TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
[Illustration: “Glad to see you, Gerald,” said Jack Amsden as the boy
descended from the stage.—Page 289.]
A DEBT OF HONOR.
THE STORY OF
GERALD LANE’S SUCCESS IN THE FAR WEST.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
_Author of “Joe’s Luck,” “Tom the Bootblack,” “Dan the
Newsboy,” “The Errand Boy,” etc., etc._
With Five Page Illustrations by J. Watson Davis.
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
52-58 DUANE STREET, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1900, by A. L. BURT
A DEBT OF HONOR.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Cabin in the Foothills 1
II. A Debt of Honor 15
III. Bradley Wentworth 22
IV. Comparing Notes 27
V. A Compact 34
VI. A Startling Discovery 42
VII. Tracking the Thief 50
VIII. Foiling a Thief 58
IX. Alone in the World 66
X. An Unexpected Visitor 75
XI. Jake Amsden Makes an Early Call, and Has
a Warm Reception 84
XII. An International Combat 93
XIII. A Victim of Injustice 101
XIV. Jake Amsden Turns Over a New Leaf 109
XV. Bradley Wentworth’s Morning Mail 116
XVI. A Letter from Jake Amsden 124
XVII. The Backwoods Hotel 132
XVIII. The Peters Family 140
XIX. Science Versus Strength 148
XX. Hitting the Bull’s-Eye 156
XXI. On the Steamer Rock Island 165
XXII. Bradley Wentworth Tries to Make Mischief 173
XXIII. Mr. Standish Receives a Commission 182
XXIV. A False Alarm 191
XXV. Gerald has an Unpleasant Adventure 199
XXVI. Tip and his Tricks 207
XXVII. Mr. Standish States his Business 212
XXVIII. Mr. Standish Gains a Barren Victory 216
XXIX. Gerald is Released 224
XXX. Tidings of the Fugitive 233
XXXI. The Young Runaways 238
XXXII. Arthur Grigson’s Treachery 242
XXXIII. Interviewing a Burglar 250
XXXIV. A Strange Meeting 258
XXXV. Thomas Hastings 267
XXXVI. Old Acquaintances 275
XXXVII. A Letter from Gulchville 283
XXXVIII. Gerald Sells his Patrimony 288
XXXIX. Conclusion 293
A DEBT OF HONOR.
CHAPTER I.
THE CABIN IN THE FOOTHILLS.
OUR story opens in a cabin among the foothills of Colorado. It was
built of logs, and was not over twelve feet in height. In the center
was a door, with a small window on each side. Through the roof rose a
section of funnel, from which issued a slender cloud of smoke.
Let us enter.
The interior of the cabin is a surprise—being comfortably furnished,
while a carpet covers the floor. On one side is a bureau, a few
portraits are on the walls, a pine bedstead and an easy-chair, in
which is reclining a man of middle age whose wasted form and hollow
cheeks attest the ravages of consumption. From time to time he looked
wistfully toward the door, saying in a low voice: “Where is Gerald? He
is gone a long time.”
Five minutes later the sound of hoofs was heard outside, and a boy of
sixteen galloped up from the canyon on the left, and, jumping off at
the portal, tethered his pony and pushed open the door of the cabin. He
was a marked contrast to the sick man, for he was strongly made, with
the hue of health in his ruddy cheeks, and a self-reliant, manly look
upon his attractive face.
“How do you feel, father?” he asked gently.
The sick man shook his head.
“I shall never be any better, Gerald,” he answered slowly.
“Don’t look on the dark side,” said Gerald.
“See, I have brought you some medicine.”
He took from the side pocket of his sack coat a bottle, which he placed
on the table.
“There, father, that will do you good,” he said in a cheerful tone.
“It may relieve me a little, Gerald, but I am past permanent help.”
“Don’t say that, father!” said the boy, much moved. “You will live a
long time.”
“No; I shall deceive myself with no such expectation. Don’t think I
fear death. It has only one bitterness for me.”
The boy looked at his father inquiringly, anxiety wrinkling his brow.
“It is,” resumed the sick man, “that I shall leave you unprovided for.
You will have to fight the battle of life alone.”
“I am young and strong.”
“Yes, but I would like to have left you in better condition. It is
possible I may do so. I wrote some time since to a man who is rich and
prosperous, and is under great obligations to me, telling him about you
and asking him, as I had a right to ask him, to befriend you.”
Gerald looked surprised.
“Why has he never helped you?” he asked.
“Because—well, I have not perhaps urged the matter sufficiently,” he
said.
“You say you did this man a service,” said Gerald.
“Yes. I think the time has come when I should tell you what that
service is. Let me say in the outset that I saved his reputation at the
expense of my own. It was, I am afraid, a mistake, for it ruined my
life. But I was strongly tempted!”
He paused. Gerald listened with painful interest.
“You never told me much of your early life, father,” he said.
“You have wondered, no doubt, why I left civilization and buried
myself-and you-in this out-of-the-way place?”
“Yes, father, I have wondered, but I did not like to ask you.”
“It is the fault of one man.”
