asked, the unctuous Goodman.
"No; I never play for money," was the quiet response.
Once the ice was broken the game went on for higher, and still higher,
stakes, until Walter, getting actually frightened at the recklessness
with which Ramon played and lost, rose to go.
After vainly urging him to remain, annoyed at his failure to make
Walter play, enraged by his own losses, Ramon followed Walter outside
the door, shut it behind them, and said in a menacing sort of way,
"Not a word of this at the store."
"Promise you won't play any more."
"I won't do no such thing. Who set you up for my guardian? If you're
mean enough to play the sneak, tell if you dare!"
Walter felt his anger rising, but controlled himself. "Oh, very well,
only remember that I warned you," he replied, turning away.
"Don't preach, Master Innocence!" sneered Ramon.
"Don't threaten, Master Hypocrite!" was the angry retort.
Quick as a flash, Ramon sprang before Walter, and barred his way. All
the tiger in his nature gleamed in his eyes. "One word of this to Mr.
Bright, and I'll--I'll fix you!" he almost shrieked out.
With that the two young men clinched, and for a few minutes nothing
could be heard but their heavy breathing. This did not last. Walter
soon showed himself much the stronger of the two, and Master Ramon, in
spite of his struggles, found himself lying flat on his back, with his
adversary's knee on his chest. Ramon instantly gave in. Choking down
his wrath, he jerked out, "There, I promise. Let me up."
"Oh, if you promise, so do I," said Walter, releasing his hold on
Ramon. He then left the house without another word. He did not see
Ramon shaking his fist behind his back, or hear him muttering threats
of vengeance to himself, as he went back to his vicious companions.
Walter did wish, however, that he had given Ramon just one more punch
for keeps.
So they parted. Satisfied that Walter would not break his promise,
Ramon made all haste back to his companions, laughing in his sleeve to
think how easily he had fooled that milksop Seabury. His companions
were two as notorious sharpers as Boston contained. He continued to
lose heavily, they luring him on by letting him win now and then,
until they were satisfied he had nothing more to lose. At two in the
morning their victim rose up from the table, hardly realizing, so far
gone was he in liquor, that he was five hundred dollars in debt to
Lambkin, or that he had signed a note for that sum with the name of
his employers, Bright, Wantage & Company. He had found the road from
gambling to forgery a natural and easy one.
VI
A BLACK SHEEP IN THE FOLD
Leaving Ingersoll to follow his crooked ways, we must now introduce a
character, with whom Walter had formed an acquaintance, destined to
have no small influence upon his own future life.
Bill Portlock was probably as good a specimen of an old, battered
man-o'-war's man as could be scared up between Montauk and Quoddy
Head. While a powder-monkey, on board the _President_ frigate, he had
been taken prisoner and confined in Dartmoor Prison, from which he
had made his escape, with some companions in captivity, by digging a
hole under the foundation wall with an old iron spoon. Shipping on
board a British merchantman, he had deserted at the first neutral
port she touched at. He was now doing odd jobs about the wharves, as
'longshoreman; and as Walter had thrown many such in the old salt's
way a kind of intimacy had grown up between them. Bill loved dearly to
spin a yarn, and some of his adventures, told in his own vernacular,
would have made the late Baron Munchausen turn green with envy. "Why,"
he would say, after spinning one of his wonderful yarns, "ef I sh'd
tell ye my adventers, man and boy, you'd think 'twas Roberson Crushoe
a-talkin' to ye. No need o' lyin'. Sober airnest beats all they make
up."
Bill's castle was a condemned caboose, left on the wharf by some ship
that was now plowing some distant sea. Her name, the _Orpheus_, could
still be read in faded paint on the caboose; so that Bill always
claimed to belong to the _Orpheus_, or she to him, he couldn't exactly
say which. When he was at work on the wharf, after securing his castle
with a stout padlock, he announced the fact to an inquiring public by
chalking up the legend, "Aboard the brig," or "Aboard the skoner," as
the case might be. If called to take a passenger off to some vessel
in his wherry, the notice would then read, "Back at eight bells." A
sailor he was, and a sailor he said he would live and die.
No one but a sailor, and an old sailor at that, could have squeezed
himself into the narrow limits of the caboose, where it was not
possible, even for a short man like Bill, to stand upright, though
Bill himself considered it quite luxurious living. There was a rusty
old cooking stove at one end, with two legs of its own, and two
replaced by half-bricks; the other end being taken up by a bench, from
which Bill deftly manipulated saucepan or skillet.
