UNPLEASANT DISCOVERIES.
Smith did not go home immediately. He intended to do so, but happened to
think of an errand, and this delayed him for an hour or two.
When he entered the house, he looked around for his errand-boy, but
looked in vain.
"Humpy!" he called out in a voice which could be heard all over the
house.
There was no answer. Smith, who was not remarkable for patience, began
to grow angry.
"Very likely the young rascal is in his room," he said to himself. "I'll
stir him up."
He took the whip and ascended the stairs two or three at a time. Arrived
in the attic, he peered into Humpy's room, but, to his disappointment,
saw nobody.
"The little villain got tired of waiting, and went out, thinking I
couldn't find him out," he muttered. "He shall have a taste of the whip
when he comes back."
He went downstairs more slowly than he ascended. He was considerably
irritated, and in a state that required an object to vent his anger
upon. Under these circumstances his prisoner naturally occurred to him.
He had the proper key in his pocket, and, stopping on the second floor,
he opened the door of the chamber in which our hero had been confined.
His anger may be imagined when he found it untenanted. It was not very
dignified, but Smith began to stamp in his vexation, and lash with his
whip an unoffending chair in which Rufus ought to have been seated.
"I wish it was that young villain!" muttered Smith, scowling at the
chair, and lashing it harder. "I'd teach him to run away! I'd make him
howl!"
Smith was considerably discomposed. Things were going decidedly against
him. Besides, the escape of Rufus might entail serious consequences, if
he should give information to the police about the place of his
captivity. A visit from these officials was an honor which Smith felt
disposed respectfully, but firmly, to decline. Unfortunately, however,
policemen are not sensitive, and are very apt to intrude where they are
not wanted. A visit to Smith's abode might lead to unpleasant
discoveries, as he very well knew, and he could not easily decide what
course it would be best for him to pursue. He inferred at once that
Humpy had been bought over, and had released the prisoner, otherwise he
would, undoubtedly, have detected or frustrated our hero's attempt to
escape. This did not inspire very amiable feelings towards Humpy, whom
it would have yielded him great satisfaction to get into his power. But
Humpy had disappeared, and that satisfaction was not to be had.
Mingled with Smith's anger was a feeling of surprise. Humpy had been a
good while in his employ, and he had reposed entire confidence in his
fidelity. He might have continued to do so but for the brutal assault
upon the boy recorded in a previous chapter. He did not think of this,
however, or guess the effect it had produced on the mind of the deformed
errand-boy.
"I think I had better get out of the city a week or two till this blows
over," thought Smith. "I guess I'll take the afternoon train for
Philadelphia."
This was a wise resolution; but Smith made one mistake. He ought to have
put it into effect at once. At that very moment information was lodged
at the office of police, which threatened serious consequences to him;
but of this he was ignorant. He had no idea that Rufus would act so
promptly.
In spite of his anger Smith was hungry. His morning walk had given him
an excellent appetite, and he began to think about dinner. As, on
account of the unlawful occupation in which he was engaged, he did not
think it prudent to employ a cook, who might gossip about his affairs,
he generally devolved the task of preparing the dinner upon Humpy, whom
he had taught to cook eggs, broil beef-steak, make coffee, fry potatoes,
and perform other simple culinary duties. Now that Humpy was gone, he
was obliged to do this work himself.
He looked into the pantry, and found half-a-dozen eggs, and a slice of
steak. These he proceeded to cook. He had nearly finished his
unaccustomed task when the door opened, and Martin returned, with his
nose a little redder than usual, and his general appearance somewhat
disordered by haste.
"What brings you here so soon?" asked Smith, in surprise. "What's the
matter?"
"I came near gettin' nabbed; that's what's the matter," said Martin.
"How did that happen?"
"I went into a cigar-store near the ferry in Jersey City," said Martin,
"and asked for a couple of cigars,--twenty-cent ones. I took 'em, and
handed in one of your ten-dollar bills. The chap looked hard at it, and
then at me, and said he'd have to go out and get it changed. I looked
across the street, and saw him goin' to the police-office. I thought I'd
better leave, and made for the ferry. The boat was just goin'. When we'd
got a little ways out, I saw the cigar man standin' on the drop with a
copp at his elbow."
"You'd better not go to Jersey City again," said Smith.
"I don't mean to," said Martin. "Have you got enough dinner for me? I'm
as hungry as a dog."
"Yes, there's dinner enough for two, and that's all there is to eat it."
