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Obvious punctuation errors and misprints have been corrected.
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CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE
A Story for Boys
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
AUTHOR OF "FRANK'S CAMPAIGN," "ERIE TRAIN BOY,"
"ADRIFT IN NEW YORK," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
PREFACE.
In deference to the expressed wishes of some of his young friends,
the author has essayed a story of the sea, and now presents "Charlie
Codman's Cruise," as the third volume of the Campaign Series. It will
be found more adventurous than its predecessors, and the trials which
Charlie is called upon to encounter are of a severer character than
befell Frank Frost or Paul Prescott. But it will be found that they
were met with the same manly spirit, and a like determination to be
faithful to duty at all hazards.
Though not wholly a stranger to the sea, the author is quite aware of
the blunders to which a landsman is exposed in treating of matters and
a mode of life which, at the best, he must comprehend but imperfectly,
and has endeavored to avoid, as far as possible, professional
technicalities, as not essential to the interest of the story.
With these few words he submits the present volume to his young
readers, hoping for it a welcome even more generous than has been
accorded to "Frank's Campaign" and "Paul Prescott's Charge."
CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE.
I.
CHARLIE AND THE MISER.
Charlie Codman turned out of Washington into Bedford Street just as the
clock in the Old South steeple struck two. He was about fourteen, a
handsome, well-made boy, with a bright eye and a manly expression. But
he was poor. That was evident enough from his clothes, which, though
neat and free from dust, were patched in several places. He had a small
roll of daily papers under his arm, the remains of his stock in trade,
which he had been unable wholly to dispose of.
Some of my readers may know that the Latin School and English High
School are kept in the same building. At two o'clock both are
dismissed. Charlie had scarcely passed the school-house when a crowd
of boys issued from the school-yard, and he heard his name called from
behind. Looking back he recognized a boy somewhat smaller than himself,
with whom he had formed an acquaintance some time before.
"Where are you bound, Charlie?" asked Edwin Banks.
"I'm going home now."
"What luck have you had this morning?"
"Not much. I've got four papers left over, and that will take away
about all my profits."
"What a pity you are poor, Charlie. I wish you could come to school
with us."
"So do I, Eddie. I'd give a good deal to get an education, but I feel
that I ought to help mother."
"Why won't you come some time, and see us, Charlie? Clare and myself
would be very glad to see you at any time."
"I should like to go," said Charlie, "but I don't look fit."
"Oh, never mind about your clothes. I like you just as well as if you
were dressed in style."
"Perhaps I'll come some time," said Charlie. "I'd invite you to come
and see me, but we live in a poor place."
"Just as if I should care for that. I will come whenever I get an
invitation."
"Then come next Saturday afternoon. I will be waiting for you as you
come out of school."
Charlie little thought where he would be when Saturday came.
Shortly after the boys separated, and Charlie's attention was arrested
by the sight of an old man with a shambling gait, who was bending
over and anxiously searching for something on the sidewalk. Charlie
recognized him at once as "old Manson, the miser," for this was the
name by which he generally went.
Old Peter Manson was not more than fifty-five, but he looked from
fifteen to twenty years older. If his body had been properly cared
for, it would have been different; but, one by one, its functions had
been blunted and destroyed, and it had become old and out of repair.
Peter's face was ploughed with wrinkles. His cheeks were thin, and the
skin was yellow and hung in folds. His beard appeared to have received
little or no attention for a week, at least, and was now stiff and
bristling.
The miser's dress was not very well fitted to his form. It was in
the fashion of twenty years before. Grayish pantaloons, patched in
divers places with dark cloth by an unskilful hand; a vest from which
the buttons had long since departed, and which was looped together
by pieces of string, but not closely enough to conceal a dirty and
tattered shirt beneath; a coat in the last stages of shabbiness; while
over all hung a faded blue cloak, which Peter wore in all weathers. In
the sultriest days of August he might have been seen trudging along in
this old mantle, which did him the good service of hiding a multitude
of holes and patches, while in January he went no warmer clad. There
were some who wondered how he could stand the bitter cold of winter
with no more adequate covering; but if Peter's body was as tough as
his conscience, there was no fear of his suffering.
Charlie paused a moment to see what it was that the old man was hunting
for.
"Have you lost anything?" he asked.
"Yes," said Peter, in quavering accents. "See if you can't find it,
that's a good boy. Your eyes are better than mine."
"What is it?"
"It is some money, and I--I'm so poor, I can't afford to lose it."
"How much was it?"
"It wasn't much, but I'm so poor I need it."
Charlie espied a cent, lying partially concealed by mud, just beside
the curb-stone. He picked it up.
"This isn't what you lost, is it?"
"Yes," said Peter, seizing it eagerly. "You're a good boy to find it. A
good boy!"
"Well," thought Charlie, wondering, as the old man hobbled off with his
recovered treasure, "I'd rather be poor than care so much for money as
that. People say old Peter's worth his thousands. I wonder whether it
is so."
Charlie little dreamed how much old Peter was likely to influence his
destiny, and how, at his instigation, before a week had passed over his
head, he would find himself in a very disagreeable situation.
We must follow Peter.
With his eyes fixed on the ground he shuffled along, making more rapid
progress than could have been expected. Occasionally he would stoop
down and pick up any little stray object which arrested his attention,
even to a crooked pin, which he thrust into his cloak, muttering as he
did so, "Save my buying any. I haven't had to buy any pins for more'n
ten years, and I don't mean to buy any more while I live. Ha! ha!