"Why, Lor' bless ye!" said Bill to Walter one evening, "I seed ye
fish that ar' young 'ooman out o' the dock that time. 'Bill,' sez I
to myself, 'thar's a chap, now, as knows a backstay from a bullock's
tail.'"
"Pshaw!" Then after a moment's silence, while Bill was busy lighting
his pipe, Walter absently asked, "Bill, were you ever in California?"
"Kalerforny? Was I ever in Kalerforny? Didn't I go out to Sandy Ager,
in thirty-eight, in a hide drogher? And d'ye know why they call it
Sandy Ager? I does. Why, blow me if it ain't sandy 'nuff for old Cape
Cod herself; and as for the ager, if you'll b'leeve me, our ship's
crew shook so with it, that all hands had to turn to a-settin' up
riggin' twict a month, it got so slack with the shakin' up like."
"What an unhealthy place that must be," laughed Walter. Then suddenly
changing the subject, he said: "Bill, you know the _Racehorse_ is a
good two months overdue." Bill nodded. "I know our folks are getting
uneasy about her. No wonder. Valuable cargo, and no insurance. What's
your idea?"
Bill gave a few whiffs at his pipe before replying. "I know that ar'
_Racehorse_. She's a clipper, and has a good sailor aboard of her:
but heavy sparred, an' not the kind to be carryin' sail on in the
typhoon season, jest to make a quick passage." Bill shook his head.
"Like as not she's dismasted, or sprung a leak, an' the Lord knows
what all."
The next day happened to be Saturday. As Walter was going into the
warehouse he met Ramon coming out. Since the night at his lodgings,
his manner toward Walter, outwardly at least, had undergone a marked
change. If anything it was too cordial. "Hello! Seabury, that you?" he
said, in his offhand way. "Lucky thing you happened in. It's steamer
day, and I'm awfully hard pushed for time. Would you mind getting
this check on the Suffolk cashed for me? No? That's a good fellow. Do
as much for you some time. And, stay, on your way back call at the
California steamship agency--you know?--all right. Well, see if there
are any berths left in the _Georgia_. You won't forget the name? The
_Georgia_. And, oh! be sure to get gold for that check. It's to pay
duties with, you know," Ramon hurriedly explained in an undertone.
"All right; I understand," said Walter, walking briskly away on his
errand. He quite forgot all about the gold, though, until after he
had left the bank; when, suddenly remembering it, he hurried back to
get the coin, quite flurried and provoked at his own forgetfulness.
The cashier, however, counted out the double-eagles, for the notes,
without remark. Such little instances of forgetfulness were too common
to excite his particular notice.
On that same evening, finding time hanging rather heavily on his
hands, Walter strolled uptown in the direction of Mr. Bright's house,
which was in the fashionable Mt. Vernon Street. The truth is that
the silly boy thought he might possibly catch a glimpse of a certain
young lady, or her shadow, at least, in passing the brilliantly
lighted residence. It was, he admitted to himself, a fool's errand,
after walking slowly backwards and forwards two or three times, with
his eyes fastened upon the lighted windows; and with a feeling of
disappointment he turned away from the spot, heartily ashamed of
himself, as well, for having given way to a sudden impulse. Glad he
was that no one had noticed him.
Walter's queer actions, however, did not escape the attention of a
certain lynx-eyed policeman, who, snugly ensconced in the shadow of
a doorway, had watched his every step. The young man had gone but a
short distance on his homeward way, when, as he was about crossing
the street, he came within an ace of being knocked down and run over
by a passing hack, which turned the corner at such a break-neck pace
that there was barely time to get out of the way. There was a gaslight
on this corner. At Walter's warning shout to the driver, the person
inside the hack quickly put his head out of the window, and as quickly
drew it in again; but in that instant the light had shone full upon
the face of Ramon Ingersoll.
The driver lashed his horses into a run. Walter stood stupidly staring
after the carriage. Then, without knowing why, he ran after it,
confident that if he had recognized Ramon in that brief moment, Ramon
must also have recognized him. The best he could do, however, was to
keep the carriage in sight, but he soon saw that it was heading for
the railway station at the South End.
Out of breath, and nearly out of his head, too, Walter dashed through
the arched doorway of the station, just in time to see a train going
out at the other end in a cloud of smoke. In his eagerness, Walter ran
headlong into the arms of the night-watchman, who, seeing the blank
look on Walter's face, said, as he had said a hundred times before to
belated travelers, "Too late, eh?"
