THE EFFECT OF A NAME.
“SO YOU haven’t changed your mind, young man,” said Gates, as Tom
presented himself at the hotel the following evening.
“No,” said Tom, “I’m in earnest. When do you start?”
“To-morrow at ten.”
“I will be on hand.”
“By the way, what is your name? How shall we call you?”
The time had come for Tom to test the correctness of his suspicions.
Fixing his eyes, but not with obtrusive attention, on the man he
suspected, he answered carelessly:
“You may call me Tom Lincoln.”
Morton started and turned swiftly toward our hero.
“What name did you say?”
“Tom Lincoln.”
“I once knew a man of that name,” said Morton hesitatingly. “From what
State do you come?”
“Our family originated in Massachusetts,” answered Tom, not appearing to
notice anything in the other’s manner. “I believe the name is a common
one.”
“Very likely,” said Morton, recovering himself, convinced that it was
only an accidental coincidence. He was naturally suspicious, not knowing
what steps might have been taken to secure him. It seemed improbable,
however, that a mere boy like Tom should know anything of his crime or
have any connection with the efforts to capture him. It may be added
that his secret was known to no one in California except our hero. Gates
was an acquaintance he had picked up and made a companion from his need
of society, but this chosen comrade knew nothing of him save what he had
chosen to tell, and sincerely believed that Morton was his real name.
They did not occupy the same room at the hotel. Gates had proposed it,
but Morton had not encouraged the idea. He said that he was a light
sleeper and always accustomed to room alone, and Gates acquiesced.
When Morton was alone in his chamber, after disrobing himself, he
unclasped from around his waist a belt which had been made expressly for
his use. Opening it, he drew forth a quantity of papers and carefully
examined them. It is not my intention to mystify the reader. These were
the papers which had been taken from his employer, and for the lack of
which that employer had been compelled to fail. They represented an
aggregate value of eighty thousand dollars.
Morton looked them over carefully, as I have said.
“Yes, they are all here,” he said thoughtfully. “I wish I could turn
them into cash; at present they do me no good. I wish I could with
safety dispose of them, but no doubt an accurate list has been furnished
to the detectives. Meanwhile they are a great care to me. I am compelled
to carry them round with me all the time. I don’t dare to leave them on
deposit at any bank lest they should be identified as stolen property.”
Here there was a knock at the door. Morton turned pale, and huddled the
papers into the bed near by. Then with a perturbed look he opened the
door to Gates.
“What’s the matter, Morton?” he said. “You look startled. Did you think
I was a burglar?”
Morton responded with a forced laugh.
“I was plunged in thought,” he said, “and your knock startled me. Will
you come in?”
“A minute, if you don’t mind. Have you any matches? I have none in my
room. I rang the bell, but nobody came.”
“Yes, there are some. Help yourself.”
Gates, not suspecting how unwelcome his visit was, sat down and lighted
a cigar.
“Is smoking offensive to you?” he asked.
“Well, yes, in a bedroom.”
“Out it goes then. I suppose you were thinking of the fortunes we are
going to make.”
“Perhaps so,” said Morton, who didn’t care to divulge his real thoughts.
“By the way,” said Gates, “I hope your bed is better than mine. Mine is
as hard as a brick.”
As he spoke he reached out his hand and touched the quilt, directly over
the spot where the papers were concealed.
“Don’t do that,” said Morton nervously.
“Don’t do what,” asked Gates staring.
“I may be silly,” stammered Morton, “but I can’t bear to have any one
touch my bed.”
Gates laughed.
“Why, man, you’re as nervous as a woman,” he said.
“I suppose I am,” said Morton, smiling in a forced manner
“Luckily for me I was born without nerves,” said Gates. “It’s a great
blessing. Nothing disturbs me except—well, except the want of money.”
“It is uncomfortable,” said Morton.
“You are rich, though. You don’t understand what it is.”
“No, I am not, Gates. I’ve got a thousand dollars, and little
else—except some stocks that are well-nigh worthless.”
“Well, I haven’t got any stocks—worthless or otherwise—to worry me. I
may have, by and by, if we are lucky at the gold-fields.”
“Just so; that is what I am hoping. A thousand dollars won’t go far
here.”
“I should think not. But I suppose you want to go to bed. So
good-night.”
“I am glad he’s gone,” said Morton to himself, when his companion left
the room. “Have I done right to encourage his intimacy? Is there no fear
that through him my secret may be divulged? Then, there is that boy.
It’s strange, by the way, that his name is Lincoln—the same as mine.
Perhaps he is a distant relation. However, he is only a boy. There can’t
be any harm in him.”
It was not altogether true that Morton was reduced to a thousand dollars
in gold. He had about four times that sum remaining of the cash he had
purloined from his former employer. But in California, as I have already
said, this was an era of high prices, and though this sum seemed
considerable, it would soon melt away if Morton did not find some way of
earning more. He might have gone into business in San Francisco with
what money he had, but there was always danger of being recognized in a
city, the population of which was reinforced every week or two by new
emigrants from the States. Under the circumstances the most feasible
plan of increasing his fortunes seemed to be to go to the mines. Could
he only have negotiated the valuable securities which he had brought
away with him, he would have made his way to Europe, settled down on the
Continent, and lived comfortably, provided with ample means. But, as we
know, the securities thus far had only occasioned him anxiety and
apprehension. He could not see his way clear to any benefit to be
derived from them, unless to negotiate for their return in consideration
of a liberal reward. He was not prepared, as yet, to hazard the danger
of such a course.
The night passed, and the next morning rose bright and clear. The first
part of the journey was to be performed in a stage-coach. The last must
be made with such aids as they could find.
At ten they started. Tom and Gates were in high spirits. Morton was more
sober. He had cares and anxieties from which they were exempt.
Each of the three was provided with a revolver, for the country was
unsettled, and they were liable to meet with highwaymen. Tom had no
weapon of his own, but Gates, who had two, lent him one of his. Tom
secretly hoped that he might have a chance to use it. He was of an age
when adventure, even when accompanied by peril, has a certain charm.
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