BOB MAKES A TRUE FRIEND
The cell in which Bob was confined was provided with a rough
sleeping-bench, but though the youth lay down he did not slumber, but
lay awake thinking over his troubles.
At last morning came, and at nine o’clock Bob was brought out into the
little court-room attached to the station. Here sat a stern-faced judge
who eyed him sharply, as the charge against him was made.
“What have you to say to this?” Bob was asked.
Bob, of course, put in a plea of not guilty. Then he was asked a number
of questions, and he related his whole story.
“You look as if you were telling the truth, but the facts in the case
don’t bear you out,” said the judge. “You had no right under any
circumstances to enter Mr. Olney’s house.”
At that moment a man brushed forward. It was Mr. Starleigh.
“May it please your honor, may I ask why this young man was brought
here?” he asked.
The judge happened to know the old photographer, and he related the
case.
“He is not guilty, you may be sure of that,” said Mr. Starleigh. “I am
positive he is perfectly honest.”
“You know him, then?”
“He works for me. He is the person who helped to capture Bidwell, the
thief.”
“Oh, then, that is a different matter. But still----”
While the judge was talking, Mr. Starleigh turned to Olney.
“John, you are making a sad mistake. This young man is not a
sneak-thief.”
“It looks mighty suspicious,” returned Olney. He was a dealer in
photographic supplies, and Starleigh was a good customer.
“I feel certain you are mistaken.”
“Did you say he works for you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll withdraw the charge,” Olney said, not wishing to displease a
valued customer. He turned to the judge. “Your honor, will you allow me
to withdraw the charge?”
“Well, under the circumstances, you may,” returned the judge. “The
young man having such a person as Mr. Starleigh to vouch for his
honesty, makes a difference. Robert Alden, you may go.”
Bob lost no time in stepping down. Olney stopped to talk to Mr.
Starleigh for several minutes. When he was gone, the youth grasped the
old photographer by the hand.
“Oh, how can I thank you!” he exclaimed, warmly.
“That’s all right,” returned Mr. Starleigh. “I haven’t forgotten what
you did for me, Bob.”
“It was fortunate you came here.”
“I was summoned to testify against a fellow who set the building on
fire,” returned the old photographer. “He had a grudge against one of
the tenants. But the case has been postponed for a couple of days, so I
am not needed.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“If you will, I wish you would go over to Martin’s studio. He will give
us facilities for printing from the plates we saved. This afternoon the
fire insurance agents are going to adjust my claim and then I will open
somewhere else just as soon as I can.”
“Before I leave I would like to know what the police did at Cabot’s,”
said Bob.
“We will ask Captain Downes. I know him quite well.”
The official mentioned was found close at hand. He said two rivermen
had gotten into a dispute in the saloon, and both had discharged their
pistols, but without damage. Two policemen had been summoned, and the
rivermen were now in jail.
Bob then told of Casco, Barker, and Grogan.
“I heard about that through the fellow who was drugged,” said Captain
Downes. “And two detectives are already on the way. But no doubt those
men have lost no time in getting away, and Cabot will deny they were
ever there. They are a set of shrewd and slippery criminals.”
“Can you tell me anything about this Blake?”
The captain shook his head.
“Never heard of him.”
“And Sarah Blake?”
“Never heard of her, either. They are probably newcomers to Stampton.”
The conversation continued for several minutes, and then Bob left to
make his way to Martin’s studio, while Mr. Starleigh hurried off to
rent new quarters in place of the ones burnt out.
Bob found Martin a very nice man. The youth worked hard, and by evening
he had printed and mounted an unusually large number of photographs.
“You have the knack of it, I see,” said Martin. “If you are ever out of
a job, come over and see me.”
“Thank you, perhaps I will,” replied Bob.
He had not forgotten the promise he had made to Grace Maverick, and,
after supper that evening, he brushed up and again visited the mansion
on Mountain avenue.
The girl met him at the door, and at once conducted him to the
library, where sat Mr. Gregory Maverick, the president of the T. W. &
L. Railroad.
Mr. Maverick was a short, round-faced man, with rather a pleasant cast
of countenance. He sat in an easy-chair, his slippered feet resting on
a cushion.
“Papa, this is Mr. Robert Alden,” said Grace, presenting the youth.
Mr. Maverick at once jumped up, and caught Bob by the hand.
“So you are the young man who rescued Grace, are you?” he said. “I am
very happy to meet you. I have been wanting to thank you for a long
time for that brave act.”
“Oh, it wasn’t much!” stammered Bob.
“I think it a good deal,” laughed the railroad president. “Sit down.
Grace tells me you are a stranger to Stampton.”
“Yes, sir. I came here looking for work.”
“And have you succeeded?”
“Yes, sir.”
And Bob started to tell how he had run across Mr. Starleigh through the
sneak-thief’s effort to get away.
“I’ve heard of that fellow,” said Mr. Maverick. “But go on with your
story. I am quite interested.”
“And so am I,” added Grace, who had taken a seat at her father’s feet.
Bob did as requested. Both Mr. Maverick and his daughter asked a great
number of questions, and before the youth was aware he had related his
entire history, and the clock had long since struck ten.