Folks are _so_ extravagant! They buy things they don't need, or that
they might pick up, if they'd only take the trouble to keep their eyes
open. 'Tisn't so with old Peter. He's too cunning for that. There goes
a young fellow dressed up in the fashion. What he's got on must have
cost nigh on to a hundred dollars. What dreadful extravagance! Ha!
ha! It hasn't cost old Peter twenty dollars for the last ten years. If
he had spent money as some do, he might have been in the poor-house by
this time. Ugh! ugh! it costs a dreadful sum to live. If we could only
come into the world with natural clothes, like cats, what a deal better
it would be. But it costs the most for food. Oh dear! what a dreadful
appetite I've got, and I _must_ eat. All the money spent for victuals
seem thrown away. I've a good mind, sometimes, to go to the poor-house,
where it wouldn't cost me anything. What a blessing it would be to eat,
if you could only get food for nothing!"
It is very clear that Peter would have been far better off, as far as
the comforts of life are concerned, in the city almshouse; but there
were some little obstacles in the way of his entering. For instance,
it would scarcely have been allowed a public pensioner to go round
quarterly to collect his rents,--a thing which Peter would hardly have
relinquished.
Reflections upon the cost of living brought to Peter's recollection
that he had nothing at home for supper. He accordingly stepped into a
baker's shop close at hand.
"Have you got any bread cheap?" he inquired of the baker.
"We intend to sell at moderate prices."
"What do you ask for those loaves?" said the old man, looking wistfully
at some fresh loaves piled upon the counter, which had been but a short
time out of the oven.
"Five cents apiece," said the baker. "I'll warrant you will find them
good. They are made of the best of flour."
"Isn't five cents rather dear?" queried Peter, his natural appetite
struggling with his avarice.
"Dear!" retorted the baker, opening his eyes in astonishment; "why, my
good sir, at what price do you expect to buy bread?"
"I've no doubt they're very good," said Peter, hastily; "but have you
any stale loaves? I guess they'll be better for me."
"Yes," said the baker, "I believe I have, but they're not as good as
the fresh bread."
"How do you sell your stale loaves?" inquired Peter, fumbling in his
pocket for some change.
"I sell them for about half price--three cents apiece."
"You may give me one, then; I guess it'll be better for me."
Even Peter was a little ashamed to acknowledge that it was the price
alone which influenced his choice.
The baker observed that, notwithstanding his decision, he continued to
look wistfully towards the fresh bread. Never having seen old Peter
before, he was unacquainted with his character, and judging from his
dilapidated appearance that he might be prevented, by actual poverty,
from buying the fresh bread, exclaimed with a sudden impulse: "You seem
to be poor. If you only want one loaf, I will for this once give you a
fresh loaf for three cents--the same price I ask for the stale bread."
"Will you?"
Old Peter's eyes sparkled with eagerness as he said this.
"Poor man!" thought the baker with mistaken compassion; "he must
indeed be needy, to be so pleased."
"Yes," he continued, "you shall have a loaf this once for three cents.
Shall I put it in a paper for you?"
Peter nodded.
Meanwhile he was busy fumbling in his pockets for the coins requisite
to purchase the loaf. He drew out three battered cents, and deposited
them with reluctant hand on the counter. He gazed at them wistfully
while the baker carelessly swept them with his hand into the till
behind the counter; and then with a sigh of resignation, at parting
with the coins, seized the loaf and shambled out into the street.
He put the bundle under his arm, and hastened up the street, his mouth
watering in anticipation of the feast which awaited him. Do not laugh,
reader,--little as you may regard a fresh loaf of bread, it was indeed
a treat to Peter, who was accustomed, from motives of economy, to
regale himself upon stale bread.
The baker was congratulating himself upon having done a charitable
action, when Peter came back in haste, pale with affright.
"I--I--," he stammered, "must have dropped some money. You haven't
picked up any, have you?"
"Not I!" said the baker, carelessly. "If you dropped it here you will
find it somewhere on the floor. Stay, I will assist you."
Peter seemed rather disconcerted than otherwise by this offer of
assistance, but could not reasonably interpose any objection.
After a very brief search Peter and the baker simultaneously discovered
the missing coin. The former pounced upon it, but not before the latter
had recognized it as a gold piece.
"Ho, ho!" thought he, in surprise, "my charity is not so well bestowed
as I thought. Do you have many such coins?" he asked, meaningly.
"I?" said Peter, hastily, "Oh no! I am very poor. This is all I have,
and I expect it will be gone soon,--it costs so much to live!"
"It'll never cost you much," thought the baker, watching the shabby
figure of the miser as he receded from the shop.
II.
A MISER'S HOUSEHOLD.
Peter Manson owned a small house in an obscure street. It was a
weather-beaten tenement of wood, containing some six or eight rooms,
all of which, with one exception, were given over to dirt, cobwebs,
gloom, and desolation. Peter might readily have let the rooms which
he did not require for his own use, but so profound was his distrust
of human nature, that not even the prospect of receiving rent for
the empty rooms could overcome his apprehension of being robbed by
neighbors under the same roof. For Peter trusted not his money to banks
or railroads, but wanted to have it directly under his own eye or
within his reach. As for investing his gold in the luxuries of life,
or even in what were generally considered its absolute necessaries, we
have already seen that Peter was no such fool as that. A gold eagle
was worth ten times more to him than its equivalent in food or clothing.
