ENDS IN A FIRE.
Darius Darke, to call him by the name by which he chose to be known,
on parting company with Tom, turned his steps toward the house of Mr.
Simpson, the wealthy shoe manufacturer.
As he walked along, he thought over the information which Tom had given
him.
“What a scoundrel Simpson is!” he said to himself. “He might at least
have taken care of poor Thatcher’s family. Now he has actually turned
the boy out of his shop, depriving him of his living. There would be
small chance of his doing anything for me if I hadn’t a hold upon him.
I think I may be able to persuade him that it will be for his interest
to provide for me.”
He walked on, till he stood opposite the fine mansion of the man he
sought.
“So John Simpson lives here, and I have no roof to cover me. The wicked
do prosper sometimes, it appears. Well, I’ll pull the bell, and see if
he knows me.”
John Simpson was sitting in the same room in which he had had his
interview with Tom.
He was ill at ease, for Tom’s questioning had stirred up unpleasant
thoughts in the mind of the rich man. He was almost sorry that he had
discharged Tom from his employment. He knew very well that Tom was
popular in the village, as his father had been before him, and that
the townspeople would take sides with him. Again, everybody knew the
relations which had existed between him and the boy’s father, and he
foresaw that he would be considered mean in thus treating the son of an
old comrade. Yet he felt so irritated with Tom that he was not prepared
as yet to recall his hasty words.
“I’ll let him shift for himself for awhile,” he decided. “It may teach
him a lesson, and cure him of his impertinence to me.”
At this moment the bell rang.
“Very likely the boy has come back to beg that I will take him
on again,” thought the rich man complacently, and he smiled in
anticipation of the triumph this would afford him.
But he did not know Tom, or he would never have thought of this. Our
hero was poor, but he had plenty of self-respect and proper pride. He
would have humiliated himself if he saw no other way of saving his
mother and sister from privation, but not until he had tried earnestly
to find employment elsewhere.
The servant appeared at the door.
“Please, sir, there’s a poor man wants to see you, Mr. Simpson.”
“A poor man! Who is he?”
“Never saw him before, sir. He looks like a tramp.”
“I don’t care to see him.”
“He told me to say that he used to know you in California.”
John Simpson started uneasily.
“Bring him in,” he said.
Directly afterward Darius Darke entered the room and coolly seated
himself in an arm-chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. Simpson,” he said.
“It appears to me that you are very ready to make yourself at home in a
gentleman’s house,” said John Simpson, angrily.
“Why shouldn’t I? I was once a gentleman myself.”
“It must have been long ago,” said the rich man with a sneer.
“Oh, you judge by my clothes,” said the tramp, coolly. “That’s wrong.
Such as you see me I am a man of education, and a college graduate.”
“I don’t care what you have been. You are down in the world now.”
“That’s true enough.”
“What did you mean by sending me word that you knew me in California?”
“I told the truth.”
“Where was it?”
“At Rocky Gulch. You were associated with a man named Thatcher. By the
way is he living now?”
“No, he is not,” said Simpson, uneasily.
“How long has he been dead?”
“Eight years. He never came home from California.”
“How was that?”
“I suppose he was robbed.”
“And murdered?”
“Very probable. But you must excuse my speaking on this subject. It is
painful to me.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” said Darius Darke, in a tone which was pointed
and significant.
John Simpson scanned his face sharply.
“Of course,” he explained, “it is painful to think of the sad fate of a
man with whom I was so intimate.”
Darius Darke moved his chair nearer that on which the rich man was
seated and asked, abruptly:
“John Simpson, what became of Thatcher’s money?”
“How should I know?” answered the shoe manufacturer nervously. “I
suppose the men who stole it have spent it long ago. Why do you come to
me with such a question?”
“I supposed you would be as likely to know as any one.”
“Then, sir, you are very much mistaken. I don’t understand what
business it is of yours. I should judge that your own affairs required
all your attention.”
“So they do,” said Darius Darke, imperturbably. “I am coming to them by
and by. But it occurred to me that poor Thatcher’s family needed the
money he had when I knew him at Rocky Gulch.”
“How do you know he left a family?”
“I was speaking to his boy this evening. A fine, manly fellow Tom
Thatcher is. He’ll make a smart man if he lives.”
“You were speaking to Tom Thatcher this evening?” gasped John Simpson,
unpleasantly surprised. “At what time this evening?”
“Just before I came in.”
“And you hadn’t met him before?”
“No; I asked him the way to your house, and he told me he had just left
it.”
John Simpson was relieved. He feared at first that Tom’s call was
induced by a previous interview with his present visitor.
“He seems a fine boy,” repeated Darke.
“He is a very impertinent boy.”
“He doesn’t look like it. By the way, he tells me you have discharged
him from your employment.”
“He forced me to it. I may take him on again after a time. Did you
speak to Tom about his father?” asked John Simpson, uneasily.
“Yes. He says that you told him his father had only five thousand
dollars.”
“Suppose I did.”
“He got ten thousand dollars for his share of the money you jointly
sold the claim for, John Simpson.”
“How do you know that? Who are you?” demanded the rich man, with
feverish interest.
“How do I know? I certainly ought to know, for I was one of the two men
who bought you out.”
“You!” exclaimed Simpson, with undisguised amazement.
“Yes. I don’t look like it now, do I? But I had money then, and I
paid ten thousand dollars down for a half interest in the claim. I
may as well tell you that I never got the money back. The claim was
nearly exhausted at the time you sold, though I am sure neither you
nor Thatcher knew it. Well, you both remained awhile. After you left
my partner and myself came to the conclusion that we had made a bad
bargain, and he deputed me to follow you and see if you wouldn’t return
a part of the money under the circumstances.”
“Well?”
“Well, I finally came up with you. It was a bright moonlight night. I
found where you were encamped.”
Darius Darke paused. He rose from his chair, went to the door, and
closed it; then he came back, and approaching Mr. Simpson’s chair,
said, in a low voice:
“Don’t ask me to tell what I saw. You, of all men, would shrink from
hearing it.”
John Simpson looked at him with a dazed air.
“Why have you come here to tell me this?” he asked.
Darius Darke’s manner changed.
“Because,” said he, “I need money. The world has not used me well. Let
me have five hundred dollars, and you will not see me again for a year.”
“I cannot do it,” answered Simpson, hastily.
“Reflect upon it for five minutes. I think you will let me have it.”
There was a little haggling, but Darke remained firm. In the end he
prevailed. Before he left the room, money and securities amounting to
five hundred dollars were in his hands.
“Where are you going?” asked Simpson.
“I leave this town to-morrow, but I must pass the night somewhere. I
suppose I will not be received in the hotel, looking as I am. Will you
allow me to sleep in your stable?”
John Simpson hesitated. Finally he spoke.
“Follow me,” he said.
Out of the back door they went unobserved, to the back of the lot, six
hundred feet away, where was an old ruined barn, now no longer used, as
Mr. Simpson had built a stable near the house.
“You will find some hay in the loft,” he said, “and can rest
undisturbed till morning. I expect you to keep your promise then, and
leave this village.”
“I will do so.”
About one o’clock there was an alarm of fire in the village. John
Simpson’s old barn was discovered to be on fire, and was past saving
when the village hook-and-ladder fire-engine arrived on the spot.