SOMETHING ABOUT HERBERT RANDOLPH.
Had our young hero been more wary, he would not have so easily fallen a
victim to the deceit of the genial stranger whom he met on the Bowery.
He should have been more cautious, and less ready to assume friendly
relations with a stranger. His lack of prudence in this respect was
almost inexcusable, inasmuch as he had been warned by Bob Hunter to look
out for himself. Moreover, his suspicions should have been excited by
the two young fellows he saw on Wall Street, who appeared to be
shadowing him.
But none of these prudential thoughts seemed to occur to young Randolph.
In Vermont, he spoke to every one with a frank, open confidence. He had
always done so from his earliest recollections. Others in his locality
did the same. Unrestrained social intercourse was the universal custom
of the people. Habit is a great power in one's life. It guided our hero
on this fatal night, and he talked freely and confidentially with his
new acquaintance.
"Have you ever been in one of these Bowery museums?" asked the genial
young man, after they had chatted for a little time.
"No, I have not," replied Herbert, in a hesitating manner that implied
his desire to enter.
This young man was the same one whose boots Bob Hunter blackened when he
was acting the detective, otherwise Peter Smartweed.
The latter smiled at the readiness with which young Randolph caught at
the bait.
"Well, you have missed a treat," said he, with assumed surprise.
"I suppose so," replied Herbert, feeling that his education had been
neglected.
"They have some wonderful curiosities in some of these museums,"
continued the young confidence scamp.
"So I should think, from the looks of these pictures."
"But this is the poorest museum on the Bowery. There are some great
curiosities in some of them, and a regular show."
"Have you been in all of them?" asked Herbert.
"Oh, yes, dozens of times. Why, I can go into one of the museums
whenever I like, without paying a cent, and it is the best one in New
York."
"Can you?" said Herbert, with surprise. "I wish I could go in free."
"I can fix that for you all right," said Peter, magnanimously. "I often
take a friend in with me."
"And it doesn't cost you anything?"
"No, not a cent. If you like, we will stroll down the Bowery, and drop
in for a little while. By the way, I remember now that a new curiosity,
a three headed woman, is on exhibition there."
"A three headed woman!" exclaimed Herbert; "she must be a wonderful
sight!"
"So she is. Come on, let's go and see her. It is not down very far. You
have nothing to do, I suppose?"
"No, only to pass the time away for an hour or so."
"Very well, then, you can't pass it in any more agreeable way than this,
I am sure."
"You are very kind," replied Herbert, as they moved off in the direction
of the supposed museum. He had no thought of danger, as he walked along
with his new friend, happy in anticipation of the pleasure before him.
Could he, however, have realized that he was the victim of a shrewd
confidence game, that every step he now took was bringing him nearer
to the trap that had been set for him by cruel, unscrupulous villains,
how his whole being would have revolted against the presence of the
unprincipled fellow beside him, who was now coolly leading him on to his
ruin.
Presently they turned up a side street, and soon stopped before a low,
ugly building.
[Illustration: A SURPRISE FOR FELIX MORTIMER.]
"The museum is on the next street," remarked young Smartweed, as he rang
the bell three times. "We have to walk through this court, to reach it
by the back passage."
Still Herbert's suspicions slumbered.
And now the catch to the door was pulled back, and our unfortunate hero
and his companion passed in. The hallway was ominously dark. They groped
their way forward till a second door was reached, and here the leader
knocked three times, then paused for a moment and knocked once more.
After a brief interval three more knocks precisely like the first were
given, and then the door opened.
The two stepped quickly into the room, and Herbert's arms were instantly
seized by some one from behind the door, and drawn backward by an effort
to fasten the wrists together behind him. Quicker than thought, young
Randolph wrested his arms from the grip that was upon them, and, turning
like a flash, planted a solid blow upon the jaw of his assailant--a blow
which sent him, with a terrified yell, sprawling to the floor.
Then it was that he recognized, in the prostrate figure, Felix Mortimer,
and a sickening sense of the awful truth dawned upon him. He was
trapped!
The genial friend whom he had met on the Bowery now showed his real
character, and before Herbert could further defend himself, he was
pounced upon by him and a villainous looking man with a scraggy red
beard and most repulsive features. They threw a thick black cloth over
his head, and, after binding his hands firmly together, thrust him into
a dark vault, or pen, in the cellar.
Our hero realized now most fully his helpless and defenseless
position--a position that placed him entirely at the mercy of his
enemies; if mercy in any degree dwelt in the breasts of the cruel band
of outlaws in whose den he was now a prisoner.