FACE TO FACE WITH THE ENEMY
Thomas Browning sat in his handsome study, in a complacent frame of
mind. The caucus was to be held in the evening, and he confidently
expected the nomination for mayor. It was the post he had coveted for
a long time. There were other honors that were greater, but the
mayoralty would perhaps prove a stepping-stone to them. He must not be
impatient. He was only in middle life, and there was plenty of time.
"I didn't dream this when I was a penniless miner in California," he
reflected, gleefully. "Fortune was hard upon me then, but now I am at
the top of the heap. All my own good management, too. Tom Butler--no,
Browning--is no fool, if I do say it myself."
"Someone to see you, Mr. Browning," said the servant.
"Show him in!" replied the philanthropist.
A poorly dressed man followed the maid into the room.
Mr. Browning frowned. He had thought it might be some influential
member of his party.
"What do you want?" he asked, roughly.
The poor man stood humbly before him, nervously pressing the hat
between his hands.
"I am one of your tenants, Mr. Browning. I am behindhand with my rent,
owing to sickness in the family, and I have been ordered out."
"And very properly, too!" said Browning. "You can't expect me to let
you stay gratis."
"But sir, you have the reputation of being a philanthropist. It hardly
seems the character----"
"I do not call myself a philanthropist--others call me so--and perhaps
they are right. I help the poor to the extent of my means, but even a
philanthropist expects his honest dues."
"Then you can do nothing for me, sir?"
"No; I do not feel called upon to interfere in your case."
The poor man went out sorrowfully, leaving the philanthropist in an
irritable mood. Five minutes later a second visitor was announced.
"Who is it?" asked Browning, fearing it might be an other tenant.
"It is a boy, sir."
"With a message, probably. Show him up."
But Thomas Browning was destined to be surprised, when in the
manly-looking youth who entered he recognized the Chicago newsboy who
had already excited his uneasiness.
"What brings you here?" he demanded, in a startled tone.
"I don't know if you remember me, Mr. Browning," said Luke, quietly.
"Luke Walton is my name, sir, and I have sold you papers near the
Sherman House, in Chicago."
"I thought your face looked familiar," said Browning, assuming an
indifferent tone. "You have made a mistake in coming to Milwaukee. You
cannot do as well here as in Chicago."
"I have not come in search of a place. I have a good one at home."
"I suppose you have some object in coming to this city?"
"Yes; I came to see you."
"Upon my word, I ought to feel flattered, but I can't do anything for
you. I have some reputation in charitable circles, but I have my hands
full here."
"I have not come to ask you a favor, Mr. Browning. If you will allow
me, I will ask your advice in a matter of importance to me."
Browning brightened up. He was always ready to give advice.
"Go on!" he said.
"When I was a young boy my father went to California. He left my
mother, my brother, and myself very poorly provided for, but he hoped
to earn money at the mines. A year passed, and we heard of his
death."
"A good many men die in California," said Browning, phlegmatically.
"We could not learn that father left anything, and we were compelled
to get long as we could. Mother obtained sewing to do at low prices,
and I sold papers."
"A common experience!" said Browning, coldly.
"About three months ago," continued Luke, "we were surprised by
receiving in a letter from a stranger, a message from my father's
deathbed."
Thomas Browning started and turned pale, as he gazed intently in the
boy's face.
"How much does he know?" he asked himself, apprehensively.
"Go on!" he said, slowly.
"In this letter we learned for the first time that father had
intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to an acquaintance to be
brought to my mother. This man proved false and kept the money."
"This story may or may not be true," said Browning, with an effort.
"Was the man's name given?"
"Yes; his name was Thomas Butler."
"Indeed! Have you ever met him?"
"I think so," answered Luke, slowly. "I will read his description from
the letter: He has a wart on the upper part of his right cheek--a mark
which disfigures and mortifies him exceedingly. He is about five feet
ten inches in height, with a dark complexion and dark hair, a little
tinged with gray.
"Let me see the letter," said Browning, hoarsely.
He took the letter in his hand, and, moving near the grate fire, began
to read it. Suddenly the paper as if accidentally, slipped from his
fingers, and fell upon the glowing coals--where it was instantly
consumed.
"How careless I am!" ejaculated Browning, but there was exultation in
the glance.