With more than his usual alacrity, old Peter Manson, bearing under his
cloak the fresh loaf which he had just procured from the baker on such
advantageous terms, hastened to his not very inviting home.
Drawing from his pocket a large and rusty door-key, he applied it to
the door. It turned in the lock with a creaking sound, and the door
yielding to Peter's push he entered.
The room which he appropriated to his own use was in the second story.
It was a large room, of some eighteen feet square, and, as it is
hardly necessary to say, was not set off by expensive furniture. The
articles which came under this denomination were briefly these,--a
cherry table which was minus one leg, whose place had been supplied by
a broom handle fitted in its place; three hard wooden chairs of unknown
antiquity; an old wash-stand; a rusty stove which Peter had picked up
cheap at an auction, after finding that a stove burned out less fuel
than a fireplace; a few articles of crockery of different patterns,
some cracked and broken; a few tin dishes, such as Peter found
essential in his cooking; and a low truckle bedstead with a scanty
supply of bedclothes.
Into this desolate home Peter entered.
There was an ember or two left in the stove, which the old man
contrived, by hard blowing, to kindle into life. On these he placed a
few sticks, part of which he had picked up in the street early in the
morning, and soon there was a little show of fire, over which the miser
spread his hands greedily as if to monopolize what little heat might
proceed therefrom. He looked wistfully at the pile of wood remaining,
but prudence withheld him from putting on any more.
"Everything costs money," he muttered to himself. "Three times a day
I have to eat, and that costs a sight. Why couldn't we get along with
eating once a day? That would save two thirds. Then there's fire. That
costs money, too. Why isn't it always summer? Then we shouldn't need
any except to cook by. It seems a sin to throw away good, bright,
precious gold on what is going to be burnt up and float away in smoke.
One might almost as well throw it into the river at once. Ugh! only to
think of what it would cost if I couldn't pick up some sticks in the
street. There was a little girl picking up some this morning when I was
out. If it hadn't been for her, I should have got more. What business
had she to come there, I should like to know?"
"Ugh, ugh!"
The blaze was dying out, and Peter was obliged, against his will, to
put on a fresh supply of fuel.
By this time the miser's appetite began to assert itself, and rising
from his crouching position over the fire he walked to the table on
which he had deposited his loaf of bread. With an old jack-knife he
carefully cut the loaf into two equal parts. One of these he put back
into the closet. From the same place he also brought out a sausage, and
placing it over the fire contrived to cook it after a fashion. Taking
it off he placed it on a plate, and seated himself on a chair by the
table.
It was long since the old man, accustomed to stale bread,--because
he found it cheaper,--had tasted anything so delicious. No alderman
ever smacked his lips over the most exquisite turtle soup with greater
relish than Peter Manson over his banquet.
"It is very good," he muttered, with a sigh of satisfaction. "I don't
fare so well every day. If it hadn't been for that unlucky piece of
gold, perhaps the baker would have let me had another loaf at the same
price."
He soon despatched the half loaf which he allotted to his evening meal.
"I think I could eat the other half," he said, with unsatisfied hunger;
"but I must save that for breakfast. It is hurtful to eat too much.
Besides, here is my sausage."
The sausage was rather burned than cooked, but Peter was neither nice
nor fastidious. He did not eat the whole of the sausage, however, but
reserved one half of this, too, for breakfast, though it proved so
acceptable to his palate that he came near yielding to the temptation
of eating the whole. But prudence, or rather avarice, prevailed, and
shaking his head with renewed determination, he carried it to the
closet and placed it on the shelf.
Between seven and eight o'clock Peter prepared to go to bed, partly
because this would enable him to dispense with a fire, the cost
of which he considered so ruinous. He had but just commenced his
preparations for bed when a loud knock was heard at the street door.
At the first sound of the knocking Peter Manson started in affright.
Such a thing had not occurred in his experience for years.
"It's some drunken fellow," thought Peter. "He's mistaken the house.
I'll blow out the candle, and then he'll think there's nobody here."
He listened again, in hopes to hear the receding steps of the visitor,
but in vain. After a brief interval there came another knock, louder
and more imperative than the first.
Peter began to feel a little uneasy.
"Why don't he go?" he muttered, peevishly. "He can't have anything to
do with me. Nobody ever comes here. He's mistaken the house."
His reflections were here interrupted by a volley of knocks, each
apparently louder than the last.
"Oh dear, what shall I do?" exclaimed the miser with a ludicrous mixture
of terror and perplexity. "It's some desperate ruffian, I know it is. I
wish the police would come. I shall be robbed and murdered."
Peter went to the window and put his head out, hoping to discover
something of his troublesome visitor. The noise of opening the window
attracted his attention.
"Hilloa!" he shouted. "I thought I'd make you hear some time or other.
I began to think you were as deaf as a post, or else had kicked the
bucket."
"Who's there?" asked Peter, in a quavering voice.
"Who's there! Come down and see, and don't leave a fellow to hammer
away all night at your old rat-trap. Come down, and open the door."
"This ain't the house," said Peter. "You've made a mistake. Nobody ever
comes here."
