MR. STARK IS RECOGNIZED.
Phil Stark was resolved not to release his hold upon his old
acquaintance. During the day he spent his time in lounging about the
town, but in the evening he invariably fetched up at the bookkeeper’s
modest home. His attentions were evidently not welcome to Mr. Gibbon,
who daily grew more and more nervous and irritable, and had the
appearance of a man whom something disquieted.
Leonard watched the growing intimacy with curiosity. He was a sharp boy,
and he felt convinced that there was something between his uncle and the
stranger. There was no chance for him to overhear any conversation, for
he was always sent out of the way when the two were closeted together.
He still met Mr. Stark outside, and played billiards with him
frequently. Once he tried to extract some information from Stark.
“You’ve known my uncle a good while,” he said, in a tone of assumed
indifference.
“Yes, a good many years,” answered Stark, as he made a carom.
“Were you in business together?”
“Not exactly, but we may be some time,” returned Stark, with a
significant smile.
“Here?”
“Well, that isn’t decided.”
“Where did you first meet Uncle Julius?”
“The kid’s growing curious,” said Stark to himself. “Does he think he
can pull wool over the eyes of Phil Stark? If he does, he thinks a good
deal too highly of himself. I will answer his questions to suit myself.”
“Why don’t you ask your uncle that?”
“I did,” said Leonard, “but he snapped me up, and told me to mind my own
business. He is getting terribly cross lately.”
“It’s his stomach, I presume,” said Stark, urbanely. “He is a confirmed
dyspeptic--that’s what’s the matter with him. Now; I’ve got the
digestion of an ox. Nothing ever troubles me, and the result is that I
am as calm and good-natured as a May morning.”
“Don’t you ever get riled, Mr. Stark?” asked Leonard, laughing.
“Well, hardly ever. Sometimes when I am asked fool questions by one who
seems to be prying into what is none of his business, I get wrathy, and
when I’m roused look out!”
He glanced meaningly at Leonard, and the boy understood that the words
conveyed a warning and a menace.
“Is anything the matter with you, Mr. Gibbon? Are you as well as usual?”
asked Mr. Jennings one morning. The little man was always considerate,
and he had noticed the flurried and nervous manner of his bookkeeper.
“No, sir; what makes you ask?” said Gibbon, apologetically.
“Perhaps you need a vacation,” suggested Mr. Jennings.
“Oh, no, I think not. Besides, I couldn’t be spared.”
“I would keep the books myself for a week to favor you.”
“You are very kind, but I won’t trouble you just yet. A little later on,
if I feel more uncomfortable, I will avail myself of your kindness.”
“Do so. I know that bookkeeping is a strain upon the mind, more so than
physical labor.”
There were special reasons why Mr. Gibbon did not dare to accept the
vacation tendered him by his employer. He knew that Phil Stark would be
furious, for it would interfere with his designs. He could not afford
to offend this man, who held in his possession a secret affecting his
reputation and good name.
The presence of a stranger in a small town always attracts public
attention, and many were curious about the rakish-looking man who had
now for some time occupied a room at the hotel.
Among others, Carl had several times seen him walking with Leonard Craig
“Leonard,” he asked one day, “who is the gentleman I see you so often
walking with?”
“It’s a man that’s boarding at the hotel. I play billiards with him
sometimes.”
“He seems to like Milford.”
“I don’t know. He’s over at our house every evening.”
“Is he?” asked Carl, surprised.
“Yes; he’s an old acquaintance of Uncle Julius. I don’t know where they
met each other, for he won’t tell. He said he and uncle might go into
business together some time. Between you and me, I think uncle would
like to get rid of him. I know he doesn’t like him.”
This set Carl to thinking, but something occurred soon afterwards that
impressed him still more.
Occasionally a customer of the house visited Milford, wishing to give a
special order for some particular line of goods. About this time a Mr.
Thorndike, from Chicago, came to Milford on this errand, and put up at
the hotel. He had called at the factory during the day, and had some
conversation with Mr. Jennings. After supper a doubt entered the mind of
the manufacturer in regard to one point, and he said to Carl: “Carl, are
you engaged this evening?”
“No, sir.”
“Will you carry a note for me to the hotel?”
“Certainly, sir; I shall be glad to do so.”
“Mr. Thorndike leaves in the morning, and I am not quite clear as to
one of the specifications he gave me with his order. You noticed the
gentleman who went through the factory with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He is Mr. Thorndike. Please hand him this note, and if he wishes you to
remain with him for company, you had better do so.”
“I will, sir.”
“Hannah,” said Mr. Jennings, as his messenger left with the note, “Carl
is a pleasant addition to our little household?”
“Yes, indeed he is,” responded Hannah, emphatically.
“If he was twice the trouble I’d be glad to have him here.”
“He is easy to get along with.”
“Surely.”
“Yet his stepmother drove him from his father’s house.”
“She’s a wicked trollop, then!” said Hannah, in a deep, stern voice.
“I’d like to get hold of her, I would.”
“What would you do to her?” asked Mr. Jennings, smiling.
“I’d give her a good shaking,” answered Hannah.
“I believe you would, Hannah,” said Mr. Jennings, amused. “On the whole,
I think she had better keep out of your clutches. Still, but for her we
would never have met with Carl. What is his father’s loss is our gain.”
“What a poor, weak man his father must be,” said Hannah, contemptuously,
“to let a woman like her turn him against his own flesh and blood!”
“I agree with you, Hannah. I hope some time he may see his mistake.”
Carl kept on his way to the hotel. It was summer and Mr. Thorndike was
sitting on the piazza smoking a cigar. To him Carl delivered the note.
“It’s all right!” he said, rapidly glancing it over. “You may tell
Mr. Jennings,” and here he gave an answer to the question asked in the
letter.
“Yes, sir, I will remember.”
“Won’t you sit down and keep me company a little while?” asked
Thorndike, who was sociably inclined.
“Thank you, sir,” and Carl sat down in a chair beside him.
“Will you have a cigar?”
“No, thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”
“That is where you are sensible. I began to smoke at fourteen, and now I
find it hard to break off. My doctor tells me it is hurting me, but the
chains of habit are strong.”
“All the more reason for forming good habits, sir.”
“Spoken like a philosopher. Are you in the employ of my friend, Mr.
Jennings?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Learning the business?”
“That is my present intention.”
“If you ever come out to Chicago, call on me, and if you are out of a
place, I will give you one.”
“Are you not a little rash, Mr. Thorndike, to offer me a place when you
know so little of me?”
“I trust a good deal to looks. I care more for them than for
recommendations.”
At that moment Phil Stark came out of the hotel, and passing them,
stepped off the piazza into the street.
Mr. Thorndike half rose from his seat, and looked after him.
“Who is that?” he asked, in an exciting whisper.
“A man named Stark, who is boarding at the hotel. Do you know him?”
“Do I know him?” repeated Thorndike. “He is one of the most successful
burglars in the West.”