THE MYSTERY SOLVED--CONCLUSION
"Get away from that door!" yelled the enraged man. "What right have
you to be prying into my affairs? I hired you to do copying work for
me, not to roam about this house."
"Well, I'm done copying those illegal deeds for you!" retorted Mort.
"And, what's more, we're going to find out whom you have a prisoner in
there!"
"A prisoner? You are joking. There is no one in there."
"Yes, there is. He wrote an appeal for help on the typewriter and
tossed the paper from the window. Hark, you can hear him calling for
help!"
There was a moment's silence, but no cry came from behind the door,
one panel of which was shattered.
"You see," sneered Muchmore. "I guess you'll wish you hadn't begun
this work, my friend, before I'm through with you. You'll be in jail
ere you are many hours older. As for you," went on the man, turning to
Bert, "I warned you, once before, not to trespass on my property. I
shall also make a complaint against you. Now, clear out, both of you!"
"Suppose I refuse to go?" asked Mort coolly.
"Then I'll throw you out. I paid you your wages to the end of the
week. You can consider yourself dismissed. If you don't go--"
Muchmore paused, but there was such a fierce look on his face, as he
strode toward Bert and the stenographer, that, though neither of them
was a coward, they judged it best not to provoke the man too much.
"Oh, we'll go," replied the stenographer. "But I warn you that you
haven't heard the last of this. This place will be searched, by the
proper authorities, and that prisoner, whoever he is, will be
released."
"There is no prisoner there," retorted Muchmore. "And I'd like to see
the authorities here, or from anywhere else, search this house without
my permission. A man's house is his castle, here as much as in
England. Now you have my answer, and you can do your worst!"
"I'll inform Mr. Stockton," threatened Bert.
"Do, you young rascal, when you can find him," and, with a laugh,
Muchmore motioned his two unwelcome visitors to leave.
"Well, we didn't find out much," remarked the stenographer, as he and
Bert were descending the hill toward the village. "I'm afraid I made
rather a mess of it. He came back unexpectedly."
"Maybe he never went away."
"Mrs. Blarcum said he was going to be gone all night."
"I believe she's in with him. But we certainly learned one thing. Some
person is a prisoner in the house, and it's a man who wants to get
out."
"And we'll help him," added Mort. "I'll inform the authorities in the
morning."
"Where will you stay to-night?" asked Bert.
"I don't know. I guess I'll go to the hotel."
"It isn't a very good place. Better come to my house. There are only
mother and I, and we have a spare room for you."
"You are very kind. I'll come."
Mrs. Dare welcomed the stenographer, and, after he and Bert had talked
over the queer events of the evening, they went to bed, intending to
start an official inquiry the first thing in the morning.
But fate took a hand in the matter, and the mystery was solved sooner
than Bert or Mort expected it would be.
In the middle of the night there was an alarm of fire. It came from
the box on the hill, near the Stockton mansion, and Bert, hearing the
clanging of the bell on the tower, awoke with a start and began to
dress.
"Where is the blaze?" asked Mort.
"Somewhere up near the house of mystery. I hope it isn't another false
alarm."
"May I go with you?" asked the stenographer.
"Of course. Hurry."
Mort quickly dressed, and he and Bert, the latter making his usual
promise to his mother that he would be careful, were soon hastening
from the house, and toward the location of the box, where they would
meet the engine.
"It's no false alarm!" exclaimed Mort, as they began to climb the hill
leading to the big house.
"You're right. It's a fire, but it doesn't seem to be very big. The
engine is there; I can hear the bell."
Bert and the stenographer had taken a short cut to the Stockton
mansion, and, as they emerged from the woods, on that side of the
house where Bert had picked up the mysterious message, they saw flames
shooting from one of the windows.
"The fire is on the side of the house where the prisoner is!" cried
Bert "It's in that secret corridor!"
"Maybe you'll have a chance to rescue him!" exclaimed the
stenographer.
The fire had not gained much headway, and, under Bert's direction, a
long ladder was procured, raised against the side of the house, and
then, carrying the hose himself, the young chief ascended toward the
blaze.
"Give me the stream!" called Bert to Cole, who was in charge of the
engine.
From the nozzle came the white, frothy mixture. Bert directed it at
the window through which the flames were coming.