"No more I should think they would, if you always keep 'em waiting as
long as you have me. Come along down, and let me in."
"But I tell you," persisted Peter, who didn't at all like the visitor's
manners, "that you've made a mistake. This ain't the house."
"Ain't what house, I'd like to know?"
"It ain't the house you think it is," said the old man, a little
puzzled by this question.
"And what house do I think it is? Tell me that, you old----"
Probably the sentence would have been finished in a manner
uncomplimentary to Peter, but perhaps, from motives of policy, the
stranger suppressed what he had intended to say.
"I don't know," returned Peter, at a loss for a reply, "but there's a
mistake somewhere. Nobody comes to see me."
"I shouldn't think they would," muttered the outsider, "but every rule
has its exceptions, and somebody's come to see you now."
"You've mistaken the person."
"No, I haven't. Little chance of making a mistake. You're old Peter
Manson."
"He _has_ come to see me," thought Peter, uneasily; "but it cannot be
for any good end. I won't let him in; no, I won't let him in."
"Well what are you going to do about it?" asked his would-be visitor,
impatiently.
"It's too late to see you to-night."
"Fiddlestick!" retorted the other. "It isn't eight yet."
"I'm just going to bed," added Peter, becoming momentarily more uneasy
at the man's obstinacy.
"Going to bed at half past seven! Come, now, that's all a joke. You
don't take me for a fool!"
"But I am," urged Peter, "I always do. I'm very poor, and can't afford
to keep a fire and light going all the evening."
"You poor! Well, may be you are. But that ain't neither here nor there.
I have got some important business to see you about, and you must let
me in."
"Come to-morrow."
"It's no use; I must see you to-night. So just come down and let me in,
or it'll be the worse for you."
"What a dreadful ruffian!" groaned Peter; "I wish the watch would come
along, but it never does when it's wanted. Go away, good man," he said,
in a wheedling tone. "Go away, and come again to-morrow."
"I tell you I won't go away. I must see you to-night."
Convinced that the man was not to be denied, Peter, groaning with fear,
went down, and reluctantly drawing the bolt, admitted the visitor.
III.
THE UNWELCOME VISITOR.
Opening the door with trembling hand Peter Manson saw before him a
stout man of forty-five, with a complexion bronzed by exposure to the
elements.
Short and thick-set, with a half-defiant expression, as if, to use a
common phrase, he "feared neither man nor devil," a glance at him
served hardly to reassure the apprehensive old man.
The stranger was attired in a suit of coarse clothing, and appeared to
possess little education or refinement. He might be a sailor,--there
was an indefinable something about him,--a certain air of the sea, that
justified the suspicion that he had passed some part of his life, at
least, in the realms of Father Neptune.
Peter Manson, holding in his hand the fragment of candle which
flickered wildly from the sudden gust of wind which rushed in at the
door just opened, stood in silent apprehension, gazing uneasily at his
unwelcome visitor.
"Well, shipmate," said the latter, impatiently, "how long are you going
to stand staring at me? It makes me feel bashful, not to speak of its
not being over and above civil."
"What do you want?" inquired Peter, his alarm a little increased by
this speech, making, at the same time, a motion as if to close the
door.
"First and foremost, I should like to be invited in somewhere, where
it isn't quite so public as at the street door. My business is of a
private nature."
"I don't know you," said the miser, uneasily.
"Well, what's the odds if I know you?" was the careless reply. "Come,
push ahead. Where do you live? Up stairs, or down stairs? I want to
have a little private talk with you somewhere."
The speaker was about to cross the threshold when Peter stepped in
front, as if to intercept him, and said, hurriedly, "Don't come in
to-night; to-morrow will do just as well."
"By your leave," said the visitor, coolly, pushing his way in, in spite
of the old man's feeble opposition. "I have already told you that I
wanted to see you to-night. Didn't you hear me?"
"Thieves!" the old man half ejaculated, but was checked by the other
somewhat sternly.
"No, old man, I am not a thief; but if you don't have done with your
stupid charges, I may be tempted to verify your good opinion by trying
my hand at a little robbery. Now lead the way to your den, wherever it
is, if you know what is best for yourself."
The outer door was already closed, and Peter felt that he was at the
intruder's mercy. Nevertheless, there was something in this last
speech, rough and imperative as it was, that gave him a little feeling
of security, so far as he had been led to suspect any designs on his
property on the part of his companion.
Without venturing upon any further remonstrance, which, it was clear,
would prove altogether useless, he shuffled up stairs, in obedience to
the stranger's command, yet not without casting back over his shoulder
a look of apprehension, as if he feared an attack from behind.
His visitor, perceiving this, smiled, as if amused at old Peter's
evident alarm.
Arrived at the head of the stairs, Peter opened the door into the
apartment appropriated to his own use.
The stranger followed him in, and after a leisurely glance about the
room, seated himself with some caution in a chair, which did not look
very secure.
Peter placed the flickering candle upon the mantel-piece, and seated
himself.
It was long, very long, since a visitor had wakened the echoes of the
old house; very long since any human being, save Peter himself, had
been seated in that room. The old man could not help feeling it to be a
strange thing, so unaccustomed was he to the sight of any other human
face there.
"It seems to me," said his visitor, dryly, taking in at a glance all
the appointments of the room, "that you don't care much about the
luxuries of life."
