PHIL IS SHADOWED.
Phil felt that he must be more than usually careful, because the money
he had received was in the form of bills, which, unlike the check, would
be of use to any thief appropriating it. That he was in any unusual
danger, however, he was far from suspecting.
He reached Broadway, and instead of taking an omnibus, started to
walk up-town. He knew there was no haste, and a walk up the great busy
thoroughfare had its attractions for him, as it has for many others.
Behind him, preserving a distance of from fifteen to twenty feet, walked
a dark-complexioned man of not far from forty years of age. Of course
Phil was not likely to notice him.
Whatever the man's designs might be, he satisfied himself at first
with simply keeping our hero in view. But as they both reached Bleecker
Street, he suddenly increased his pace and caught up with Phil. He
touched the boy on the shoulder, breathing quickly, as if he had been
running.
Phil turned quickly.
“Do you want me, sir?” he asked, eying the stranger in surprise.
“I don't know. Perhaps I am mistaken. Are you in the employ of Mr.
Oliver Carter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah I then you are the boy I want. I have bad news for you.”
“Bad news!” repeated Phil, alarmed. “What is it?”
“Mr. Carter was seized with a fit in the street half an hour since.”
“Is he--dead?” asked Phil, in dismay.
“No, no! I think he will come out all right.”
“Where is he?”
“In my house. I didn't of course know who he was, but I found in his
pocket a letter directed to Oliver Carter, Madison Avenue. There was
also a business card. He is connected in business with Mr. Pitkin, is he
not?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil; “where is your house?”
“In Bleecker Street, near by. Mr. Carter is lying on the bed. He is
unconscious, but my wife heard him say: 'Call Philip.' I suppose that is
you?”
“Yes, sir; my name is Philip.”
“I went around to his place of business, and was told that you had just
left there. I was given a description of you and hurried to find you.
Will you come to the house and see Mr. Carter?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, forgetting everything except that his kind
and generous employer was sick, perhaps dangerously.
“Thank you; I shall feel relieved. Of course you can communicate with
his friends and arrange to have him carried home.”
“Yes, sir; I live at his house.”
“That is well.”
They had turned down Bleecker Street, when it occurred to Phil to say:
“I don't understand how Mr. Carter should be in this neighborhood.”
“That is something I can't explain, as I know nothing about his
affairs,” said the stranger pleasantly. “Perhaps he may have property on
the street.”
“I don't think so. I attend to much of his business, and he would have
sent me if there had been anything of that kind to attend to.”
“I dare say you are right,” said his companion.
“Of course I know nothing about it. I only formed a conjecture.”
“Has a physician been sent for?” asked Phil.
“Do you know of any we can call in?”
“My wife agreed to send for one on Sixth Avenue,” said the stranger. “I
didn't wait for him to come, but set out for the store.”
Nothing could be more ready or plausible than the answers of his new
acquaintance, and Phil was by no means of a suspicious temperament. Had
he lived longer in the city it might have occurred to him that there
was something rather unusual in the circumstances, but he knew that Mr.
Carter had spoken of leaving the house at the breakfast-table, indeed
had left it before he himself had set out for the store. For the time
being the thought of the sum of money which he carried with him had
escaped his memory, but it was destined very soon to be recalled to his
mind.
They had nearly reached Sixth Avenue, when his guide stopped in front of
a shabby brick house.
“This is where I live,” he said. “We will go in.”
He produced a key, opened the door, and Phil accompanied him up a shabby
staircase to the third floor. He opened the door of a rear room, and
made a sign to Phil to enter.