“The man whom you expect to befriend me, father?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I should like to be indebted to such a man,” said
Gerald, and a stern expression settled on his young face. “I should not
wish to accept any favors at his hands.”
“Nor would you. It would not be a favor, but the payment of a sacred
debt. It would be reparation for a great wrong.”
“But, father, the reparation ought to have been made to you, not to me.”
“You are right, Gerald, but it is too late now.”
“Why did you not take steps before to have this wrong righted?”
“Because the world has misjudged me, and might misjudge me yet. This
man should have needed no prompting. He should have saved me all
trouble, and when he saw my life ruined, and my health shattered, he
ought to have done what he could to pay me for the great service I did
for him. I am afraid I was weak to yield to the temptation to help him
in the first place.”
“Don’t say that, father,” put in Gerald.
“Yes, I will not try to disguise the truth from you,” went on the old
man. “I was too pliant in this man’s hands. To be sure I committed
no crime, but then I allowed a false impression about myself to get
abroad, and I sometimes think that—that all that has happened since
has been my punishment.”
“No, no, that cannot be true, father,” broke in the son. “I am sure all
the fault was on the other side. But have you never seen the man since?”
“No, Gerald.”
There was silence in the little cabin for a brief while then. The boy
was desirous to hear more, but the father seemed absorbed in meditation.
“Father,” finally said Gerald.
“Yes, my son,” rejoined the sick man, turning his gaze back to the boy
by his side.
“Do you think the person of whom you speak is likely to befriend me?”
“I do not know. He has behaved so ungenerously about the whole matter.
That is what makes me anxious.”
“Will you tell me the name of this man, father?”
“His name is Bradley Wentworth, and he lives in the town of Seneca,
Illinois, where he has large investments, and is a prominent man.”
“Do you mind telling me how he injured you, father?”
“That is my wish and my duty while I yet live. Fifteen years ago, when
we were both young men, we were in the employ of Dudley Wentworth, the
uncle of Bradley. We were both in the office, he occupying the more
lucrative position. I was married and had a modest, but comfortable,
home in Seneca, in the State of Illinois. He too had been three years
married, and had a son two years old.”
“Were you friends?”
“Not intimate friends, but we were on friendly terms. He had
extravagant habits and spent more money than I—a family man—could
afford to do. I had bought a house and lot, for which I agreed to pay
the sum of two thousand dollars. I was paying this by slow degrees, but
my salary was small, when the great temptation of my life came.”
The sick man paused in exhaustion, but soon proceeded.
“One evening Bradley Wentworth came to my house in a strange state of
excitement, and called me to the door, I asked him in, but he declined.
‘I want you to take a walk with me, Lane,’ he said. I demurred, for it
was a cold, damp evening, and suggested that it would be better to sit
down by the fire, inside.
“‘No, no,’ he said impatiently, ‘what I have to say is most important,
and it must be kept a profound secret.’
“Upon this I agreed to his proposal. I took my hat, told your mother
that I would soon return, and went out with Wentworth. We had proceeded
but a few rods when he said, ‘Lane, I’m in a terrible scrape.’
“‘What is it?’ I asked.
“‘Last week I forged a check on my uncle for five hundred dollars. It
was paid at the bank. To-morrow the bank will send in their monthly
statement, and among the checks will be the one I forged—’
“‘Good heavens! what induced you to do it?’ I asked.
“‘I was in a tight place, and I yielded to sudden temptation,’ he
answered bitterly.
“‘I advise you to go to your uncle early to-morrow and make a clean
breast of it.’
“‘It would not do,’ he replied, ‘the old man has the strictest ideas of
honor, and he would never forgive me.’
“‘It’s a bad position to be in,’ I said gravely.
“‘The worst possible. You know that I am generally recognized as my
uncle’s heir, and he is worth three hundred thousand dollars. You see
that if my uncle finds out what has happened I am a ruined man, for he
will dismiss me from his employment with a tarnished name.’
“‘Indeed I feel for you, Bradley,’ I said.
“‘You must do more,’ he replied; ‘you must save me.’
“‘But how can I do that?’
“‘By taking my crime upon yourself. You must acknowledge that you
forged the check.’
“‘What do you mean?’ I demanded sharply. ‘You want me to ruin my own
prospects?’
“‘It isn’t the same thing to you. You won’t lose your inheritance, but
only your place.’
“‘Only my place! How then can I live? Why should I dishonor my own name
and lose my reputation for you?’
“‘Because I will make it worth your while. Listen.’
“Then he proceeded to make me an offer. If I would consent to take
his guilt upon myself, he agreed to pay over to my wife five hundred
dollars annually out of his salary of fifteen hundred dollars, and
when he inherited his uncle’s estate, he furthermore agreed to pay
over to me twenty thousand dollars. It was this finally won me over
to his plan. To a poor man, struggling along on a small salary, and
with no hope of getting rich, twenty thousand dollars was a dazzling
temptation. It would make me comfortable for life. Besides, as he
urged, I should not have to wait for it long, for his uncle was already
seventy-one years old. Still, the service that I was called upon to
perform was so distasteful that I held out a long time. At last he sank
on his knees, and implored me in the name of friendship to consent.