"I," said Peter, "I'm obliged to live very plain,--very plain,
indeed,--because I am so poor."
"Poor or not," said the visitor, "you must afford to have a better fire
while I am here. I don't approve of freezing."
He rose without ceremony, and taking half a dozen sticks from the
hearth, deposited them in the stove, which now contained only some
burning embers.
"Stay," said Peter, hastily. "Don't put so much on; it's wasteful, and
I sha'n't have any left for to-morrow."
"I'll risk that," said the other, carelessly. "At any rate, it's better
to be comfortable one day than to shiver through two."
The flame caught the wood, which soon blazed up, diffusing an unusually
cheerful glow over the apartment. Peter, in spite of the dismay with
which he had at first contemplated the sudden movement on the part
of his visitor, and the awful consumption of wood which he knew must
ensue, nevertheless appeared to enjoy the increased heat. He drew his
chair nearer the stove, and an expression of satisfaction was visible
in his face as he spread out both hands to catch a little warmth.
"There, Peter," said the stranger, "I knew you'd like it after it was
fairly done. Isn't it worth while to have a good warm fire?"
"If it didn't cost so much," groaned Peter, the one thought intruding.
"Hush, Peter; if what people say be true, and as I am inclined to
believe, there's no one better able to afford a good fire than you."
"No one better able!" repeated Peter, at once taking alarm, and lifting
up both hands in earnest deprecation, "when I can hardly get enough
together to keep from absolute starvation. Oh, it's a strange world,
it's a strange world!"
"Well, Peter, some strange people do live in it, to be sure. But people
do say, Peter, that you have a power of money hidden away in this old
house somewhere."
Peter started to his feet in affright, then feeling that his movement
might lead to suspicion, sank back into his seat, saying, uneasily, "I
only wish it were true. People say such strange things. But it's only
idle talk, idle talk. They know better."
"You'd be very grateful, I have no doubt, to anybody that would show
you where all these treasures are that people talk about, wouldn't you,
hey?"
"Ye--Yes," answered Peter Manson, who did not know quite how to
understand his companion, whose tone seemed to have a hidden meaning
which made him uneasy.
"And will you give me leave to search the house, if I will promise to
give you half the gold I find?"
"But you wouldn't find any," answered the miser, hastily.
"Then there would be no harm done. Suppose now I should remove the
flooring, just here for instance, don't you think I might possibly find
something underneath that would repay me for my search?"
Unconsciously the speaker had hit upon one of Peter's places of
deposit. Directly under where he was seated there was a box of gold
coins. Accordingly this remark, which seemed to indicate to Peter some
knowledge of his hiding-place, filled him with fearful apprehensions.
"No, no," said he, vehemently; "go away, there isn't any there. If that
is all you have got to say, go away and leave me to my rest. I ought to
be in bed; it is getting late."
"I _have_ something more to say, Peter Manson," returned his companion.
"If I had not, I should not have sought you to-night. What I have to
say is of great importance to you as you will find. Will you hear it?"
"Go on," muttered Peter, his attention arrested, in spite of his fears,
by the stranger's peculiar tone.
"First, then, let me tell you a story. It may be real, it may be only
fancy. I won't say anything about that. By the way, Peter, were you
ever in the West Indies?"
This question produced a singular effect upon Peter, considering
its apparently unimportant character. He started, turned as pale as
his ghastly complexion permitted, fixed an anxious glance upon the
stranger, who looked as if nothing particular had happened, and said
hastily, "No, I was never there. What made you ask?"
"Nothing particular," said the other, carelessly; "if you were never
there, no matter. Only it is there that what I am going to tell you
happened. But to my story.
"Some twenty years ago there lived in the city of Havana an American
gentleman, no matter about his name, who had established himself in
business in the city. He had married before he went there, and had a
daughter about sixteen years of age. Well, his business flourished.
Good luck seemed to attend him in all his ventures, and he seemed
likely to accumulate enough to retire upon before many years."
Peter started, and as the story progressed seemed to be internally
agitated. A keen glance satisfied his visitor of this; without
appearing to notice it, however, he went on,--
"But things don't always turn out as well as we expect. Just when
things looked brightest there came a sudden blow, for which the
merchant was unprepared. On going to his counting-room one morning, he
discovered that his book-keeper had disappeared, and what was worse,
had carried off with him the sum of twenty thousand dollars--a large
sum, was it not?"
"What is all this to me?" demanded Peter, with sudden fierceness.
"I will tell you by and by," said the stranger, coolly.
"I will take the liberty to put a little more wood into the stove, and
then go on with my story."
"I--I'll put some in," said Peter.
He took a small stick about half as large round as his wrist, and
opening the stove-door, put it in.
"That'll do to begin with," said the stranger, following it, to Peter's
dismay, with half a dozen larger ones. "Now we'll be comfortable."
IV.
A STARTLING QUESTION.
While Peter's uneasiness became every moment more marked, his visitor
continued,--
"This sad defalcation was the more unfortunate because, on that very
day notes to a heavy amount became due. Of course the merchant was
unable to pay them. Do you know what was the result?"
"How should I know?" asked Peter, testily, avoiding the gaze of the
stranger, and fixing his eyes uneasily upon the fire.
"Of course you couldn't know, I was foolish to think such a thing."
