ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS
It was long after daylight when Jeff, heavy eyed and weary to the
point of exhaustion, staggered out of the Erie terminal at New City
and stumbled toward a trolley car that would take him home. He was
happy though, in spite of his exhaustion. He had covered his first
big story. He had gathered all the details and turned them into the
office by means of the telephone, in such shape that Sullivan, the
rewrite man had been able to grind out three columns of story. Indeed,
as Jeff glanced at the headlines of the copy of the morning _Freeman_
he had bought from the terminal news stand he realized that he had
really covered two stories, for Sullivan in addition to writing the
story of the wreck had written a second story on the rescue of the
absconding Third National Bank paying teller, his subsequent death and
the recovery of the one hundred thousand dollars in stolen bonds, which
Jeff had turned in for safe keeping at the Treasurer’s office of the
railroad and asked that they be put in the company’s safe until word of
their return was passed on to Mr. Davidson, the president of the Third
National, who would doubtless send a messenger to bring them safely
back to the bank.
Jeff had only ambition enough to just glance at the first page of the
_Freeman_ as the trolley car carried him jerkily toward home and the
bed he so much yearned for, and as a result it was not until hours
later that he discovered how Sullivan, at the instigation of Boss
Russell, had told all the details of the daring rescue of the dying
Roderick Hammond; how a cub reporter of the _Freeman_ staff, with the
wreckers, had the courage to climb down into the perils of the mass
of débris and carry out the unconscious man; how he identified him,
and recovered the bonds, and how in spite of these achievements he had
stayed on at the wreck all night long, sending in reports every half
hour until all the editions had gone to press.
In truth, when Jeff woke up, considerably refreshed at three o’clock
that afternoon, and then for the first time read the front page of the
_Freeman_ closely he was surprised and embarrassed to discover how
much of a hero Sullivan had made him. His name seemed to appear in
almost every paragraph of the story and before he had read half way
through it he paused to mention to no one in particular that
“The blamed story seems to be more about me and my fool stunt than it
does about Hammond and the bonds.”
But the real surprise of the whole situation occurred when Jeff read
the last paragraph of the story. It seemed to hit him a little harder
than all the rest and burn into his memory. It ran something like this:
“――and the dying man in almost his last breath told Thatcher
that the ten $10,000 bonds were sewed in the lining of his
coat, and that he wanted Thatcher to return them to the Third
National Bank from which he had stolen them and claim whatever
reward was due him.
“Enoch Davidson, president of the Third National, when informed
by telephone from the _Freeman_ office of the recovery of the
bonds at an early hour this morning, announced that a reward
of two thousand dollars had been offered for the return of the
securities and this would go to the heroic young reporter of
the _Freeman_ staff just as soon as the bonds were back in the
bank’s vault.”
“Gee whizz. I plumb forgot about that. Poor Hammond did say that there
was a reward for the return of the bonds and that he wanted me to
get it, but I guess I forgot about it right away in my hurry to get
the story over. Jiminy, I wonder if that can be true. Two thousand
dollars. Oh, my goodness. Never heard of so much money except in a bank
statement. It can’t be true. I――I――can’t take it. It belongs to the
wrecking crew more than it does to me. I just happened to be handy,
that’s all. Anyhow, I can’t return the bonds in person and get the
reward. Left them with the treasurer’s chief clerk in the railroad
office and asked them to get in touch with the bank. Gee, maybe I
shouldn’t have done that. Maybe I should have hung onto them. But I was
so doggone tired that I couldn’t take the responsibility for them any
longer, so I did the best thing I could. I wonder if they got back to
the bank or――or――gosh, I wonder.”
It suddenly occurred to Jeff that perhaps he had not finished all of
last night’s work after all. Perhaps he should not have been so eager
to get to bed. Perhaps he should have gone right up to Mr. Davidson’s
house and given the bonds to him, and then gone home and to bed. He
was not thinking of the reward as these thoughts teemed through his
mind. He was thinking rather of responsibilities that had been his and
that he had not seen through to the end as he should have done.
“I’m a poor dub――I am,” he muttered as he jumped out of bed and began
to crawl into his clothes. “Of course, everything is probably all right
about the bloomin’ old securities, but just the same it was my job to
see that they got back into the proper hands instead of leaving them
to some one else to take care of while I drifted off home and went
blissfully to bed. I am a fool. One hundred thousand dollars and I
treat it as if it were a lead half dollar. Oh, my, what a dub. Now what
shall I do?”