Something significant in his employer's tone struck Martin.
"There's the boy upstairs," he said.
"There isn't any boy upstairs."
"You haven't let him go?" queried Martin, staring open-mouthed at the
speaker.
"No, he got away while I was out this morning,--the more fool I for
leaving him."
"But there was Humpy. How did the boy get away without his seeing him?"
"Humpy's gone too."
"You don't say!" ejaculated Martin.
"Yes, I do."
"What you goin' to do about it?" inquired Martin, hopelessly.
"I'll half kill either of the little rascals when I get hold of them,"
said Smith, spitefully.
"I'd give something out of my own pocket to get that undootiful son of
mine back," chimed in Martin.
"I'll say this for him," said Smith, "he's a good sight smarter than his
father."
"I always was unlucky," grumbled Martin. "I aint been treated right."
"If you had been you'd be at Sing Sing," returned Smith, amiably.
"Smith," said Martin, with drunken dignity, for he was somewhat under
the influence of a liberal morning dram, "you'd ought to respect the
feelin's of a gentleman."
"Where's the gentleman? I don't see him," responded Smith, in a
sarcastic tone. "If you aint too much of a gentleman to do your share of
the work, just draw out the table and put the cloth on."
This Martin, who was hungry, did with equal alacrity and awkwardness,
showing the latter by over-turning a pile of plates, which fell with a
fatal crash upon the floor.
"Just like your awkwardness, you drunken brute!" exclaimed Smith,
provoked.
Martin did not reply, but looked ruefully at the heap of broken
crockery, which he attributed, like his other misfortunes, to the
ill-treatment of the world, and meekly got upon his knees and gathered
up the pieces.
At length dinner was ready. Martin, in spite of an ungrateful world, ate
with an appetite truly surprising, so that his companion felt called
upon to remonstrate.
"I hope you'll leave a little for me. It's just possible that I might
like to eat a little something myself."
"I didn't eat much breakfast," said Martin, apologetically.
"You'd better lunch outside next time," said his employer. "It will give
you a good chance to change money."
"I've tried it at several places," said Martin; "I could do it better if
you'd give me some smaller bills. They don't like to change fives and
tens."
After dinner was despatched, and the table pushed back, Smith unfolded
his plans to Martin. He suggested that it might be a little unsafe to
remain at their present quarters for a week or fortnight to come, and
counselled Martin to go to Boston, while he would go to Philadelphia.
"That's the way we'll dodge them," he concluded.
"Just as you say," said Martin. "When do you want me back?"
"I will write you from Philadelphia. You can call at the post-office for
a letter in a few days."
"When had I better sell the bond?"
"That reminds me," said Smith. "I will take the box with me."
He went and unlocked the drawer in which the box had been secreted. To
his dismay he discovered that it was gone.
"Have you taken the tin box?" he demanded, turning upon Martin with
sudden suspicion.
"Isn't it there?" gasped Martin.
"No, it isn't," said Smith, sternly. "Do you know anything about it?"
"I wish I may be killed if I do!" asserted Martin.
"Then what can have become of it?"
"It's my undootiful boy that took it,--I'm sure it is," exclaimed
Martin, with sudden conviction.
"He had no key."
"Humpy got him one, then."
Just then Smith espied on the floor some scraps of wax. They told the
story.
"You're right," he said, with an oath. "We've been taken in worse than I
thought. The best thing we can do is to get away as soon as possible."
They made a few hurried preparations, and left the house in company. But
they were too late. A couple of officers, who were waiting outside,
stepped up to them, as they set foot on the sidewalk, and said, quietly,
"You must come with us."
"What for?" demanded Smith, inclined to show fight.
"You'd better come quietly. You are charged with stealing a box
containing valuables."
"That's the man that did it," said Smith, pointing to Martin. "He's the
one you want."
"He put me up to it, and shared the money," retorted Martin.
"You're both wanted," said the officer. "You'll have a chance to tell
your story hereafter."
As this winds up the connection of these two worthies with our story, it
may be added here that they were found guilty, not only of the robbery,
but of manufacturing and disseminating counterfeit money, and were
sentenced to Sing Sing for a term of years. The bonds were found upon
them, and restored to Mr. Vanderpool.
Thus the world persists in its ill-treatment of our friend, James
Martin. Still I cannot help thinking that, if he had been a sober and
industrious man, he would have had much less occasion to complain.