"Then what made you think it?" said Peter, in a petulant tone. "I don't
care to hear your story. What has it got to do with me?"
"Don't be in too much of a hurry, and perhaps you will learn quite as
soon as you care to. The same result followed, which always does follow
when a business man cannot meet his engagements. He failed."
Peter stirred uneasily, but said nothing.
"His character for integrity was such that there were many who would
have lent him a helping hand, and carried him safely through his
troubles; but he was overwhelmed by the blow, and sank under it.
Refusing all offers of assistance, he took to his bed, and some six
months after died."
"And what became of his daughter?" asked Peter, showing a little
curiosity for the first time.
"Ha! you seem to be getting interested," exclaimed the other, fixing
his keen eyes upon Peter, who seemed confused. "His daughter was
beautiful and had already won the heart of a young American, who had
little money but a handsome figure and good business habits."
"Did she marry this young Codman?"
"Who told you his name was Codman?" asked Peter's visitor, watching him
keenly.
"I--I thought you did," stammered the miser, disconcerted.
"You are mistaken. I have mentioned no name."
"Then I--I must have misunderstood you."
"I dare say," said the other, ironically. "However, we won't dispute
that point. Well, this young Codman,--for singularly enough you hit
upon the right name, not knowing anything of the circumstances of
course,--this young Codman married Isabel."
"Isabel!" repeated the old man. "Her name was----"
Here he paused in sudden confusion, feeling that he was betraying
himself by his incautious correction.
"Yes, Peter," said the other with a shrewd smile, "you are right. Her
name was not Isabel, but Eleanor. I acknowledge that I was wrong; but
it seems to me that, for one who is entirely a stranger to the events I
have been describing, you show a wonderful shrewdness in detecting my
mistakes."
Peter maintained a confused silence, and wriggled about uneasily, as if
the stranger's fixed and watchful gaze disturbed him.
"Humph! well they say that some people have the gift of second sight,
and others can see through millstones, and various other wonderful
things."
"What has all this to do with me?" asked Peter, crossly, for he felt it
necessary to make some demonstration. "It's getting late, and I want to
go to bed. Go away, and--and come again to-morrow, if you want to."
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Peter, which means that I
am sure of you now, and perhaps you wouldn't let me in if I should call
to-morrow. If you are sleepy I have no objection to your going to bed.
I can talk to you as well as if you were sitting up. I will stay here
and keep the fire going."
Peter looked at the small pile of wood with a groan, and muttered
something about "its being awful extravagant to keep such a fire."
"I believe," said the stranger, "I have not yet told you the name of
the defaulted clerk."
Peter said nothing.
"It was Thornton, but his first name was Peter, the same as yours.
Singular, isn't it, Peter?"
"I suppose there are a good many Peters in the world," muttered the old
man.
"Very likely; though I hope most of them are better than this Peter
Thornton. He got off without being taken, with the twenty thousand
dollars in his possession. He was fond of money, and many thought this
explained the defalcation. However, there were not wanting others who
assigned a different motive. It was said that he had been smitten by
the youthful charms of his employer's daughter Eleanor, who did not
favor his suit."
Peter shifted uneasily in his chair.
"No one could blame her. In fact it was perfectly preposterous for him
to think of mating with her. Did you speak?"
"No!" snarled Peter.
"I thought you said something. I repeat, that she had plenty of reasons
for rejecting him. She was just sixteen, and beautiful as she was
young, and had no lack of admirers ready to devote themselves to her.
As for Peter Thornton, ha! ha! he never could have been very handsome,
from all I have heard of him. In the first place, he was forty or more."
"Thirty-eight," muttered Peter, below his breath.
"And his features were irregular, besides being marked with the
small-pox, which he had had in early life. He had a long, hooked nose
like a bird's beak, an enormous mouth, little sharp gray eyes like a
ferret's, and his hair was already mingled with gray. On the whole, he
hadn't much beauty to boast of. Did you say anything?"
"No!" snarled Peter, sourly. He was sitting with his elbows on his
knees, and his face resting on his hands.
"Beg pardon, I thought you spoke. To add to Peter's charms of person,
his disposition was not the sweetest that ever was. He had a harsh
and crabbed manner, which would have led to his discharge if he had
not had one saving trait. I will say, to his credit, that he was a
capital book-keeper. Of his honesty his employer thought he was well
assured, and probably if nothing had occurred of a character to wound
Peter's pride, he might have continued faithful to his trust. One day,
however, Peter took an opportunity, when he had been calling at the
house of his employer on business connected with the counting-room,
to declare his love to the young lady, whom he found alone in the
drawing-room. You can imagine how much she was amused--why don't you
laugh, Peter? You look as glum as if it were _you_ that had met with
this disappointment. The young lady told him plainly, as soon as she
got over her astonishment, that she could give him no encouragement
whatever. Perhaps there might have been in her tone something of the
aversion which it was natural for her to feel at such a proposition
from one so much beneath her. If they had married, it would have been
a second case of Beauty and the Beast. Beg pardon, Peter, I believe you
said something."
"No!" snarled Peter, fiercely. "Have you got nearly through? Your story
is nothing to me--nothing, I say. I want to go to bed. You have kept me
up too late already."