“Really I must be making you tired,” said the youth, as he glanced at
the time-piece.
“On the contrary, I have been deeply interested,” said the railroad
president. “I like to see a young man show pluck and determination.
That is the only way to succeed in life. So your ambition is to become
a first-class photographer?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t care so much for studio work, but I would like to
use the art on the road. I love travelling from place to place.”
Mr. Maverick stroked his chin reflectively. A sudden idea had flashed
through his mind.
“You like to do work outdoors, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long will it take you to learn that branch of the work?”
“Oh, I can take that sort of a picture now. Faces are the hardest
things to photograph.”
“I see.” Mr. Maverick mused for a moment. “Will you do me the favor to
call here to-morrow evening? I may have a proposition to make to you.”
“I will come, sir.”
Then the conversation became general, and a quarter of an hour later
Bob left, Grace Maverick seeing him to the door.
Bob could not help but wonder what proposition the railroad president
would have to make. Of course, it would be in return for the assistance
he had given Grace.
Perhaps Mr. Maverick would offer him a place on the road. Well, if it
paid, Bob would accept it, even though it was not in exact line with
his desires. He would do a good deal to be where he might occasionally
come in contact with Grace.
On the following morning Mr. Starleigh announced that he had purchased
the title and interest in a photographic establishment close to the one
which had been burned out. The plates which had been saved, as well as
the lenses, were at once transferred to the newly-acquired studio, and
by dinner-time they were once more ready for business.
The assistant who drank had been discharged, and when Mr. Starleigh
went off to purchase some supplies which would soon be needed, Bob was
left in sole charge of the studio.
The man who had owned the establishment before Mr. Starleigh had
purchased it had been a wild sort of a fellow, and had paid but scant
attention to business. Consequently trade was all run down, and as Mr.
Starleigh’s former patrons had not yet heard of the change, business
during the afternoon was exceedingly dull.
But Bob worked hard at printing and mounting photographs, and to him
the time passed quickly enough.
At length, about five o’clock, there came a series of loud knocks on
the glass door which led to the hall.
“Come in!” called out Bob, and in response there stalked in a very
tall, lean man, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.
The man stared vacantly around the studio, and then dropped into a
chair.
“You take photos here, I understand?” he said, in a deep bass voice.
“Yes, sir,” returned Bob, politely.
“Photos of all the Presidents, I understand?”
“Hardly,” laughed Bob. He thought the man was joking. “Sometimes we
take a bank president, or something like that.”
“Never took a President of the United States?” demanded the man,
sharply.
“I think not, sir.”
“I understood differently, understand, I understood differently,” cried
the man, raising his voice and jumping to his feet. “I am not to be
imposed upon, either,” he added.
“I am not imposing on you,” returned Bob, gently. He realized at once
that the man was not right in his mind. “We would willingly take a
President, if he would grant us a sitting.”
“Ah! so I thought. That’s the reason I came here. Do you know who I am?”
“I do not, sir.”
“I am the President of the Sandwich Islands--appointed by act of
Congress last month. Take off your hat.”
As Bob had no hat on, he could not comply with this demand. His failure
to do as bidden seemed to anger the man, who was nothing more or less
than crazy.
“Did you hear me, sir?”
“I did; but I haven’t any hat on.”
“Ah! that’s different. I am short-sighted--lost my sight in the Mexican
war--a shell passed in front of me--I dodged--and though I escaped, it
carried the best part of my eyesight with it.”
To this Bob made no reply. He was meditating on how best to get rid of
his unwelcome visitor.
Suddenly the man stole over to where he stood.
“Get the machine ready,” he cried.
“What for?”
“For my picture. I want you to take the largest ever taken, regardless
of expense.”
“I can’t do that, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I am only a helper here--the proprietor is out. You had better call
again.”
“Ha! I would, but I haven’t time, understand, I haven’t time. Every
moment of a President’s life is important. I have three ministers to
appoint before I go to sleep, and the people harass me to death with
their applications.”
“Well, I can’t take the picture.”
“Then I will take it myself.”
The man rushed toward the camera, and caught hold of the tube.
“Stop!” cried Bob, in alarm. “You may break something.”
Bob grasped the crazy man by the arm and tried to make him let go his
hold on the camera.
“You will only break it,” he went on. “Please come in to-morrow.”
“Now or never! I have promised all my friends a picture of my skeleton,
and I do not intend to disappoint them. Where are the plates? The
best in the house, mind, regardless of expense. The President has his
picture taken at the public expense, ha, ha! That’s a joke.”
Seeing he could do nothing with the crazy fellow, Bob moved toward the
door, intending to summon assistance and have him removed.
But now a knowing look came into the lunatic’s eyes. He left the
camera, and leaped toward the youth.
“No, I’m not going back, and you can’t make me. They all say I’m crazy,
but they are jealous, that’s all. But when the picture is taken it will
be all right. Stay here till I press the button, and don’t dare to
move, or I will have you banished to utter darkness forever.”
And, catching up a folded tripod, the crazy man stood guard, so that
Bob might not escape from the studio.