"Yes, yes, too late," repeated Walter, in a tone of deep vexation.
While walking home he began to think he had been making a fool of
himself again. After all, what business was it of his if Ramon had
gone to New York? He might have gone on business of the firm. Of
course that was it. And what right had he, Walter, to be chasing
Ramon through the streets, anyhow? Still, he was sure that Ramon had
recognized him, and just as sure that Ramon had wished to avoid being
recognized, else why had he not spoken or even waved his hand? Walter
gave it up, and went home to dream of chasing carriages all night long.
Walter went to the wharf as usual the next morning. In the course
of the forenoon a porter brought word that he was wanted at the
counting-room. When Walter went into the office, Mr. Bright was
walking the floor, back and forth, with hasty steps, while a very
dark, clean-shaven, alert-looking man sat leaning back in a chair
before the door. This person immediately arose, locked the office
door, put the key in his pocket, and then quietly sat down again.
Walter's heart was in his mouth. He grew red and pale by turns. Before
he could collect his ideas Mr. Bright stopped in his walk, looked him
squarely in the eye, and, in an altered voice, demanded sharply and
sternly: "Ingersoll--where is he? No prevarication. I want the truth
and nothing but the truth. You understand?"
Walter tried hard to make a composed answer, but the words would not
seem to come; and the merchant's cold gray eyes seemed searching him
through and through. However, he managed to stammer out: "I don't
know, sir, where he is--gone away, hasn't he?"
"Don't know. Gone away," repeated the merchant. "Now answer me
directly, without any ifs or buts; where, and when, did you see him
last?"
"Last night; at least, I thought it was Ramon." The dark man gave his
head a little toss.
"Well, go on? What then?"
"It was about nine o'clock, in a close carriage, not far from the
Common." That, by the way, was as near to Mr. Bright's house as Walter
thought proper to locate the affair.
Mr. Bright exchanged glances with the dark man, who merely nodded, but
said never a word.
Thinking his examination was over, Walter plucked up the courage to
say of his own accord, "I ran after the carriage as tight as I could;
but you see, sir, the driver was lashing his horses all the way, so I
couldn't keep up with it; and when I got to the depot the train was
just starting."
"Pray, what took _you_ to that neighborhood at that hour?" the silent
man demanded so suddenly that the sound of his voice startled Walter.
If ever conscious guilt showed itself in a face, it now did in
Walter's. He turned as red as a peony. Mr. Bright frowned, while the
dark-skinned man smiled a knowing little smile.
"Why, nothing in particular, sir. I was only taking a little stroll
about town, before going home," Walter replied, a word at a time.
"Yet your boarding place is at the other end of the city, is it not?"
pursued Mr. Bright.
"Yes, sir, it is."
"Walter Seabury, up to this time I have always had a good opinion of
you. This is no time for concealments. The house has been robbed of a
large sum of money--so large that should it not be recovered within
twenty-four hours we must fail. Do you hear--fail?" he repeated as if
the word stuck in his throat and choked him.
"Robbed; fail!" Walter faltered out, hardly believing his own ears.
"Yes, robbed, and as I must believe by a scoundrel warmed at my own
fireside. And you: why did you not report Ingersoll's flight before it
was too late to stop him?"
Though shocked beyond measure by this revelation, Walter made haste
to reply: "Because, sir, I was not sure it was Ramon. It was just a
look, and he was gone like a flash. Besides----"
"Besides what?"
"How could I know Ramon was running away?"
"Why, then, did you run after him? Are you in the habit of chasing
every carriage you may chance upon in the street?" again interrupted
the silent man.
Stung by the bantering tone of the stranger, Walter made no reply.
Mr. Bright was his employer and had a perfect right to question him;
but who was this man, and by what right did he mix himself up in the
matter?
"Quite right of you, young man, to say nothing to criminate yourself;
but perhaps you will condescend to tell us, unless it would be
betraying confidence [again that cunning smile], if you knew that this
Ingersoll was a gambler?"
The tell-tale blood again rushed to Walter's temples, but instantly
left them as it dimly dawned upon him that he was suspected of knowing
more than he was willing to tell.
"Gently, marshal, gently," interposed Mr. Bright. "He will tell all,
if we give him time."
"One moment," rejoined the chief, with a meaning look at the merchant.
