_Frank leaves the Service of his Master._--_A Bowery Concert
Saloon._--_The departure of Henry Schulte._--_William Bucholz
enters the employ of the old gentleman._
We left William Bucholz and Frank Bruner in conversation at "The
Crescent Hotel." The young Hussar who had been reared in luxury,
whose life until this time had been a round of pleasure and gayety,
and who had come to America to seek his fortune--and the servant of
the strange and silent old man who had crossed the sea to escape the
imagined dangers which threatened him and to find peace and comfort
in his declining years.
"You have just come over from Germany, I understand," said Bucholz,
addressing his companion in German.
"Just arrived to-day," replied Bruner.
"Did you come alone?"
"Oh, no; I came with the old gentleman who has just gone to bed."
"Have you been long with him?"
"Long enough to want to get away from him," was the reply.
"What is the reason?" inquired Bucholz, with some indication of
surprise and curiosity.
"Well, he does not use me properly, and I have grown tired of his
abuse," answered Frank, sullenly.
After further questioning him, Bucholz learned the story of the old
man's eccentricities, the fact of his large possessions, and the
probability of his extending his travels as far West as California.
"I would not leave him," said Bucholz, after Frank had finished his
narrative; "he may not live very long, and he will no doubt do
something handsome for you."
"I don't care for that," replied Frank Bruner; "I would not continue
many days longer in his service even if I knew that he would leave me
all his money."
At that moment the sound of a cane struck angrily upon the floor
above them admonished Frank that his master desired his services, and
also that he was in no pleasant humor.
"There he goes!" cried Frank, "and I must go to him or I shall feel
the weight of his stick. Good-night."
"Good-night!" said Bucholz, extending his hand, "I will see you again
in the morning."
The young man turned and left the room, and Bucholz seated himself
apart from the rest of the company, apparently lost in profound
meditation. Shortly after, he roused himself, as with an effort, and
bidding his comrades good-night he went up stairs to his room.
He did not immediately retire, however, but sat up until a late hour,
revolving in his mind the information which he had just received and
debating with himself as to his future course of action.
The result of this mental consultation appeared satisfactory to him,
and he undressed himself and went to bed. He would encourage Frank to
leave his distasteful employment, and he would offer himself as an
applicant for the vacant position. He had no fears of the result, and
felt no anxiety about the probabilities of his being made the subject
of the old man's castigations. If the old gentleman designed going to
California he would be so much nearer to the coveted place of his
ambitious dreams, and he could very easily submit to temporary
discomforts in order to secure the practical benefits which he so
much desired. With this comforting reflection he closed his eyes and
was soon fast asleep.
In the morning he again met Frank Bruner, and the conversation of the
night before was continued. Bucholz, without seeming to be anxious
upon the subject, adroitly led the unsuspecting servant on in his
dislike for his occupation, and he succeeded so well that before the
day was passed, Frank had firmly resolved to inform Henry Schulte of
his plans and of his intention to leave his service.
In the evening, immediately after supper, he communicated his
intention to his master, who received it with violent manifestations
of disappointment and anger, and almost instantly retired to his
room, locked his door, thereby denying admission to Frank, who was
prepared to serve his irate master until he could provide himself
with another servant.
Finding himself left to his own resources, Frank cordially accepted
an invitation to take a stroll with his newly-found associate, and
putting on his hat he linked his arm in that of Bucholz, and they
left the hotel together.
Walking slowly on they soon came to the brilliantly-lighted
thoroughfare in the Bowery, known as Chatham Street, and here their
ears were saluted with the sounds of music, which emanated from the
illuminated saloons, which lined the sidewalks at frequent intervals.
Frank gazed with curious eyes at this phase of New York life, so new
and startling to one whose early years had been passed in the rural
simplicity of a German peasant, and as Bucholz stopped before one of
these places and asked him if he would like to go inside, he made not
the slightest objection. Quietly following his guide they found
themselves within the walls of one of those gilded palaces of sin,
that have so often proved the avenues through which many unsuspecting
young men have entered upon a life of shame and dishonor.
To Frank, however, the scene was novel and exciting, the music was
exhilarating, and the "pretty waiter girls" were objects of curiosity
and unfeigned admiration. Pushing their way through the crowded
assembly, where men and women were engaged in drinking and indulging
in loud and boisterous laughter, they reached a position in front of
a stage that had been erected in the rear end of the hall, and before
which hung a gaudily-painted curtain, which hid from the spectators
the mysteries and perhaps the miseries that lay beyond.
