DARIUS DARKE.
As Tom was on his way home, walking slowly and thoughtfully, while he
considered the change which had taken place in his circumstances and
prospects, his attention was attracted to a man shabbily dressed, whose
suit looked as if it had been worn five years steadily, advancing along
the pathway in an opposite direction.
Nowadays the man would be called a tramp, but at that time the name was
not as common as now.
He was a stranger in the village, but Tom didn’t give any thought to
his appearance. He was too much interested in his own thoughts and his
own troubles.
The man passed him, and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, turned
back and addressed him.
“Boy,” said he, “are you acquainted about here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you tell me where John Simpson lives?”
“Yes,” answered Tom, with momentary wonder that such a man should have
anything to do with the rich shoe manufacturer. “He lives only a little
distance back on this same side of the road. You can find the house
well enough, for it is the finest in the village.”
“Then I suppose John Simpson is a rich man?” said the tramp, after a
slight pause.
“Yes, he is the richest man in town.”
“Where did he get his money?”
“In California--that is, he got considerable of it there. Then he came
back here and built a large shoe manufactory. I suppose he has made a
good deal of money by this business.”
“Humph! I suppose he is a good deal respected, isn’t he?”
“He is looked up to, as most rich men are,” answered Tom, with a tinge
of bitterness.
He could not truly say that he, for one, respected John Simpson.
“That’s all the same,” said the stranger. “Give a man money, and he’ll
be respected fast enough. Does Mr. Simpson put on airs?”
“If you mean does he feel his importance, I think he does.”
“A regular tip-top aristocrat, I take it.”
“Very likely. Do you know him?” asked Tom, thinking it about time that
he should change places with his questioner.
“Know him, boy? Yes, I knew him once--slightly. I haven’t met him for
years.”
“Did you know him in California?” asked Tom, urged by an irresistible
impulse to ask this question.
The man started.
“What makes you ask that question?” he demanded, quickly.
“Because you said you knew Mr. Simpson some years ago.”
“Well, yes, I knew him in California,” said the other, slowly.
“Then perhaps you knew my father there?” said Tom, eagerly.
“Your father!”
“Yes; my father was in California at the time. He went out with Mr.
Simpson.”
“What was your father’s name?”
The question was put with what seemed to be strong interest and
curiosity.
“Robert Thatcher.”
The tramp whistled, as if to express his surprise and amazement.
“Did you know him?” Tom repeated.
The stranger answered guardedly:
“I heard that such a man was at work with John Simpson.”
“And you saw him?”
“I believe I saw him once.”
“Do you know what became of him?”
“Do I know what became of him? I suppose he came home.”
“No; he did not. He never came home.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Simpson says he was probably murdered for his money.”
“Oh, Simpson says that, does he? What more does he say?”
“He doesn’t seem to know any more.”
“Does he say how much money your father had?”
“He thinks about five thousand dollars.”
The stranger laughed.
“The report was in the camp near by that Simpson and your father had
cleared twenty-five thousand dollars apiece.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars!” repeated Tom, overwhelmed with
astonishment.
“Yes; and it was generally believed. The claim was wonderfully rich,
and besides what the two men took out they sold their claim for at
least twenty thousand dollars. That was ten thousand dollars apiece.”
“Can this be possible?”
“Oh, you may rely upon that. That I happened to know.”
“This very evening I called upon Mr. Simpson and asked him about the
matter. He told me that father had about five thousand dollars at the
time he disappeared.”
“Then Simpson lied,” said the tramp, bluntly.
“I don’t know why he should misrepresent things to me.”
“I suppose he had his reasons.”
“But what were they?”
“I give it up. Where do you live?”
“In that little cottage.”
By this time Tom had reached his own house, the stranger walking slowly
by his side.
“From the appearance of your house I shouldn’t suppose you were very
rich.”
“Rich!” echoed Tom. “We have all we can do to live.”
“Who do you mean by we?”
“My mother, and sister, and myself.”
“Doesn’t John Simpson help you?”
“He has given me a chance to peg in his manufactory, and paid me fifty
cents a day, which is considerably below the regular wages in other
establishments. If you call that helping us, then he has helped us.”
“That I call rather mean, since he has plenty of money.”
“So do I; but we never asked him for help. All I wanted was fair wages
for my work.”
“Did you ever ask him to increase your small pay?”
“I asked him this very evening.”
“What did he say?”
“He got angry, and discharged me from his employment.”
“Money has evidently hardened his heart. What are you going to do?”
“I must try to find something else to do, or else go to the poor-house.”
“You won’t go to the poor-house. You don’t look like that kind of a
boy. I wish I had John Simpson’s money and shop. I’d employ you at
double his wages.”
“Thank you for your kind intentions, sir,” said Tom.
The tramp looked so far from being a capitalist, and, judging again
from his appearance, his prospect of becoming a capitalist seemed so
poor, that Tom did not gain much encouragement from his last words.
“At present I am quite unable to help you, but it may not be always
so,” continued the stranger.
“Thank you, sir,” said Tom, politely.
He reflected that a man’s generous feelings were of little account if
he had no money.
“I see you want to go in,” said the tramp. “Don’t let me keep you. I
think I’ll go and make a call on John Simpson.”
“You’ll find him at home, sir. That is, he was at home twenty minutes
since.”
“All right. I guess I’ll find him.”
Just as the stranger was leaving, Tom, impelled by the thought he
might some time want to secure further information from this man, who
appeared to have met his father in California, asked him:
“Would you be kind enough to tell me your name, sir?”
“My name! What do you want of my name?” demanded the tramp.
“Except John Simpson, who will tell me nothing, I have never before met
any one who knew anything of my father’s life in California. I might
wish to meet you again and ask you more questions.”
“I will take care that you have a chance to meet me some time,” said
the other, after a pause. “At present I prefer not to mention my name.”
“Suppose I want to write to you?”
“Then you may address your letter to Darius Darke, New York
Post-office.”
“Darius Darke.”
“Yes; I don’t think you will forget that name. It isn’t my real name,
of course. Sorry I haven’t got a card to offer you,” he added, with
grim humor.
“I shall remember the name.”
As Tom entered his humble home, he asked himself:
“Why did Mr. Simpson misrepresent the amount of father’s treasure? Of
course he knew that he was deceiving me.”
But this question was easier to ask than to answer.