"You hear, young man, this firm has been robbed of twenty thousand
dollars--quite a haul. The thief has absconded. You tell a pretty
straight story, I allow, but before you are many hours older you will
have to explain why you, who have nothing to do with that department,
should draw two thousand dollars at the bank yesterday; why, after
getting banknotes you went back after gold," the marshal continued,
warming up as he piled accusation on accusation; "why, again, you went
from there to secure a berth in the _Georgia_, which sailed early this
morning; and why you are seen, for seen you were, first watching Mr.
Bright's house, and then arriving at the station just too late for
the New York express. Take my advice. Make a clean breast of the whole
affair. If you can clear yourself, now is the time; if you can't,
possibly you may be of some use in recovering the money."
Walter felt his legs giving way under him. At last it was all out.
Now it was as clear as day how Ingersoll had so craftily managed
everything as to make Walter appear in the light of a confederate.
Now he knew why Ingersoll had wished to avoid being recognized. In
a broken voice he told what he knew of Ingersoll's wrong-doings,
excusing his own silence by the pledge he had given and received.
When he had finished, the two men held a whispered conference
together. "Clear case," observed the marshal; "one watched your house
while the other was making his escape."
"I'll not believe it. Why, this young man saved my daughter's life."
"Think as you like. At any rate, I mean to keep an eye on him." So
saying, the marshal went on his way, humming a tune to himself with as
much unconcern as if he had just got up from a game of checkers which
he had won handily. At the street corner he hailed an officer, to whom
he gave an order in an undertone, and then walked on, smiling and
nodding right and left as he went.
Left alone with Mr. Bright, Walter stood nervously twisting his cap
in both hands, like a culprit awaiting his sentence. It came at last.
"Until this matter is cleared up," Mr. Bright said, "we cannot retain
you in our employ. Get what is due you. You can go now." He then
turned his back on Walter, and began busying himself over the papers
on his desk.
Walter went out of the office without another word. He was simply
stunned.
VII
THE FLIGHT
Walter walked slowly down the wharf, feeling as if the world had
suddenly come to an end. Nothing looked to him exactly as it looked
one short hour ago. He did not even notice that a policeman was
keeping a few rods behind him. As he walked along with eyes fixed on
the ground, a familiar voice hailed him with, "Why, what ails ye, lad?
Seen a ghost or what?"
"Bill," said Walter, "would you believe it, that skunk of a Ramon has
run off with a lot of the firm's money--to California, they say? And,
oh, Bill! Bill! they suspect me, _me_, of having helped him do it. And
I'm discharged. That's all." It was no use trying to keep up longer.
Walter broke down completely at the sound of a friendly voice at last.
Bill silently led the way into the caboose. He first lighted his pipe,
for, like the Indians, Bill seemed to believe that a good smoke tended
to clear the intellect. He then, save for an occasional angry snort or
grunt, heard Walter through without interruption. When the wretched
story was all told Bill struck his open palm upon his knee, jerking
out between whiffs: "My eye, here's a pretty kettle o' fish! Ruin,
failure, crash, and smash. Ship ashore, and you all taken aback. Ssh!"
suddenly checking himself, as a shadow darkened the one little pane of
glass that served for a window. A policeman was looking in at them.
Giving the two friends a careless nod, he walked slowly away.
It slowly dawned upon Walter that the man with the black rosette in
his hat, whom he had seen at the office, had set a watch upon him.
"Bill, you mustn't be seen talking to me," said Walter, rising to
leave. "They'll think you are in the plot, too. Oh! oh! they dog me
about everywhere."
The old fellow laughed scornfully. "That," he exclaimed, snapping his
fingers, "for the hull b'ilin' on 'em. I've licked many a perleeceman
in my time, and can do it again, old as I am. But we can be foxy,
too, I guess. Listen. When I sees you comin', I'll go acrost the
wharf to where that 'ar brig lays, over there. You foller me." Walter
nodded. "I go up aloft. You follers. We has our little talk out in the
maintop, free and easy like, and the perleeceman, he has his watch
below."
When Walter reached his boarding house his landlady met him in the
entry. She seemed quite flustered and embarrassed. "Oh, Mr. Seabury,"
she began, "I'm so glad you've come! Such a time! There has been an
officer here tossing everything topsy-turvy in your room. He would
do it, in spite of all I could say. I told him you were the best
boarder of the lot; never out late nights, or coming home the worse
for liquor, and always prompt pay. Do you think, he told me to shut
up, and mind my own business. Oh, sir, what _is_ the matter? That ever
a nasty policeman should came ransacking in my house. Goodness alive!
why, if it gets out, I'm a ruined woman. Please, sir, couldn't you
find another boarding place?"