Bucholz appeared to be perfectly at home among this mixed assemblage,
and nodded familiarly to right and left in recognition of numerous
friends and acquaintances. Presently a buxom-looking German girl,
whose rosy cheeks and rotund figure gave evidence that her life in
this place had been of short duration, advanced towards them, and,
seating herself beside Bucholz, bade him good evening, in a tone of
familiarity which betokened a long, or, at least, a well-understood
acquaintance.
[Illustration: _"A buxom looking german girl sat down beside
Bucholz, and bade him Good Evening."_]
To the young man who accompanied Bucholz there seemed to be a
fascination in the glitter of his present surroundings, and he
instinctively began to feel envious of his more fortunate companion,
who appeared so much at his ease, and whose intimacy with the
Teutonic siren was so much to be admired.
During the progress of the mixed entertainment that followed, in
which dancing and singing, banjo playing, and a liberal display of
the anatomy of the female "artists" formed the principal features,
they sipped their beer and applauded loudly the efforts of those who
ministered to their enjoyment.
Upon the conclusion of the performance, they returned to their hotel,
and Frank Bruner's mind was more firmly settled in his determination
to leave the service of Henry Schulte, and to find employment in the
city, where such pleasures would be open to him at all times.
On their walk homeward to the hotel Frank again mentioned his resolve
to Bucholz.
"I think you are very foolish," was the reply. "The old man has lots
of money, and if I was in your place I would do very different."
Frank was immovable, however, and the words of his companion produced
no effect upon his mind.
The next morning Mr. Schulte endeavored in vain to induce Frank to
change his determination, and at last, finding it impossible to do
so, he paid him the amount that was due to him and dispensed, rather
reluctantly, with his further services.
A few days after this, having completed the business which detained
him in New York, the old gentleman announced his intention of
departing, and, having his baggage transferred to the coach, he
started for the depot, leaving Frank behind him, who now half
regretted having so suddenly sundered his relations with his
eccentric employer.
Bucholz's opportunity had now arrived, and jumping into the coach, he
took his seat beside the old gentleman, whose acquaintance he had
cultivated during his brief sojourn at the hotel.
"You are going away, Mr. Schulte?" said Bucholz.
The old man nodded his head affirmatively, but made no audible reply.
"Which way are you going?" asked Bucholz, unabashed by the manner of
the other.
"I am going down to South Norwalk, in Connecticut, to buy a farm
which was advertised for sale there," answered Mr. Schulte.
"Where is Frank?" asked Bucholz, as though in ignorance of their
separation. "Is he not going with you?"
"Frank is no longer in my employ. I have discharged him, and he must
now look out for himself."
"Don't you want somebody to take his place?" said Bucholz, eagerly.
"Yes, but I will get some one down there, I guess," replied the old
man, as though he did not desire to talk any further about his
affairs.
"Don't you think I would suit you, Mr. Schulte? I have nothing to do,
and would be very glad to take the place," urged Bucholz. The old
gentleman looked up in surprise at this question, and said:
"You would not come for such wages as I would pay."
He named a sum ridiculously small, but Bucholz announced his perfect
willingness to accept the position at the remuneration offered.
The old gentleman revolved the question in his mind for a few
moments, gazing somewhat suspiciously at the young man the while, and
at length said to Bucholz, who was anxiously awaiting his decision:
"Well, you may come along and see how you will like it. If it does
not suit you, you can return, and we can make our arrangements
afterward."
The matter was thus disposed of, and William Bucholz journeyed to
South Norwalk with his employer. The gay soldier had become the
humble servant, the prospective farmer had been transformed into the
obsequious valet.
These two men had journeyed across the seas, for a far-off land, and
thus had strangely met. The web of fate had woven itself around their
two lives, and the compact this day made was only to be severed by
the death, sudden and mysterious, of the eldest party to the
agreement.
Who could have told that before many months had rolled away, that old
man would have been brutally beaten to death, and that the
bright-faced young man who sued for his favor would be sitting in a
lonely cell under the dreadful charge of committing the foul deed!
Perhaps could either have glanced with prophetic vision into the
future, their paths, by mutual consent, would have widely diverged,
and their intimacy have ceased forever on that August afternoon.
THE DETECTION.