose in her mind a regret that he had not stayed away longer, and
left her and the children in peace.
“I thought you expected to have some money today, James,” she said.
“Yes, but I didn’t get it. Just my cursed luck!” he answered, bitterly.
“My own father turns his back on me, and won’t give me a cent, though
he has money in plenty.”
“Your father?” said his wife in surprise. “Is he--have you seen him?”
“Yes, I saw him yesterday, and told him I would call today for fifty
dollars. I went, and found the old scoundrel had disappeared.”
“Is it right to call your father by such a name? He may not have had
the money.”
“You don’t know my father. He’s a miser, and always has been. He lives
in a wretched hole, not so good as this place, while he has thousands
of dollars invested, or hidden somewhere. He thinks he’s got rid of me,
but” (here an oath escaped his lips) “he will find he’s mistaken.”
All this was new to Mrs. Barclay, who had heard very little of her
husband’s family.
“Perhaps if you find him you could induce him to come and live with
us,” she said. “He might take an interest in the children and do
something for them.”
“More likely he would want to live off us. However, if I could once get
him here, I’d manage to get my hand into his purse. It’s a good idea.”
“Does he live alone? He must be an old man.”
“He’s all bent and shriveled up; he’s got a telegraph boy living with
him, he told me. I hate telegraph boys--I met one the other night--an
impudent young rascal! I’d like to meet him again. I’d wring the kid’s
neck for him.”
“Where did you meet him, James?”
James Barclay eyed his wife suspiciously. He did not care to tell her
under what circumstances he met Paul Parton.
“Never you mind, old woman!” he said. “It’s no concern of yours.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, I don’t care to know, James,” she
answered, meekly.
“Well, I don’t want to tell you. But about the old man’s coming here,
it’s a good idea of yours. I will send off the telegraph boy, for he
might be dangerous. Ten to one he’s trying to get the old man to leave
him his property. I wish I knew where he is.”
“Haven’t you got any clew?”
“No, he’s hid somewhere. He won’t come out of his hole for fear of
meeting me.”
“If you could meet this telegraph boy, you might learn through him
where your father is.”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. B., I don’t know the telegraph boy--never met
him--shouldn’t know him from Adam.”
“I suppose he has a number.”
“That’s so, old woman!” exclaimed Barclay, slapping his knee with
emphasis. “I think I know where I can find out his number, and then
it’ll be easy to find him. He can’t hide from me, for he has to be on
duty every day. But I shall want money--just give me that dollar!”
“I can’t, James; the poor children would have to go without their
supper.”
“Look here, Mrs. B., I want you to understand that you’ve got to obey
your husband. I’ll give you back the money as soon as I can, but I need
it to track my father. Let me once get hold of him, and it’ll be all
right. I will soon have plenty of money.”
“But I can’t spare the money, James. The children must have their
supper.”
“I’m tired of your talk,” he rejoined, roughly. “If you refuse me the
money, I’ll raise it in some other way.”
He glared round the room, and his eyes rested on a dress that his wife
had just ironed.
“I can raise something on that,” he said, seizing the dress, and
preparing to carry it away.
“Stop, James, for pity’s sake!” cried his wife, terrified. “That dress
belongs to one of my customers. It would be stealing to take it!”
“She’s probably got plenty of others; she can spare it,” he said.
His wife hastened to him and tried to wrench the dress from his grasp,
but holding it in one hand beyond her reach, he gripped her arm with
the other so hard that she uttered a cry of pain.
At this moment the door was pushed open, and a new character appeared
upon the scene in the person of a stalwart policeman.
“What’s all this?” he demanded, in a tone of authority. “Release that
woman, or I’ll take you in.”