A QUARREL
“Oh, Tom! How fine you look! How tall and straight you are! What
a--why, what a _man_ you have become!”
Thus our hero’s mother greeted him as she met him at the Chester
station on the occasion of Tom’s first home-coming.
“Tom, you are so--so big!”
Her eyes were shining, as only a mother’s eyes can shine, while she
held out her hands to welcome her son.
“Well, Mother,” Tom said, as he kissed her, “West Point makes a
specialty of helping boys grow up. I hope they didn’t make any mistake
in my case.”
“I’m sure they didn’t!” she said. “You certainly are taller and
straighter.”
“It’s a pity if I shouldn’t be, mother, with all the bracing-back I’ve
been doing in the last two years. For a time I thought I wouldn’t have
anything but shoulders, but I’m getting used to it now. How are you,
and what’s the news?”
“As if I could tell you all the news of two years in a moment!” she
objected.
“Well, tell me about yourself. Are you getting along all right?”
As he asked this question Tom looked searchingly at his mother. He
saw that she was thinner than she had been when he went away, and she
looked paler--as though she had spent many long and weary hours bending
over her sewing. And, had Tom but known it, this was the fact.
In a way he bitterly reproached himself for having gone to West Point,
leaving her to fight the battle of life alone, and when he hinted at
this, and frankly offered to resign and seek some employment that would
bring in a large immediate return, she said:
“No, Tom. You must keep on as you have started. This is to be your
life-work. You will have only one chance, and you must take advantage
of it. We can stand a little privation now for the sake of what will
come afterward.”
“But I don’t want you to stand privation, Mother. It isn’t fair that I
should have it easy while you work so hard.”
“Are you having it easy, Tom?”
She looked at him closely as she asked this.
“Well, the fellows don’t call it easy,” he admitted.
“I understand,” she said smiling. “Now don’t worry about me. I am
making enough to live on. You are paying your own way, and a little
more, though I wish I could send you some money occasionally.”
“I couldn’t use it!” he said, with a laugh. “I haven’t exhausted my
Academy credit yet.”
“Well, it won’t be very much longer,” she went on with a sigh. “The
next two years will go past quickly, and then----”
“Then I’ll take care of you, Mother!” Tom exclaimed. “Once I graduate,
I’ll be earning enough to make life easier for you. There won’t be a
needle or a spool of thread in the house.”
“What about mending for you?” she asked, smiling.
“Oh, I’m a pretty fair sewer myself,” he laughed. “But, Mother,” he
asked, as they were on their way to the little cottage, “what was it
you mentioned in your letter, about something important to tell me?”
Tom looked searchingly at his mother as they walked up the main street
of the town. Nothing had changed much, Tom thought, during his two
years’ absence. Here and there a new front had been put on to some
store, and there were two new moving picture places. But otherwise
Chester was about the same.
“What is it, Mother?” Tom asked again, as he noted that she hesitated
about answering. “Is it the old problem--money--father’s affairs?”
“Yes, Tom, in a way. You know how the valuable land, now used as an
approach to the railroad bridge, passed away from us. I have always
thought that there was something wrong about that. I had an idea that
it was, in some way, secured against anything that could happen.”
“What do you mean by ‘secured’?”
“I mean I understood your father to say, shortly before he died so
suddenly, that if anything happened to him, that land would yield
enough of an income for you and me to live on until you were old enough
to look after yourself, and me, too. He always had an idea that it
would be very valuable, though whether or not he had an intimation that
the railroad was coming through I can not say.”
“You say he told you the land was secured?” asked Tom.
“That was the word he used--yes.”
“He didn’t say how, did he?”
“Not exactly, but I understood he had put it in trust--deeded it, in
some way, so that it would eventually come to us--to you and to me.”
“Did he ever show you any papers in that connection?”
“No. He was going to, and we had planned to go over the matter
together, when he fell ill, and--”
Her voice choked, and she could not proceed for a moment.
Tom’s eyes filled with tears as he led his mother into the house.
They sat down together, and presently Mrs. Taylor regained control of
herself, so that she could go on.
“Why I said anything in my letter,” she resumed, “was because of
something I found when going over some old papers of your father’s. It
was a few days ago, and among some useless documents I found a rough
draft of a trust deed he had drawn up regarding the railroad property,
as I call it.”
“To whom was the deed made out?” Tom asked.
“To Captain Hawkesbury and Mr. Doolittle.”
“What!” cried Tom, startled by his mother’s answer. “To those--”
“Now don’t be rash, son,” she advised him. “The land was not actually
deeded to these two men. It was only to go to them in trust for you and
me. Your father’s idea was, as I understand it, that Captain Hawkesbury
and Mr. Doolittle could make a better bargain with the railroad people
than we could. So he made this deed in trust.”
“And is this how those two--those two men--” Tom controlled his words
by an effort--“is this how they got the property away from us--through
that deed of trust?”
“I don’t know, Tom,” said Mrs. Taylor simply. “All I have to go by
is the rough draft of the deed of trust. Whether your father carried
out his idea as outlined in that, I cannot say. The plan was probably
a good one, but it failed as far as we are concerned. I mean we have
derived no benefit from the land.”
