HARRY MAKES A CALL ON BUSINESS.
A few days later Harry heard that Squire Turner had made a formal claim
upon the Phœnix Mutual Insurance Company for two thousand dollars, the
amount of his policy. On hearing this, he no longer hesitated as to his
duty. He resolved to call upon the squire, and acquaint him with his
information upon the subject. Accordingly, one afternoon, he went up to
Mr. Porter, and asked for two hours’ time.
“What for?” queried the store-keeper.
“I want to call on Squire Turner. I have a little business with him.”
The store-keeper naturally supposed that the business related to the
affairs of Harry’s mother, and gave permission, as business was generally
slack about that time in the afternoon, but requested Harry to be back by
half-past three.
When Harry got started on his way to the residence of the squire, he
began to feel that his errand was rather a delicate one. He, a mere boy,
was about to intimate to a gentleman of high social position that he was
a rascal,—that was the plain English of it,—and was conspiring to defraud
an insurance company out of a considerable sum of money. It was rather
a bold undertaking for a boy of fifteen. Perhaps Squire Turner might be
so incensed as to kick him out of the house. Harry was a stout boy, but
still of course he had not the strength to cope with a tall man like the
squire. Had he been a timid boy, he would have shrunk from the encounter.
But Harry was not timid. On the contrary, he was physically and morally
brave, as anybody who knew him would readily testify.
“I’ll take the risk,” he said to himself, firmly. “I don’t think Squire
Turner will think it best to attack me.”
He marched manfully up the front steps, and rang the bell. His summons
was answered by a servant.
“Is the squire in?” he asked.
“Yes,” was the reply; and the girl indicated the door of the “office.”
Harry knocked.
“Come in,” said the squire, in his usual grating voice.
Harry did go in.
Squire Turner was seated at his desk. He had a paper before him, which
Harry rightly guessed was the fire insurance policy. The squire had been
examining it with considerable complacency. Two thousand dollars was a
large sum even to him, and certainly a very handsome consideration for
the old Jackson farm-house, which with the land around it he had got,
by the foreclosure of a mortgage, at a decided bargain. How the company
had ever been induced to grant so large a sum on such a house, even in
its better days, was a wonder; but insurance companies sometimes make
mistakes as well as private individuals, and this appeared to be one of
them.
[Illustration: “VERY WELL, YOU CAN STATE YOUR BUSINESS.”]
For two thousand dollars, or a little more, the squire had been thinking
he could build a nice modern house, which would make the farm salable
at a considerably higher figure than before. This was a very pleasant
prospect, of course, and the harsh lines in the squire’s face were
smoothed out to a certain extent as he thought of it.
When he turned, at the opening of the door, and saw who his visitor was,
he naturally concluded that Harry had come about the land warrant.
“I haven’t heard anything more about your mother’s Western land,” he
said. “When I do I will let you know.”
“Thank you,” said Harry; “but that is not what I have come about.”
“Very well,” said the squire, a little surprised; “you can state your
business.”
At this moment James Turner came in hastily.
“Father, I want a dollar,” he said.
“What for?”
“To buy a bat and ball.”
“Wait a minute or two. I am busy.”
James looked at Harry superciliously, as if to imply that his business
could not be of any particular importance, and took a seat.
“You may state your business,” said the squire.
“I beg your pardon,” said Harry, looking towards James, “but my business
is private.”
“Perhaps he wants to complain of me,” thought James, “about the eggs. If
he does he won’t make much.”
“I am not aware of any business between us,” said the squire, with
dignity, “which is of too private a nature to discuss before my son. I
will, however, stretch a point, to oblige you, and request him to leave
the room.”
“It isn’t on my account, but on yours,” said our hero, bluntly, “that I
wish to speak privately.”
Squire Turner looked at Harry in cold displeasure not unmingled with
surprise, at what he felt to be a liberty.
“That’s a strange remark,” he said. “However, James, you may leave the
room. Here is the money.”
“You have offered a reward, Squire Turner, for information about the fire
the other evening,” said Harry, when they were alone, thinking it best to
plunge into the subject at once.
“Yes, a hundred dollars’ reward,” said the squire. “Do you know anything
about it?”
“I do,” said Harry, promptly.
Squire Turner was taken by surprise. What could Harry know about the
fire and its origin? He himself knew all about it; but of course that
knowledge was locked up in his own breast. In offering the reward he
felt sure that it would not be claimed, and, under the circumstances,
he felt that it was well to offer it. It would impress the fire company
favorably, as showing his determination to ferret out the secret
incendiary, and therefore he had forwarded a handbill containing a copy
of his offer to the office of the Phœnix Mutual, together with his claim
for the amount of insurance money.