"I can't help that, Peter. It took me too long to get in for me to
resign readily the pleasure of your society. I say, Peter, what a jolly
good fellow you are,--quite a lively companion,--only it strikes me you
might be a little more civil to your company. It isn't exactly polite
to keep telling one how anxious you are for him to go.
"As I was saying, when you interrupted me, Eleanor told Peter very
decidedly that she could not for an instant entertain his suit. He
endeavored to change her determination, being an ardent, impulsive
lover, and probably in her impatience she said something which
irritated her lover, who went off in a rage. After a while, however,
he was foolish enough to open the subject again. Of course she was
extremely annoyed at his persistence, and seeing no other way of
escaping the persecution, she felt it necessary to acquaint her father
with what had transpired. The merchant was naturally indignant at his
book-keeper's presumption, and calling him aside one morning threatened
to discharge him from his employment unless he should forthwith desist.
This was, of course, a great blow to Peter's pride. He had the good
sense to say nothing, however, but none the less determined within
himself to be revenged upon those who had scorned his advances, as
soon as an opportunity offered. I don't know as I blame him. Perhaps I
should have done the same under similar circumstances."
There was a trace of agitation upon the pale and wrinkled countenance
of the miser.
"This it was," continued the stranger, "taken in connection with
Peter's natural cupidity that led to the defalcation I have mentioned.
So far as the merchant was concerned his revenge was completely
successful, for he was the means of his ruin and premature death. And
now, Peter," he added, suddenly changing his tone, "can you tell me
what induced you to change your name from Thornton to Manson?"
"Me!" exclaimed the miser, starting to his feet in consternation, and
glaring wildly at the speaker.
V.
THE COMPACT.
"Yes," said the stranger, composedly; "I repeat the question, why did
you change your name to Manson?"
"What--do--you--mean?" the old man faltered slowly.
"I mean just what I say, and I see you understand me well enough."
"You can't prove it," said Peter, with an uneasy glance at his
imperturbable companion.
"Can't I? Perhaps not. I should say the mysterious knowledge you seem
to possess of the main incidents in my story would prove something."
"That isn't evidence in a court of law," said Peter, regaining a degree
of confidence.
"Perhaps not; but I say, Peter, don't you recognize me?"
The old man scanned his features eagerly, and a sudden look of
remembrance satisfied the latter that he was not forgotten.
"I see you do remember me," he said; "I thought you hadn't forgotten
John Randall. At any rate he hasn't forgotten you, though twenty years
have passed, and I was then but a young man. I used to see you too
often about the streets of Havana not to remember that hooked nose,
those gray eyes, and (excuse my plainness of speech) that large mouth.
Yes, Peter, your features are impressed upon my memory too indelibly to
be effaced."
Peter Manson remembered his companion as one who had had the reputation
of being a "wild" young man. He had been placed at school by his father
without any profitable result. On his father's death he squandered,
in dissipation, the property which came to him, and had since devoted
himself to the sea.
"Having settled this little matter of your identity," continued
Randall, "I am ready to finish my story. I told you that Eleanor
married the young man whose name you remembered so well. He was poor,
dependent upon his salary as a clerk, and thanks to you his wife had
nothing to hope from her father. They were obliged to live in a very
humble way. At length, thinking he could do better here, he removed to
Boston, where his early life had been spent."
"To Boston!" muttered Peter.
"The removal took place some six years since. They had three children
when they first came here, but two died, leaving only the second, a
boy, named Charlie. I should think he might be fourteen years of age.
And now, would you like to know if the husband is still living?"
"Is he?" asked Peter, looking up.
"No. He died about a year since, of a fever."
"And--and Eleanor? What of her?"
"For six months past she has been a tenant of yours."
"A tenant of mine!" exclaimed the miser.
"It is even so. She occupies a second-story room in the tenement-house
in----Street."
"And I have met her face to face?"
"I dare say you have. Your tenants are pretty sure to have that
pleasure once a month. But doesn't it seem strange that Eleanor Gray,
the beautiful daughter of your Havana employer, should after these
twenty years turn up in Boston the tenant of her father's book-keeper?"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled the miser, hoarsely, "she isn't so much better off
than if she had married old Peter."
"As to being better off," said Randall, "I presume she is better off,
though she can't call a hundred dollars her own, than if she were
installed mistress of your establishment. Faugh! Poorly as she is
obliged to live, it is luxury, compared with your establishment."
He glanced about him with a look of disgust.
"If you don't like it," said Peter, querulously, "there is no use of
your staying. It is past my bedtime."
"I shall leave you in a few minutes, Peter, but I want to give you
something to think of first. Don't you see that your property is in
danger of slipping from your hands?"
"My property in danger!" exclaimed Peter, wildly; "what do you mean;
where is the danger?" Then, his voice sinking to its usual whine,--"not
that I have any of any consequence, I am poor--very poor."
"Only from what I see I could easily believe it, but I happen to know
better."
"Indeed, I am----"
"No more twaddle about poverty," said Randall, decidedly, "it won't go
down. I am not so easily deceived as you may imagine. I know perfectly
well that you are worth at the very least, thirty thousand dollars."
"Thirty thousand dollars!" exclaimed the miser, raising both hands in
astonishment.
"Yes, Peter, and I don't know but I may say forty thousand. Why, it
can't be otherwise, with your habits. Twenty years ago you made off
with twenty thousand, which has been accumulating ever since. Your
personal expenses haven't made very large inroads upon your income,
judging from your scarecrow appearance. So much the worse for you. You
might have got some good from it. Now it must go to others."