“No, but we will, Mother!” Tom exclaimed, vigorously.
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Taylor was startled.
“I mean I am going to see Mr. Doolittle, and ask him about this deed
of trust. If he and Captain Hawkesbury held the land in that way they
should turn over to us the money they got from the railroad company. It
must be a large sum. Why, it’s just as if they were the guardians of
the land for our benefit.”
“Yes, Tom, that is if your father carried out his idea. But I have no
means of knowing whether he did or not. I have searched all through his
papers, but I found nothing more on the subject. I don’t see what we
can do, but I thought I had better tell you of it.”
“I am very glad you did, Mother,” Tom said, quietly.
“I only discovered the draft a few days before I wrote to you,” Tom’s
mother said. “But it all seems so useless.”
“No, it isn’t!” he exclaimed, earnestly. “I’m going to do something.”
“Nothing rash, Tom, I hope!” she said, apprehensively.
“No, not exactly that. But I’m going to see Mr. Doolittle, and ask him
a thing or two.”
Mrs. Taylor was surprised at the change in her son. He was very much
more of a man than when he left two years before. He seemed very
capable.
This, of course, was due to the West Point training. It tends to make a
lad stand on his own feet, for the Academy trains him with the idea of
some day having him handle large bodies of men; and to rule over others
one must first learn to govern himself.
“Let me see that paper, Mother,” Tom said, when they had talked the
matter over a little longer.
She gave it to him, and he studied it earnestly. It was, as she had
said, a copy, or draft, of a deed of trust, for the valuable land on
which one end of the railroad bridge stood.
“I’ll see Doolittle about this,” Tom decided.
However, he did not carry out his intention that day. He was tired
with his trip, and he wanted to be in the best condition when he met
the man who he had reason to suspect was a clever schemer, if not a
downright swindler.
Tom spent some time in going about town, renewing acquaintance with
his former school chums. He had much to tell them of his life at West
Point, and he, in turn, listened to much of interest.
Then, having ascertained from a local lawyer a general idea of how
deeds of trust were executed and carried out, Tom called on Mr.
Doolittle.
Aaron Doolittle was a local character. In a way he was a sort of
Shylock, but he would not have felt complimented had any one called him
that, though his knowledge of Shakespeare was limited. Mr. Doolittle
had money, and he loaned it out on the best of security at high rates
of interest.
Tom found him in his office over the local bank, in which, it was
rumored, Mr. Doolittle held a large interest.
“Well, what do you want?” fairly snarled the financier of Tom, as the
latter entered. “I haven’t any money to lend, if that’s what you’ve
come for.”
“Money to lend?” repeated Tom, somewhat surprised.
“Yes. That’s what I said! If you came here thinking to get enough to
keep on with that silly soldier life you’ve been leading you can march
right out again, the way you came in. You’ll get no money from me!”
“Well, I’m not so sure of that,” Tom said, more coolly than he felt.
“Hey? What do you mean?” Mr. Doolittle seemed alarmed.
“I’ll tell you that later,” Tom said significantly, as he felt in his
pocket to see if he had the draft of the deed safe. “But just now
I’ll say I didn’t come to borrow any money.” Tom emphasized the word
“borrow.”
“Another thing,” he went on. “I don’t need money to continue at West
Point. I am being paid for staying there.”
“Paid! Huh! What’s this country coming to, anyhow, when it squanders
money on such foolishness?” snorted the crabbed old man.
Tom did not answer that question. It was too big. What he did say was:
“Mr. Doolittle, I have called on you in reference to a deed of trust my
father drew shortly before his death, naming you and Captain Hawkesbury
as trustees of a certain piece of land--land where the railroad bridge
now stands. That land has been sold, and I think the money for it
should come to my mother and to me. I have here--”
That was as far as Tom got just then. Mr. Doolittle fairly leaped from
his chair, his face blazing with wrath.
“You--you--” he stammered out. Words failed him for a moment.
“Get out of my office!” he shouted.
“Not until you have answered my question,” said Tom, coolly.
“How dare you ask me any questions?”
“How dare I? Why, I think I have a very good right, since you were in
charge of some of my father’s property.”
“Your father’s property! He left none! All he did own was swallowed up
in debts. He owes me money now, if the truth were known.”
“I don’t believe that,” Tom said, quietly.
“You don’t believe it? Well, I’ll prove it to you!” fairly shouted the
angry man. “That deed of trust! Bah! There never was any! He deeded
that property outright to Captain Hawkesbury and me for what he owed
us, and it wasn’t enough. Now you get out of my office! I won’t be
insulted by you!”
Tom thought he was the one being insulted, and his looks showed it.
“Now listen to me----” he began, as calmly as he could.
“I won’t listen,” interrupted the angry man. “I want you to understand
that--but what is the use of talking to such a boy as you. I--I----”
“I think you had better listen, Mr. Doolittle. I want to----”
“Get out!” stormed Mr. Doolittle. “Don’t let me hear another word from
you! As for that deed of trust--”
He made a grab for the paper Tom held, but our hero stepped back, a
surprised look on his face.