"Don't you dare go in that hall!" shouted Muchmore, running from the
side door of the house to the foot of the ladder. "The fire doesn't
amount to much. You can put it out from where you are, young man. I
never called your department out. The old woman got scared and sent in
the alarm. It's only some rubbish burning."
"I'll do as I think best about putting the fire out," replied Bert.
"Don't you go in that corridor!" yelled Muchmore, who seemed frantic
over something.
The chemical stream was already smothering the blaze, and Bert could
go a little farther up the ladder. He continued on, coming right
opposite the window. Then he knew it was the same casement from which
the mysterious message had been thrown. He could look in now, and he
saw that the fire came from a pile of rags and paper on the floor. He
directed the chemical stream directly on them, and in a few seconds
the last vestige of the blaze was out. But Bert did not descend.
He was peering into the dark corridor. Would he get a sight of the
prisoner held there? He tried to pierce the darkness. Surely that was
a movement, surely that was someone hurrying to the window.
Bert looked down. He caught one glimpse of Muchmore, in the light from
a lantern Tom Donnell was carrying, rushing at the ladder, as if to
upset it, and precipitate the boy on it to the ground, thirty feet
below.
But in the same glance Bert saw his chums holding back the enraged
man. There was another movement in the corridor. Then a gleam of light
showed, and, to his surprise, Bert saw an old man, carrying a lamp,
coming toward him. The man's hands were bleeding, his clothes were
disheveled, and his hair and beard were matted, as if they had known
neither comb nor brush for a long time.
"Save me! Save me!" cried the man. "Is the fire out? I started it to
call help! I thought the firemen would come. Oh, save me!"
"You're all right," replied Bert. "There is no danger. The fire is all
out."
"Yes, the fire is out. There is no danger from that. It is my rascally
nephew whom I fear. Save me from him!"
"Your nephew? Who is he?" asked Bert, wondering what was about to
happen.
"Alfred Muchmore. Have you seen him? Where is he? If he finds me
talking to you, he'll lock me up again. He shoved me back in the room
after I started the fire, but I broke through the door. See my hands!
They are cut and bleeding!"
"Who are you?"
"Harris Stockton."
"What? The owner of this place?"
"Yes, my lad. The owner of the Stockton mansion, which my rascally
nephew is trying to force me to convey to him, together with all my
other property. He has compelled me to sign some deeds, but to-night I
refused to give him any more of my property. He has kept me a prisoner
here many months, for I am weak and sickly, and he is strong. That old
woman helped him. Once before, there was a fire here, and I thought I
might escape, but I could not. Then, last night, some people tried to
break down the door, but he drove them away. To-night, when he left me
for a while, I started this fire. I knew it could not do much damage,
and I hoped it would bring me help. Thank God, it has! You will not
let him shut me up again, will you?"
"Well, I guess not!" exclaimed Bert, as he climbed over the window
sill, and entered the long hall that was part of the unfortunate man's
prison. "He'll have to tackle the whole Lakeville fire department if
he does. You're safe now, Mr. Stockton."
"Oh! I'm so glad! It seemed as if I never would be free again!"
"We'll soon have you in better quarters than this," went on Bert. He
leaned out of the window and shouted:
"Hey, Mort! 'I've got him! I've got the mysterious prisoner. It's Mr.
Stockton! Come on up, and bring some of the boys! Grab Muchmore, and
hold him!"
The rascally nephew heard the words which meant that his career was at
an end. He had been struggling to break away from Tom Donnell and the
stenographer, who were holding him, to prevent him from upsetting the
ladder.
At Bert's words the enraged man, with a violent effort, managed to
wrench himself loose. He fled, for he knew the game was up. But it may
be added here that he was subsequently captured, and sent to prison
for a long term.
Into the mysterious house rushed the young fire-fighters, with Mort at
their head to show them the way. The partly shattered door leading
into the corridor was quickly broken open, in spite of the protests of
Mrs. Blarcum, who did not seem to understand that Muchmore had fled,
and that the real owner of the mansion was again in possession. A
little later the old woman disappeared and all trace of her was lost.
As for Mr. Stockton, he soon was in his own apartments, where he
quickly removed the signs of his imprisonment. Then he told his story,
briefly, to Bert and his chums.
