ABOUT SOME MINING SHARES.
“How do you do, Mr. Ball?” said our hero, coolly.
“Eh, what's that?” questioned Malone, in amazement. Then he recognized
Joe, and his face fell.
“I have often wondered what became of you,” went on our hero. “Let me
help you up.”
“I--that is--who are you, boy?” demanded Malone, getting to his feet and
picking up his hat and his bundle.
“You ought to remember me. I am Joe Bodley. I used to work for Mr.
Mallison, at Riverside.”
“Don't know the man or the place,” said Pat Malone, coolly. “You have
made a mistake.”
“Then perhaps I had better call you Malone.”
“Not at all. My name is Fry--John Fry.”
“How often do you change your name, Mr. Fry.”
“Don't get impudent!”
“I am not impudent,--I am only asking a plain question.”
“I never change my name.”
At that moment Joe saw a policeman on the opposite side of the street
and beckoned for the officer to come over.
“Hi! what's the meaning of this!” ejaculated Pat Malone.
“Officer, I want this man locked up,” said Joe, and caught the rascal by
the arm, that he might not run away.
“What's the charge?” asked the bluecoat.
“He is wanted for swindling.”
“Boy, are you really crazy?”
“No, I am not.”
“Who are you?” asked the policeman, eyeing Joe sharply.
“My name is Joe Bodley. I work at the Grandon House. I will make a
charge against this man, and I'll bring the man who was swindled, too.”
“That's fair talk,” said the policeman. “I guess you'll both have to go
to the station with me.”
“I'm willing,” said Joe, promptly.
“I--I cannot go--I have a sick wife--I must get a doctor,” stammered Pat
Malone. “Let me go. The boy is mistaken.”
“You'll have to go with me.”
“But my sick wife?”
“You can send for your friends and they can take care of her.”
“I have no friends--we are strangers in Philadelphia. I don't want to
go.”
Pat Malone tried to move on, but the policeman and Joe detained him, and
in the end he was marched off to the police station. Here Joe told what
he knew and Malone's record was looked up in the Rogues' Gallery.
“You've got the right man, that's sure,” said the desk sergeant to our
hero. “Now where can you find this Mr. Maurice Vane?”
“I have his address at the hotel,” answered our hero. “If I can go I'll
get it and send Mr. Vane a telegram.”
“Bring the address here and we'll communicate with Mr. Vane.”
Our hero agreed, and inside of half an hour a message was sent to
Maurice Vane, notifying him of the fact that Pat Malone had been caught.
Mr. Vane had gone to New York on business, but came back to Philadelphia
the next day.
When he saw that he was caught Pat Malone broke down utterly and made a
full confession, telling in detail how the plot against Maurice Vane had
been carried out.
“It was not my plan,” said he. “Gaff Caven got the mining shares and he
arranged the whole thing.”
“Where did you get the shares--steal them?” demanded Maurice Vane,
sharply.
“No, we didn't steal them. We bought them from an old miner for fifty
dollars. The miner is dead now.”
“Can you prove this?”
“Yes.”
“Then do so.”
“Why?”
“I don't care to answer that question. But if you can prove to me that
you and Caven came by those shares honestly I won't prosecute you,
Malone.”
“I will prove it!” was the quick answer, and that very afternoon Pat
Malone proved beyond a doubt that the shares had belonged to himself and
Gaff Caven when they sold them to Maurice Vane.
“That is all I want of you,” said Maurice Vane. “I shan't appear against
you, Malone.”
“Then those shares must be valuable after all?” queried the swindler.
“Perhaps they are. I am having them looked up. I am glad of this
opportunity of proving that they are now my absolute property.”
“If Caven and I sold you good stocks we ought to be kicked full of
holes,” grumbled Malone.
“That was your lookout, not mine,” returned Maurice Vane. “Mind, I
don't say the shares are valuable. But they may be, and if so I shall be
satisfied with my bargain.”
“Humph! where do I come in?”
“You don't come in at all--and you don't deserve to.”
“If I didn't swindle you, you can't have me held for swindling.”
“I don't intend to have you held. You can go for all I care.”
Maurice Vane explained the situation to the police authorities and that
evening Pat Malone was allowed to go. He threatened to have somebody
sued for false imprisonment but the police laughed at him.
“Better not try it on, Malone,” said one officer. “Remember, your
picture is in our Rogues' Gallery,” and then the rascal was glad enough
to sneak away. The next day he took a train to Baltimore, where, after
an hour's hunt, he found Gaff Caven.
“We made a fine mess of things,” he said, bitterly. “A fine mess!”
“What are you talking about, Pat?” asked Caven.
“Do you remember the mining stocks we sold to Maurice Vane?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Well, he has got 'em yet.”
“All right, he can keep them. We have his money too,” and Gaff Caven
chuckled.
“I'd rather have the shares.”
“Eh?”
“I said I'd rather have the shares, Gaff. We put our foot into it when
we sold 'em.”
“Do you mean to say the shares are valuable?” demanded Gaff Caven.
“That's the size of it.”
“Who told you this?”
“Nobody told me, but I can put two and two together as quick as
anybody.”
“Well, explain.”
“I was in Philadelphia when I ran into that hotel boy, Joe Bodley.”
“What of that?”
“He had me arrested. Then they sent for Mr. Maurice Vane, and Vane made
me prove that the shares were really ours when we sold them to him. I
thought I'd go clear if I could prove that, so I went and did it. Then
Vane said he wouldn't prosecute me, for the shares might be valuable
after all.”
“But the mine is abandoned.”
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn't. I guess Mr. Maurice Vane knows what he
is doing, and we were fools to sell out to him.”
“If that mine is valuable I'm going to have it!” cried Gaff Caven. “He
can have his money back!” and the rascal who had overreached himself
began to pace the floor.
“Maybe he won't take his money back.”
“Then I'll claim the mine anyway, Pat--and you must help me.”
“What can you do?”
“Go out to Montana, just as soon as the weather is fit, and relocate
the mine. If it's any good we can find some fellows to help us hold
it somehow. I'm not going to let this slip into Maurice Vane's hands
without a struggle.”
“Talk is cheap, but it takes money to pay for railroad tickets,” went on
Malone.
“I've got the dust, Pat.”
“Enough to fight Vane off if he should come West?”
“I think so. I met a rich fellow last week and I got a loan of four
thousand dollars.”
“Without security?” and Malone winked suggestively.
“Exactly. Oh, he was a rich find,” answered Gaff Caven, and gave a short
laugh.
“I'm willing to go anywhere. I'm tired of things here. It's getting too
warm for comfort.”
“Then let us start West next week--after I can finish up a little
business here.”
“I am willing.”
And so the two rascals arranged to do Maurice Vane out of what had
become his lawful property.