This was the last straw for poor Walter. Without a word he crept
upstairs to his little bedroom, threw himself down on the bed, and
cried as if his heart would break.
Walter was young. Conscious innocence helped him to throw off the
fit of despondency; but in so far as feeling goes, he was ten years
older when he came out of it. It was quite dark. Lighting a lamp, he
hastily threw a few things into a bag, scribbled a short note to his
aunt, inclosing the check received when he was discharged, settled
with the landlady, who was in tears, always on tap; took his bag under
his arm, and after satisfying himself that the coast was clear, struck
out a roundabout course, through crooked ways and blind alleys, to the
wharf. For the life of him, he could not keep back a little bitter
laugh when he called to mind that this was the second time in his
short life that he had run away.
The wharf was deserted. There was no light in the caboose; but upon
Walter's giving three cautious raps, the door was slid back, and as
quickly closed after him. "Well," he said, wearily throwing himself
down on a bench, "here I am again. I've been turned out of doors now.
You are my only friend left. What would you do, if you were in my
place? I can't bear it, and I won't," he broke out impulsively.
"I see," said Bill, meditatively shutting both eyes, to give emphasis
to the assertion.
"Nobody will give me a place now, with a cloud like that hanging over
me."
Bill nodded assent.
"I can't go back to the loft where I worked before, to be pointed at
and jeered at by every duffer who may take it into his head to throw
this scrape in my face. Would you?"
As Bill made no reply, but smoked on in silence, Walter exclaimed,
almost fiercely, "Confound it, man, say something! can't you? You
drive me crazy with all the rest."
This time Bill shook the ashes from his pipe. "What would I do? Why,
if it was me I'd track the rascal to the eends of the airth, and jump
off arter him, but I'd have him. And arter I'd cotched him, I'd twist
his neck just as quick as I would a pullet's," was Bill's quiet but
determined reply.
Walter simply stared, though every nerve in his body thrilled at the
bare idea. "Pshaw, you don't mean it. What put that silly notion into
your head? Why, what could I do single-handed and alone, against such
a consummate villain as that? Where's the money to come from, in the
first place?"
Bill watched Walter's sudden change from hot to cold. "Jest you take
down that 'ar coffee-pot over your head." Walter handed it to him, as
requested. First giving it a vigorous shake, which made the contents
rattle again with a metallic sound, Bill then raised the lid, showing
to Walter's astonished eyes a mixture of copper, silver, and even a
few gold, coins, half filling the battered utensil.
"Thar's a bank as never busts, my son," chuckled the old man, at
the same time turning the coffee-pot this way and that, just for
the pleasure of hearing it rattle. "What do you think of them 'ar
coffee-grounds, heh? Single-handed, is it?" he continued, with a sniff
of disdain. "I'll jest order my kerridge, and go 'long with ye, my
boy."
It took some minutes for Walter to realize that Bill was in real,
downright, sober earnest. But Bill was already shoving some odds and
ends into a canvas bag to emphasize his decision. "Strike while the
iron's hot" was his motto. Walter started to his feet with something
of his old animation. "That settles it!" he exclaimed. "Since I've
been turned out of doors, I feel as if I wanted to put millions of
miles between me and every one I've ever known. Do you know, I think
every one I meet is saying to himself, 'There's that Walter Seabury,
suspected of robbing his employers'? Go away I must, but I've found
out from the papers that no steamer sails before Saturday, and to-day
is Wednesday, you know. Where shall I hide my face for a day or two?
How do I know they won't arrest me, if they catch me trying to leave
the city? Oh, Bill, I can never stand that disgrace, never!"
Having finished with his packing, Bill blew out the light, pushed back
the slide, and gave a rapid look up and down the wharf. As he drew in
his head, he said just as indifferently as if he had proposed taking a
short walk about town, "'Pears to me as if the correck thing for folks
in our sitivation like was to cut and run."
"True enough for me. But how about you? They'll say that you were as
deep in the mud as I am in the mire. Give it up, Bill. No, dear old
friend, I mustn't drag you down with me. I can't."
"Bah! Talk won't hurt old Bill nohow. Bill's about squar' with the
world. He owes just as much as he don't owe."