Jeff sat down on the edge of the bed and thought the situation over.
Obviously the only thing for him to do was to call up the bank and find
out whether the securities did get back to them. His telephone was at
the head of his bed. He picked it up and called the bank number. The
girl at the switchboard of the bank wanted to know who was calling
Mr. Davidson, but when Jeff said “Thatcher of the _Freeman_,” she
exclaimed, “Oh, all right. Hold the line. He wants to speak to you.”
“Wants to speak to me,” said Jeff to himself as he held the wire. “I’ll
bet he does. Probably wants to know where I’ve been with those fool
bonds and what I did with ’em. Oh, my gosh. Why didn’t I take them up
to his house instead of leaving some one else to take care of them,”
and Jeff experienced a sickly sensation in the vicinity of his stomach
as he stood there nervously waiting for the bank president to come onto
the telephone.
“Hello,” boomed a voice at the other end.
Jeff jumped, moistened his lips and tried to speak. The words came with
an effort.
“Mr.――Mmmm――er――Davidson, this is Thatcher, _Freeman_――you know.
Say, did――did――are the――have you got those bonds? I left them in
the――huh――what――you have? Oh, great. Gosh, I’ve spent a terrible ten
minutes. I just woke up to the fact that I had not done my whole job
last night, but I was so doggone tired that I guess my brain wasn’t
working full time. You see, Hammond gave me the bonds before he
died,――had me cut the lining out of his coat and take out the ten
bonds all in a neat little package. Say, I never knew before that one
hundred thousand dollars could be in so small a bundle. Well, I slipped
them into my inside pocket, and I am afraid I was so busy after that
that I didn’t pay as much attention to them as I should have, but on
my way back on the wrecking train (poor Hammond was dead by that time
I guess. A doctor from Granville took him to the Fieldborough Hospital
about four o’clock this morning but he said he wouldn’t live an hour) I
thought of the bonds again. I realized that it was a heap of money for
me to be carrying around in my inside coat pocket, so I spoke to Kelly,
the chief dispatcher, about them when I got into the terminal, and he
took me over to the treasurer’s office and introduced me to the chief
clerk who was reporting for work. He said he would put them in the safe
and notify you, and I thought that would be all right because I was so
dog tired I was afraid I might fall asleep in the trolley and have my
pockets picked. If I’d have been a little brighter I would have thought
of taking a taxi up to your house and giving them to you. But I guess
my nut was a little fogged for sleep.”
“Fine. That’s all right, my boy. You did a good job. I think you acted
wisely. The Treasurer of the railroad, Mr. Anson, called me up himself
about nine o’clock this morning and we got the bonds all right. Of
course, you know there is a reward waiting for you down here amounting
to $2,000. Come down and get it.”
“Oh, about that,” said Jeff, suddenly becoming embarrassed again, “I
didn’t call up for that. I――er――you see, I don’t think I can take that.
I just happened to be the fellow small enough to get through the hole,
that was all. And if I hadn’t been along one of the railroad men would
have got him out and earned the money, so I think it really should be
divided among Tim Crowley’s men.”
“Tut, tut, my boy. No such thing. You earned it. Anyhow, come down and
see me just as soon as you can. Come down now, I want to talk with you.
About Pennington, you know. I’m very much interested in the school.
It’s my old school, and I had a talk with Dr. Livingston over the
telephone this morning. So come down as soon as you can.”
“Gee, I’ll come down for that. You bet I will. I’ll get my lunch and
be down in half an hour. Good-by.”
Jeff was out of breath with nervousness and excitement as he hung up
the receiver.
“Jiminy, I guess I was long winded with him over the telephone, and
he’s a bank president, too. But I had to tell him all about it. And
he wants to talk to me about Pennington. Jingoes――wonder what’s in
the wind. Maybe Dr. Livingston has decided to give me another chance.
Whoops! I’ll get some lunch and go right down to the Third National.”
And grabbing hat and overcoat he hurried downstairs to greet his aunt,
a tiny thin little woman whose face seemed always troubled to Jeff, but
whose disposition was always sunshine in spite of the fact that she and
her husband, Jeff’s Uncle Frank, had to struggle constantly to make
ends meet. She had kept his lunch warm in the oven and when Jeff told
her all the news that had developed and she saw quite readily that he
was in a hurry, she made haste to put the food on the table for him.
And Jeff fell to with a will, for this was lunch and breakfast combined
for him.