"To others!" exclaimed Peter, turning pale.
"Certainly. You don't think the law gives you whatever you've a mind
to steal, do you? Of course there is no doubt that to your tenants,
Eleanor and Charlie Codman, belongs this property which you wrongfully
hold."
"They sha'n't have it. They never shall have it," said Peter Manson,
hastily.
"Well, perhaps the law may have something to say about that."
"My gold!" groaned the miser. "If I lose that I lose everything. It
will be my death. Good Mr. Randall, have pity upon me. I am sure you
won't say anything that----"
"Will bring you to state's prison," said Randall, coolly.
"They--Eleanor and her son--need never know it."
"Unless I tell them."
"But you won't."
"That depends upon circumstances. How much will you give me to keep
the thing secret?"
"What will I give you?"
"Precisely. That is what I have been so long in coming at. You see,
Peter, that the secret is worth something. Either I reveal it to the
parties interested, in which case I wouldn't give that," snapping his
fingers, "for your chance of retaining the property, or I keep silence
_if you make it worth my while_."
"Pity me," said the miser, abjectly, sinking on his knees before
Randall; "pity me and spare my gold."
"Pity you!" said Randall, contemptuously. "Why didn't you pity your
employer? You must make up your mind to pay me my price."
"I am very poor," whined Peter, in his customary phrase, "and I can't
pay much."
"Oh yes, Peter," said the other, sarcastically, "I am well aware that
you are poor,--wretchedly poor,--and I won't be too hard upon you."
"Thank you--thank you," said Peter, catching at this promise; "I will
give you something--a little----"
"How much?" asked Randall, with some curiosity.
"Ten dollars!" said the miser, with the air of a man who named a large
sum.
"Ten dollars!" returned Randall, with a laugh of derision. "Ten dollars
to secure the peaceable possession of thirty thousand! Old man, you
must be mad, or you must think that I am."
"I--I did not mean to offend," said the old man, humbly. "If I double
the sum will it satisfy you? I--I will try to raise it, though it will
be hard--very hard."
"This is mere trifling, Peter Manson," said his visitor, decidedly.
"Twenty dollars! Why I wouldn't have come across the street to get it.
No, you will have to elevate your ideas considerably."
"How much do you demand?" said the miser, groaning internally, and
fixing his eyes anxiously upon Randall.
"You must not make a fuss when I name the amount."
"Name it," said Peter, in a choking voice.
"One thousand dollars will purchase my silence, and not a dollar less."
Peter sprang from his seat in consternation.
"One thousand dollars! Surely you are not in earnest."
"But I am, though. This is not a subject I care to jest upon."
"One thousand dollars! It will take all I have and leave me a beggar."
"If it should, Peter," said his visitor, composedly, "I will procure
you admission to the poor-house, where, if I am not much mistaken you
will be better off than in this tumble-down old shanty."
"Has the man no mercy?" groaned Peter, wringing his hands.
"None at all."
"Then," exclaimed the miser, in a sudden fit of desperation, "I won't
pay you a cent--not a single cent."
"That is your final determination, is it?"
"Ye--yes," muttered Peter, but less firmly.
"Very well. I will tell you the result. I shall at once go to Eleanor,
and inform her of the good fortune which awaits her. No fear but she
will pay me a thousand dollars for the intelligence."
"She has no money."
"I will furnish her with money for the lawyers--she can repay me out of
your hoards."
Peter groaned.
"Ay, groan away, Peter. You'll have cause enough to groan, by and by.
There is one thing you don't seem to consider, that the law will do
something more than take away your property. I will come to see you in
jail."
He rose to leave the room, but Peter called him back hastily. "We may
come to terms yet," he said.
"Then you accede to my terms."
"I will give you five hundred."
"Good-night, Peter. I wish you happy dreams."
"St-stay!" exclaimed Peter, terrified. "I will give eight hundred."
"I am in something of a hurry," said Randall. "I believe I will call
on Eleanor. I don't think we can make any arrangement."
"Hold! perhaps I will do as you say."
"Ah! now you are beginning to be reasonable," said Randall, resuming
his seat.
"What security can you give me for your silence?"
"I'll tell you what I will do, Peter. You remember I told you Eleanor
had a son, a boy of fourteen."
"Yes."
"His mother is quite devoted to him. Indeed, he contributes to her
support by selling papers, and by various little jobs. Now, as long as
Eleanor lives here you are in danger."
"Yes."
"And if a blow is levelled at her it must be through her boy."
"I see."
"Then I'll tell you of a scheme I have arranged. You must first
know that I am mate of a vessel now in port, which is bound for San
Francisco. We are to sail in a few days."
"Well?"
"We happen to be in want of a boy to fill up our regular number.
Suppose I kidnap Eleanor's boy. Don't you see, that as he is her
chief support, she will soon be in difficulties? and this, with her
uncertainty about her boy's fate, may rid you of your greatest peril,
and the only one of the two who could identify you."
"Excellent, excellent!" chuckled Peter, rubbing his hands; "she shall
yet be sorry that she rejected old Peter."
"Am I to understand that you accede to my proposal, then?"
Not without many groans Peter agreed to deliver the sum mentioned
between them, on condition that the boy was secured.