AFTER THE FIRE.
By the time the fire-engine reached the burning house, the flames were so
far advanced that there was no chance of saving it. For form’s sake, a
stream of water was thrown upon the flames from the well near by, but the
supply was soon exhausted, and produced no effect whatever. So the engine
was drawn back to the engine-house, the crowd dispersed, and in place of
the old house there was a heap of half-burnt rafters and cinders.
The next day the fire was the topic of conversation throughout the
village. Being in the store, Harry had an opportunity of hearing it
discussed by those who “dropped in” to make purchases.
“Was the house insured?” asked old Sam Tilden, filling the bowl of his
pipe with tobacco, preparatory to having a comfortable smoke.
“I reckon it was,” said another. “The squire’s a keerful man. He wouldn’t
be likely to neglect it.”
“Here’s the squire himself. You can ask him,” said John Gaylord, the
chief salesman, who was doing up half-a-dozen pounds of sugar for a
customer.
Harry, remembering what he had seen the night before, looked up with
mingled feelings as he saw the rather stiff and stately form of Squire
Turner enter the door.
The squire, though not a good-looking man, was always carefully dressed.
He regarded it as due to his position, and as no one else in the village
except the minister and doctor were scrupulous on this point, he inspired
a certain respect on this very account. So now, as he entered the store,
in a decorous suit of black, with a stiff standing-collar rising above
a glossy satin stock, swinging in his hand a gold-headed cane, those
present looked towards him with considerable deference.
“Well, squire,” said Sam Tilden, “you met with a misfortun’ last night.”
“Yes,” said the squire, deliberately; “there was a clean sweep of the
old house. There isn’t much left of it.”
“Have you any idea who sot it on fire?” queried the old man.
“No,” said the squire. “I came in to see if any one here could throw any
light upon it.”
There was one present who could have thrown some light upon it, and
if Squire Turner had chanced to look behind the counter he might have
noticed a peculiar expression in the eyes of Harry Raymond, who was
watching him fixedly. The fact is, Harry was very much perplexed in his
mind in regard to the occurrence. Why a gentleman should steal out of his
house in disguise at the dead of night to set fire to his own property
was a question which was invested with not a little mystery. But before
the conversation was finished he began to understand it better.
“It must have been sot afire,” continued Sam Tilden, positively. “There
wasn’t nobody livin’ in it.”
“No; it had been empty for several months.”
“You haint got no suspicions, I s’pose?”
“Why, no,” said the squire, slowly. “I suppose it must have been somebody
that had a grudge against me, and took this way to gratify it. But who it
may be I haven’t an idea.”
“I reckon it was insured?” said Sam, interrogatively.
“Yes,” said the squire, cautiously; “it was insured.”
“I said it must be,” said one, who had spoken at an earlier stage in the
conversation. “I knew squire, you was too keerful a man to neglect it.”
“It was insured when it came into my hands,” said Squire Turner; “and I
have merely kept up the payments.”
“What was the figure?”
“I really can’t be quite certain till I have looked at the policy,”
said the squire. “I’ve got all my houses insured, and I can’t, without
looking, tell exactly how much there is on each.”
“That’s the advantage of owning only one house,” said Doctor Lamson, as
he stepped in for a moment. “I’m not liable to make a mistake about my
insurance. In what company was your house insured, Squire Turner?”
“In the Phœnix Mutual, I believe. By the way, Mr. Porter, you may send up
a barrel of flour to my house. I believe we are nearly out.”
“All right, squire. It shall go up in the course of the day.”
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” said the squire, walking out of the store.
“I guess the squire won’t lose a cent,” said Sam Tilden, after he went
out. “It’s likely the insurance money will pay him handsome if the policy
was took out years ago. I shouldn’t wonder if he’s glad the old house is
gone. It was awfully out of repair.”
“Very likely you’re right,” said John Gaylord. “I’d rather have the money
than the house, for my part.”
For the first time a light came to Harry’s mind. He felt that he
understood the whole matter now. Squire Turner didn’t want the house,
which would require considerable outlay to make it habitable, and he did
want the money for which it was insured. As the shortest way to secure
this, he had himself set the house on fire. Now, no doubt, he meant to
come upon the company for the amount of insurance money. To Harry’s mind
this looked like a swindle, like obtaining money by false pretences. Yet
here was Squire Turner, the richest man in the village, occupying a very
prominent—indeed the most prominent—position in town, who was actually
going to carry out this fraud. Nobody except he knew that the squire was
himself the incendiary. What ought he to do about it? Should he allow the
insurance company to be swindled?
“Do you think Squire Turner will collect his insurance money, Mr.
Gaylord?” he asked, of the chief clerk.
“Do I think so? Of course he will. He’d be a fool if he didn’t.”
“But people seem to think that the house wasn’t worth as much as the sum
it was insured for.”
“Very likely not; but it was when it was insured, and as the payments
have been kept up regular, the insurance company can’t complain as I see.”
“Suppose the man that set the house on fire should be caught?”
“He’d be tried, and put in prison.”
This gave Harry something new to think of. The idea of Squire Turner’s
being put in prison was certainly a strange and startling one. Probably
it made a difference as long as he owned the house himself. Still, if he
claimed the insurance money, that again made a difference. Harry felt
puzzled again, and in thinking over the matter he made several ludicrous
mistakes, among others asking a boy who came in for some molasses how
many yards he would have, which led to a mirthful explosion from the
young customer, who looked upon it as a brilliant joke.
Not knowing what to do, Harry did nothing. Two days afterwards our hero
saw the following placard posted up on the outside of the store, on the
left-hand side of the door;—
“ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD!—For information that will lead to
the discovery of the incendiary or incendiaries who set fire to
the old Jackson farm-house, belonging to the subscriber, which
was consumed on the evening of the 11th inst.
“ELIHU TURNER.”
Harry read this placard with interest.
“I could claim that reward,” he said to himself; “but would Squire Turner
think my information worth paying for?”