After much hesitation, I agreed to do so upon one condition.
“‘Name it!’ he said, in feverish excitement.
“‘That you will sign a paper admitting that you forged the check, and
that I have agreed, though innocent, to bear the blame, in order to
screen you from your uncle’s anger.’
“Wentworth hesitated, but, seeing that I was firm, he led me to his own
room and drew up the paper.
“‘Of course,’ he said, ‘this paper is not to be used.’
“‘Not unless you fail to carry out your agreement.’
“‘Of course,’ he said in an airy manner.
“We then talked over the details of the scheme. It was decided that I
should leave town the next morning, and start for Canada. I began to
realize what I had done, and wished to beg off, but he implored me not
to desert him, and I weakly yielded. Then came the hardest trial of
all. You were an infant, and I must part from you and your mother for a
time at least. I must leave the village under a cloud, and this seemed
hard, for I had done no wrong. But I thought of the fortune that was
promised me, and tried to be satisfied.
“I did not dare to tell your mother of the compact I had made. I simply
told her that I was going away on business for a few days, and did not
care to have my destination known. I told her that I would shortly
write her my reasons. She was not satisfied, but accepted my assurance
that it was necessary, and helped me pack. Early the next morning I
took a north bound train, and reached Montreal without hindrance.
“I waited anxiously, and in a few days received the following letter:
“‘MY DEAR LANE:
“‘The murder’s out! The forged check has fallen into my uncle’s hands,
and he was in a great rage, you may be sure. Of course suspicion at
once fell upon you on account of your hasty flight. My uncle was at
first resolved upon having you arrested, but I succeeded in calming
him down. “The man must have been mad,” he said. “He has ruined
himself.” I pleaded for mercy, and he has authorized me to say that
he will not prosecute you, but he expects you some day to make good
the loss. This is out of consideration for your wife and child. You
are therefore at liberty to come back to the United States and obtain
employment. He will not interfere with you. Of course I will see that
the note is paid by installments and let him think that the money
comes from you.
“‘My dear friend, you have done me an inestimable service. He
would not have been as lenient with me. At any rate, he would have
disinherited me. Now I am high in favor, and mean to retain the favor.
I shall not be insane enough again to risk the loss of a fortune
by weakly yielding to temptation. I have had a close shave, and am
sensible of it. I am sorry that your sacrifice was necessary, but
some day, probably not many years distant, you will be richly paid.
Meanwhile I have prevailed upon my uncle to hush up the matter and not
let it leak out.
“‘I advise you to go to Chicago or some other Western city and obtain
employment. Then you can send for your family and wait patiently till
the tide turns and you become a moderately rich man.
“‘BRADLEY WENTWORTH.’”
“This letter comforted me. I went to Chicago and succeeded in securing
a position yielding me the same income as the one I had given up.
I sent for my wife, but did not venture to explain to her fully my
reasons for leaving Seneca. I feared that she would say something that
might injure Bradley Wentworth, so loyal was she to me.”
“Did Mr. Wentworth send you the five hundred dollars he promised you
annually?” asked Gerald.
“Yes; he would not have dared to omit doing so, for I had his written
confession, and this, if made known to his uncle, would have lost him
the estate. He wrote me, however, in a complaining tone, asking me to
let him reduce the sum to three hundred dollars, but this I positively
refused to do. I felt that my sacrifice was worth at least all that I
had stipulated to receive.
“Five years passed, and old Mr. Wentworth died at the age of
seventy-six. As was expected, the whole of his large estate-three
hundred and twenty thousand dollars-was left to his nephew.
“I waited anxiously for Bradley to redeem his promise. Three or four
weeks passed, and I heard nothing. I sat down, therefore, and wrote to
him, demanding that he should carry out his agreement.
“Here is the letter I received in reply.”
The sick man drew from his pocket a much worn document and handed it to
Gerald, who read it with indignation.
“MR. WARREN LANE.
“DEAR SIR:
“I have received from you a letter, asking me to send you twenty
thousand dollars, alleging that some years since I promised to give
you that sum upon the death of my uncle. What I may have promised
while in a state of great excitement I do not remember. I certainly
don’t consider myself responsible for any rash and inconsiderate
words, and I am surprised that an honorable man should seek to hold
me to them. I am quite sure that my deceased uncle would not approve
any such gift to a stranger. I consider myself a steward of the large
fortune I have inherited, and should not feel justified in sending you
such a considerable portion of it. I think upon reflection you will
see the justice of my position.
“I believe you claim to have some papers that you think may injure me.
I don’t think you will find among them any written promise to give
you twenty thousand dollars. If, however, you will send or bring the
papers you have, I will, out of kindness to an old acquaintance, give
you a thousand dollars for them. That is all that I will consent to
do, and I strongly advise you to accept this generous offer. After all
you did not suffer from losing your place in my uncle’s office. I need
only refer you to the annual sum which I sent you regularly, pinching
myself to do it.
“Trusting you will see the matter in a reasonable light and accept the
very liberal offer which I have made you, though in nowise bound to do
so, I am,
“Yours sincerely,
“BRADLEY WENTWORTH.”