INTRODUCES MR. SHARPLEIGH, THE DETECTIVE.
Chester was not so much disturbed by his discharge, so far as it
related to his own welfare, as by the thought that Mr. Fairchild’s
interests were threatened. He felt that his absent employer ought to be
notified at once.
Accordingly he went to the Fifth Avenue Hotel and telegraphed to
Chicago:
“I am discharged. Felix Gordon is in my place. Will write.”
A few hours later Chester received the following message at his
lodgings.
“Your telegram received. Will write you instructions. FAIRCHILD.”
Two days later Chester received a letter requesting him to call at once
on a well-known detective, give him all the available information and
request him to keep careful watch of Mr. Mullins and his operations,
and interfere if any steps were taken prejudicial to Mr. Fairchild’s
interests.
Chester called on the detective and was fortunate enough to find him
in. He expected to see a large man of impressive manners and imposing
presence, and was rather disappointed when he found a small personage
under the average height, exceedingly plain and unpretentious, who
might easily have been taken for an humble clerk on a salary of ten or
twelve dollars a week.
Mr. Sharpleigh listened attentively to Chester’s communication, and
then proceeded to ask questions.
“Do you know anything of Mr. Mullins outside of the office?” he asked.
“A little, sir.”
“Has he any bad habits? Is he extravagant? Does he drink?”
“I have never seen any evidence that he drank,” answered Chester.
“Perhaps he may drink a glass of wine or beer occasionally.”
“I don’t mean that. He is not what may be called an intemperate man?”
“No, sir.”
“Any other objectionable habits?”
“I think he gambles.”
“Ha! this is important. What makes you think so?”
“He seems to be intimate with a man who, I am told, is a well-known
gambler.”
“Who is it?”
“Dick Ralston.”
“Ralston is as well known as any gambler in the city. How is it that
this has not excited the suspicions of Mr. Fairchild?”
“I don’t think Mr. Fairchild knows it.”
“Then Ralston doesn’t come into the office?”
“He did not when Mr. Fairchild was in town. As soon as Mr. Fairchild
left he came at once, and now spends considerable time there.”
“Probably Mullins owes him money lost in gambling.”
“I think he does. I overheard him one day urging Mr. Mullins to give
him money.”
“That makes it probable. Do you know if they keep company outside?”
“I have seen them walking late in the evening.”
“Why do you think Mr. Mullins discharged you?”
“He wanted the place for a cousin of his.”
“What name?”
“Felix Gordon.”
“Is he there now?”
“Yes; Felix was taken on when I was discharged.”
“At once?”
“Yes. He was in the office, probably waiting for the vacancy.”
“The plan seems to have been cut and dried. What sort of a boy is
Felix?”
“I don’t know him very well. He seems on confidential terms with Mr.
Mullins.”
“Did the bookkeeper have any other reasons for disliking you?”
“Yes; I interfered to prevent his cheating a mechanic out of his
month’s rent.”
“State the circumstances.”
Chester did so.
“How long has Mr. Mullins been in Mr. Fairchild’s employ?”
“About five years, I think I have heard.”
“That speaks well for him. Probably his acquaintance with Ralston is
recent, or he would have done something before this to insure his
discharge.”
There was a short silence, and Chester asked: “Have you any more
questions, Mr. Sharpleigh?”
“Not at present. Will you give me your address?”
Chester did so.
“I will send for you if I need you. I think you can help me materially.
You seem to have a clear head, and are observing.”
It was the evening for Chester to call at Prof. Hazlitt’s.
“I passed your office this morning, Chester,” said Arthur Burks, “and
thought of calling in, but I was in haste.”
“You wouldn’t have found me, Arthur. I am discharged.”
“What!” exclaimed Arthur, in surprise. “What complaint does Mr.
Fairchild make of you?”
“None at all. He is out of the city. The bookkeeper, who dislikes me,
discharged me, and gave the place to his cousin.”
“I am awfully sorry. What will you do?”
“I have some money saved up. Besides, I shall devote more time to
drawing. I made a sketch yesterday which Mr. Conrad thinks I will get
ten dollars for.”
“That is fine. I never earned ten dollars in my life.”
“You have never felt obliged to work, except in school.”
“I take care not to injure my health in studying,” said Arthur, with a
laugh.
“I will speak to uncle Edgar, and he will arrange to have you come four
times a week instead of two. Then you will earn more money from him.”
“Thank you, Arthur. I should like that.”
Prof. Hazlitt, on being spoken to, ratified this arrangement, so that
Chester’s mind was easy. He knew now that he would be able to support
himself and more, too.
Chester soon had something more to encourage him. He received at his
lodgings the following letter:
“MR. CHESTER RAND.
“DEAR SIR: We are about to establish a new comic weekly, which we
shall call _The Phoenix_. It is backed by sufficient capital to
insure its success. Our attention has been called to some
illustrations which you have furnished to some of our successful
contemporaries, and we shall be glad to secure your services. We
may be able to throw considerable work in your way. Please call at
our office as soon as possible.
“EDITORS OF THE PHOENIX.”
Chester was quite exhilarated by this letter. He felt that it was a
proof of his growing popularity as an artist, and this was particularly
gratifying. Besides, his income would be largely, at any rate
considerably, increased. He lost no time in presenting himself at the
office of _The Phoenix_.
It was located in a large office building on Nassau Street. He took the
elevator and went upstairs to the sixth floor. On the door of a room a
little way from the elevator he saw the name, and knocked.
“Come in!” was the response.
Chester opened the door and found himself in the presence of a man of
about forty, with a profusion of brown hair shading a pleasant
countenance. He looked up inquiringly as Chester entered.
“Is this the editor of _The Phoenix_?” inquired Chester, respectfully.
“_The Phoenix_ will have no existence till next week,” answered the
other, pleasantly. “I expect to be its editor.”
“I came in answer to your letter.”
“To my letter?” repeated the editor, puzzled.
“Yes; my name is Chester Rand.”
“What!” exclaimed the brown-haired man, almost incredulously. “You—a
boy? How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“And you are a contributor to _Puck_ and other papers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must be a smart boy. Shake hands.”
Chester shook hands with a smile.
“Will my being a boy make any difference?” he asked.
“Not if your work is satisfactory. Are you willing to work exclusively
for _The Phoenix_?”
“Yes, sir; that is, if I may be allowed to complete a contract I have
made.”
“What sort of a contract?”
“I am illustrating Prof. Hazlitt’s ethnological work. I think it may
take me some months more, working evenings.”
“That won’t interfere with us. I was afraid you might be under an
engagement with a rival publication.”
“No, sir. So far as that goes I will confine myself to _The Phoenix_
if——”
“Terms are satisfactory, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I will agree to pay you twenty-five dollars a week for the first
six months. I may be able to do better afterward.”
Chester was dazzled. Twenty-five dollars a week! What would Silas Tripp
say to that or his enemy, the bookkeeper.
“I accept,” he answered, promptly.