“Have you ever visited the suburbs of Boston?” asked Melville.
“No,” answered Herbert. “I know very little of the city, and nothing of
the towns near it.”
“Then, as we have time to spare, we will board the next horse car and
ride out to Roxbury.”
“I should like it very much, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, in a tone
of satisfaction. I may remark that Roxbury was at that time a separate
municipality, and had not been annexed to Boston.
They did not have to wait long for a car. An open car, of the kind in
common use during the pleasant season, drew near, and they secured seats
in it. After leaving Dover Street, Washington Street, still then narrow,
broadens into a wide avenue, and is called the Neck. It was gay with
vehicles of all sorts, and Herbert found much to attract his attention.
“The doctor tells me I ought to be a good deal in the open air,” said
Melville, “and I thought I would act at once upon his suggestion. It is
much pleasanter than taking medicine.”
“I should think so,” answered Herbert, emphatically.
Arrived at the end of the route, Melville and Herbert remained on the
car, and returned at once to the city. When they reached the crowded
part of Washington Street a surprise awaited Herbert.
From a small jewelry store they saw a man come out, and walk rapidly
away.
“Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, in excitement, “do you see that man?”
“Yes. What of him?”
“It is the man who tried to rob me on Bunker Hill Monument.”
He had hardly uttered these words when another man darted from the shop,
bareheaded, and pursued Herbert's morning acquaintance, crying, “Stop,
thief!”
The thief took to his heels, but a policeman was at hand, and seized him
by the collar.
“What has this man been doing?” he asked, as the jeweler's clerk came
up, panting.
“He has stolen a diamond ring from the counter,” answered the clerk. “I
think he has a watch besides.”
“It's a lie!” said the thief, boldly.
“Search him!” said the clerk, “and you'll find that I have made no
mistake.”
“Come with me to the station house, and prepare your complaint,” said
the policeman.
By this time a crowd had gathered, and the thief appealed to them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am a reputable citizen of St. Louis, come to
Boston to buy goods, and I protest against this outrage. It is either a
mistake or a conspiracy, I don't know which.”
The thief was well dressed, and some of the bystanders were disposed to
put confidence in him. He had not seen Herbert and George Melville, who
had left the car and joined the throng, or he might not have spoken so
confidently.
“He doesn't look like a thief,” said one of the bystanders, a
benevolent-looking old gentleman.
“I should say not,” said the thief, more boldly. “It's a pretty state
of things if a respectable merchant can't enter a store here in Boston
without being insulted and charged with theft. If I only had some of
my friends or acquaintances here, they would tell you that it is simply
ridiculous to make such a charge against me.”
“You can explain this at the station house,” said the policeman. “It is
my duty to take you there.”
“Is there no one who knows the gentleman?” said the philanthropist
before referred to. “Is there no one to speak up for him?”
Herbert pressed forward, and said, quietly:
“I know something of him; I passed the morning in his company.”
The thief turned quickly, but he didn't seem gratified to see Herbert.
“The boy is mistaken,” he said, hurriedly; “I never saw him before.”
“But I have seen you, sir,” retorted our hero. “You saw me draw some
money from a bank in State Street, scraped acquaintance with me, and
tried to rob me of it on Bunker Hill.”
“It's a lie!” said the prisoner, hoarsely.
“Do you wish to make a charge to that effect?” asked the policeman.
“No, sir; I only mentioned what I knew of him to support the charge of
this gentleman,” indicating the jeweler's clerk.
The old gentleman appeared to lose his interest in the prisoner after
Herbert's statement, and he was escorted without further delay to the
station house, where a gold watch and the diamond ring were both found
on his person. It is scarcely needful to add that he was tried and
sentenced to a term of imprisonment in the very city--Charlestown--where
he had attempted to rob Herbert.
“It is not always that retribution so quickly overtakes the wrongdoer,”
said Melville. “St. Louis will hardly be proud of the man who claims her
citizenship.”
“Dishonesty doesn't seem to pay in his case,” said Herbert,
thoughtfully.
“It never pays in any case, Herbert,” said George Melville,
emphatically. “Even if a man could steal enough to live upon, and were
sure not to be found out, he would not enjoy his ill-gotten gain, as an
honest man enjoys the money he works hard for. But when we add the risk
of detection and the severe penalty of imprisonment, it seems a fatal
mistake for any man to overstep the bounds of honesty and enroll himself
as a criminal.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, thoughtfully. “I don't
think I shall ever be tempted, but if I am, I will think of this man and
his quick detection.”
When they reached the depot, a little before four o'clock, George
Melville sent Herbert to the ticket office to purchase tickets, while he
remained in the waiting room.
“I might as well accustom you to the duties that are likely to devolve
upon you,” he said, with a smile.
Herbert had purchased the tickets and was turning away, when to his
surprise he saw Ebenezer Graham enter the depot, laboring evidently
under considerable excitement. He did not see Herbert, so occupied
was he with thoughts of an unpleasant nature, till the boy greeted him
respectfully.
“Herbert Carr!” he said; “when did you come into Boston?”
“This morning, sir.”
“Have you seen anything of my son, Eben, here?” gasped Mr. Graham.
“Yes, sir; he was on the same train, but I did not see him to speak to
him till after I reached the city.”
“Do you know what he has been doing here?” asked Ebenezer, his face
haggard with anxiety.
“I only saw him for five minutes,” answered Herbert, reluctant to tell
the father what he knew would confirm any suspicion he might entertain.
“Where did you see him?” demanded Ebenezer, quickly.
“At a railroad ticket office not far from the Old South Church.”
“Do you know if he bought any ticket?” asked Ebenezer, anxiously.
“Yes,” answered Herbert. “I overheard him purchasing a ticket to
Chicago.”
Ebenezer groaned, and his face seemed more and more wizened and puckered
up.
“It is as I thought!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “My own son has robbed me
and fled like a thief, as he is.”
Herbert was shocked, but not surprised. He didn't like to ask
particulars, but Ebenezer volunteered them.
“This morning,” he said, “I foolishly gave Eben a hundred dollars, and
sent him to Boston to pay for a bill of goods which I recently bought of
a wholesale house on Milk Street. If I had only known you were going in,
I would have sent it by you.”
Herbert felt gratified at this manifestation of confidence, especially
as he had so recently been charged with robbing the post office, but did
not interrupt Mr. Graham, who continued:
“As soon as Eben was fairly gone, I began to feel sorry I sent him, for
he got into extravagant ways when he was in Boston before, and he had
been teasing me to give him money enough to go out West with. About
noon I discovered that he had taken fifty dollars more than the amount
I intrusted to him, and then I couldn't rest till I was on my way to
Boston to find out the worst. I went to the house on Milk Street and
found they had seen nothing of Eben. Then I knew what had happened. The
graceless boy has robbed his father of a hundred and fifty dollars, and
is probably on his way West by this time.”
“He was to start by the three o'clock train, I think,” said Herbert, and
gave his reasons for thinking so.
Ebenezer seemed so utterly cast down by this confirmation of his worst
suspicions, that Herbert called Mr. Melville, thinking he might be able
to say something to comfort him.