Muchmore, it appeared, had always been a bad character, but he had
told his uncle that he had reformed, and had begged his relative to
give him a home. No sooner was he installed in the mansion than he
began to scheme to get possession of it, and also what other property
Mr. Stockton had. To this end he secretly administered to his aged
relative a medicine which greatly weakened him. Then, when the old man
was not capable of defending himself, Muchmore had shut him up in an
unused part of the house. From then on the nephew's course became
bolder.
He began his wild, gambling life, introducing some of his cronies into
the mansion. He compelled Mrs. Blarcum to do as he wished by telling
her Mr. Stockton was crazy, and had to be kept a prisoner. Muchmore's
strange actions, when the young firemen were first at the house, was
due to his fear lest they discover that Mr. Stockton was a prisoner in
his own mansion.
Then Muchmore began to make out deeds and other papers, compelling his
uncle, by threats of violence, to sign such as were necessary for his
purpose. Mr. Stockton tried several times to escape, but the rascally
nephew and housekeeper were too much for him. Once Mr. Stockton
managed to get as far as the office where Mort Decker, under the
direction of Muchmore, was in the habit of copying deeds. The
stenographer was out at the time, and the office was deserted, and, as
he could not find a pen, the old man used the typewriter to prepare
the mysterious note Herbert found. He was disturbed before he could
finish it, but he carried it away with him, and, at the first
opportunity, threw it from the window.
But now he had no more to fear, thanks to the rescue by Herbert.
"I can't thank you enough," he said to the young chief. "But for you I
might still be a prisoner."
"You helped yourself as much as we helped you," said Bert "It was a
good idea, to think of starting that fire."
"Yes, it was the only thing I could think of. This place is so
lonesome that persons seldom pass by, or I might have called to some
of them, when I was well enough. Often I had to stay in bed for days
at a time. I made the fire of some old papers and rags, and I had a
pail of water ready to throw on it in case it got going too fiercely.
Then Muchmore came and caught me, and locked me up. Oh, how I prayed
that they might send in an alarm, and that the fire department would
come, for I heard from the old housekeeper that a company had been
started in addition to the old hand-engine corps."
"Yes, we think we have quite a fine department," said Herbert proudly.
"Well, you'll soon have a better one," said Mr. Stockton. "I want to
show my appreciation in some way, and I'm going to buy a regular
steam-engine for the town."
"But we'll need a water system for that," objected Bert.
"That will come. I am going to sell a lot of property I have, and put
a water system in Lakeville. I've held on to my land too long. We'll
develop this village, until the old inhabitants, like myself, won't
know the place. And, when we have the new department, I want you boys
to have a hand in running it."
Mr. Stockton was as good as his word. It took some time to make the
improvements he suggested, but finally a fine water system was
installed in the town, and the best steam fire-engine money could buy
was presented to Lakeville, with the compliments of the aged
millionaire. In this work he was aided by Mort Decker, whom Mr.
Stockton appointed his secretary.
It needed horses to draw the steamer, and of course required men to
operate it. But the boys were not forgotten. They still kept the
chemical engines--and the smaller lads the hand-engines--and they were
often called on to put out trifling blazes, and help at the larger
ones.
Mr. Stockton did not forget what Bert had done for him. He owned a
comfortable house with two acres of ground and a barn, on one of the
side streets of the town, and one day he surprised the young fireman
by handing him a legal-looking document.
"What is this?" asked the youth in surprise.
"A deed to a house on Cherry Street," answered the rich man. "The
place is now yours, free and clear. You and your mother can move into
it at any time."
"Why, I didn't expect this," stammered Bert.
"I know you didn't, my lad, but it is yours, nevertheless. I want to
do something for you--and for that good mother of yours."
Of course, Bert and Mrs. Dare were very grateful. They moved into the
house a month later, and found it a far more comfortable home than
they had ever before enjoyed.
Lakeville is now quite a city. It has two steam fire-engines, instead
of one, the taxpayers purchasing the second. And if you were to go
there tomorrow, or any other day, for that matter, and ask for the
chief of one of the finest small departments in the United States, you
would be introduced to Herbert Dare. For, after he finished his
schooling, he was unanimously selected to act in his former capacity.
And here, wishing him all success in the field which he has chosen for
himself, and hoping that he may help save many lives and much
property, we will say good-bye to our young fireman and his loyal
comrades.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Young Firemen of Lakeville, by Frank V. Webster