Harry’s prompt answer led to a suspicion in the squire’s mind that our
hero was trying to get the reward on false pretences.
“The money will only be given for positive information leading to the
discovery of the incendiary,” he said, coldly.
“I can give you such information,” said Harry, with the same promptness
as before.
“Perhaps,” said the squire, with a sneer, “you can tell who set the house
on fire.”
“I can,” said Harry, distinctly.
“Who did it?” asked the squire, beginning to feel nervous.
“Squire Turner,” said our hero, feeling that the crisis had come, “you
have asked me the question, and of course you wish me to answer it truly.”
“Of course,” muttered the squire, whose nervousness increased.
“Then,” said Harry, firmly, “_you set the house on fire yourself_!”
The words were like a thunderbolt. The squire started to his feet, his
face livid with fear, and then purple with excitement.
“How dare you say such a scandalous thing?” he exclaimed.
“Because you expect me to tell the truth,” said Harry. “If you will
listen, I will tell you how I came to know.”
Hereupon he gave an account, in as few words as possible, of his midnight
visit to the house of Doctor Lamson, of his passing near the house, and
identifying the squire in the act of setting fire to some shavings.
Squire Turner listened, evidently in a state of nervous excitement,
fidgeting about in a manner which indicated his mental disturbance. When
Harry had finished, he spoke.
“This is the most impudent fabrication I ever heard. You mean to
charge that I—a rich man, and, if I say it myself, universally
respected—actually set fire to my own house at the dead of night!”
“I do,” said Harry, firmly.
“I have a great mind to kick you out of my house,” said the squire,
violently.
“I don’t think you will do it, Squire Turner,” said Harry, who did not
show a trace of alarm.
“Why not?”
“Because I have told the truth, and you know it,” said our hero, “and if
I told it outside, people might believe it.”
“What would your word weigh against mine?” said the squire, but his tone
was more confident than his feeling.
“I never told a lie, as everybody in the village will testify,” said
Harry, proudly. “Of course it is an object for you to deny it.”
The squire began to see that the overbearing policy was not exactly the
one to pursue in this case. Harry was not to be frightened easily, and
this he realized. Besides, there were other reasons why he did not wish
to fall out with our hero. Accordingly he thought proper to change his
tone.
“My young friend,” he said, with a very significant change of tone and
manner, “you are certainly under a very strange delusion. I should be
angry, but I am rather disposed to be amused. You would only be laughed
at if you should spread abroad such a ridiculous tale.”
“It’s true,” persisted Harry.
“Consider a moment,” said Squire Turner, with commendable patience, “the
nature of your charge. It is rather absurd that I should set fire to my
own building,—isn’t it, now? What possible object could I have in so
doing?”
“The insurance,” briefly answered Harry.
“Yes,” said Squire Turner, slowly; “the house was insured, to be sure,
but they don’t insure to the full value.”
“Everybody says that the house was insured for more than its full value.”
“Quite a mistake. I would rather have the house than the money. In fact,
it was quite a disappointment having the house burnt down.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, sturdily. “All I know is, that I
saw you setting the house on fire with my own eyes.”
Perspiration began to come out on the squire’s brow. He had never
anticipated such an obstacle to the carrying out his plans, and it did
seem a little provoking when everything had seemed so favorable hitherto.
He would like to have pitched our hero out of the window, or kicked him
out of the house; but neither course seemed quite expedient. So, though
boiling over with inward wrath and vexation, he forced himself to be
conciliatory.
“I have no doubt you think you are right,” he said; “but in the evening
one is easily deceived about faces. I was fast asleep at the time, and,
indeed, I knew nothing of the fire till my house-keeper came and knocked
at my door when it was nearly over.”
This was partly true; but the squire didn’t say that it was just after he
had crept stealthily into the house.
“Still, as I am a friend of your family, and interested in your welfare,”
he continued, “I don’t mind giving you the hundred dollars, not, of
course, as a reward, but to help you along. Of course it is on condition
that you say nothing of this ridiculous story. It would only involve you
in trouble. Come up to-morrow and I’ll give you the money.”
“Squire Turner,” said Harry, promptly, “I cannot accept your proposition,
or money.”
“Why not?”
“Because my story, whether ridiculous or not, is true. I don’t care for
the reward; I didn’t come up here to get it.”
“What did you come for?”
“I came to prevent your coming upon the insurance company for that money.
If you will promise not to ask for the money, I will never say a word
about how the fire came about.”
“I can’t promise that,” said the squire; “but before claiming the
insurance I will let you know. In the mean time you had better keep the
story to yourself.”
“I will,” said Harry, and, rising, he left the room, leaving the squire
in a very uncomfortable and unsatisfactory state of mind.