“When did you come to New York?” asked Paul.
“Just arrived; that is, I got in this mornin’. But I say, how you’ve grown. I shouldn’t hardly have known you.”
“Shouldn’t you, though?” said Paul, gratified as most boys are, on being told that he had grown. “Have you come to the city on business?”
“Well, kinder on business, and kinder not. I thought I’d like to have a vacation. Besides, the old lady wanted a silk dress, and she was sot on havin’ it bought in York. So I come to the city.”
“Where are you stopping, Mr. Stubbs?”
“Over to the Astor House. Pretty big hotel, ain’t it?”
“Yes, I see you are traveling in style.”
“Yes, I suppose they charge considerable, but I guess I can stand it. I hain’t been drivin’ a tin-cart for nothin’ the last ten years.
“How have you been enjoying yourself since you arrived?”
“Oh, pretty well. I’ve been round seeing the lions, and came pretty near seeing the elephant at one of them Peter Funk places.”
“You did! Tell me about it.”
“You see I was walkin’ along when a fellow came out of one of them places, and asked me if I wouldn’t go in. I didn’t want to refuse such a polite invitation, and besides I had a curiosity to see what there was to be seen, so I went in. They put up a silver watch, I could see that it was a good one, and so I bid on it. It ran up to eight dollars and a quarter. I thought it was a pity it should go off so cheap, so I bid eight and a half.”
“`Eight and a half and sold,’ said the man; `shall I put it up for you?”
“`No, I thank you,’ said I, `I’ll take it as it is.’
“`But I’ll put it up in a nice box for you,’ said he.
“I told him I didn’t care for the box. He seemed very unwilling to let it go, but I took it out of his hand and he couldn’t help himself. Well, when they made out the bill, what do you suppose they charged?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why, eighteen and a half.”
“`Look here,’ said I, `I guess here’s something of a mistake. You’ve got ten dollars too much.’
“`I think you must be mistaken,’ said he, smiling a foxy smile.
“`You know I am not,’ said I, rather cross.
“We can’t let that watch go for any thing shorter,’ said he, coolly.
“Just then a man that was present stepped up and said, `the man is right; don’t attempt to impose upon him.’
“With that he calmed right down. It seems it was a policeman who was sent to watch them, that spoke. So I paid the money, but as I went out I heard the auctioneer say that the sale was closed for the day. I afterwards learned that if I had allowed them to put the watch in a box, they would have exchanged it for another that was only plated.”
“Do you know anybody in the city?” asked Paul.
“I’ve got some relations, but I don’t know where they live.”
“What is the name?” asked Paul, “we can look into the directory.”
“The name is Dawkins,” answered the pedler.
“Dawkins!” repeated Paul, in surprise.
“Yes, do you happen to know anybody of the name?”
“Yes, but I believe it is a rich family.”
“Well, so are my relations,” said Jehoshaphat. “You didn’t think Jehoshaphat Stubbs
had any rich relations, did you? These, as I’ve heard tell, hold their heads as high as anybody.”
“Perhaps I may be mistaken,” said Paul.
“What is the name–the Christian name, I mean–of your relation?”
“George.”
“It must be he, then. There is a boy of about my own age of that name. He works in the same office.”
“You don’t say so! Well, that is curious, I declare. To think that I should have happened to hit upon you so by accident too.”
“How are you related to them?” inquired Paul.
“Why, you see, I’m own cousin to Mr. Dawkins. His father and my mother were brother and sister.”
“What was his father’s business?” asked Paul.
“I don’t know what his regular business was, but he was a sexton in some church.”
This tallied with the account Paul had received from Mr. Cameron, and he could no longer doubt that, strange as it seemed, the wealthy Mr. Dawkins was own cousin to the pedler.
“Didn’t you say the boy was in the same office with you, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve a great mind to go and see him, and find out where his father lives. Perhaps I may get an invite to his house.”
“How shocked Dawkins will be!” thought Paul, not, it must be confessed, without a feeling of amusement. He felt no compunction
in being the instrument of mortifying the false pride of his fellow clerk, and he accordingly signified to Mr. Stubbs that he was on his way to the counting-room.
“Are you, though? Well, I guess I’ll go along with you. Is it far off?”
“Only in the next street.”
The pedler, it must be acknowledged, had a thoroughly countrified appearance. He was a genuine specimen of the Yankee,–a long, gaunt figure, somewhat stooping, and with a long aquiline nose. His dress has already been described.
As Dawkins beheld him entering with Paul, he turned up his nose in disgust at what he considered Paul’s friend.
What was his consternation when the
visitor, approaching him with a benignant smile, extended his brown hand, and said, “How d’ye do, George? How are ye all to hum?”
Dawkins drew back haughtily.
“What do you mean?” he said, pale with passion.
“Mr. Dawkins,” said Paul, with suppressed merriment, “allow me to introduce your cousin, Mr. Stubbs.”
“Jehoshaphat Stubbs,” explained that individual. “Didn’t your father never mention my name to you?”
“Sir,” said Dawkins, darting a furious glance at Paul, “you are entirely mistaken if you suppose that any relationship exists between me and that–person.”
“No, it’s you that are mistaken,” said Mr. Stubbs, persevering, “My mother was Roxana Jane Dawkins. She was own sister to your grandfather. That makes me and your father cousins Don’t you see?”
“I see that you are intending to insult me,” said Dawkins, the more furiously, because he began to fear there might be some truth in the man’s claims. “Mr. Prescott, I leave you to entertain your company yourself.”
And he threw on his hat and dashed out of the counting-room.
“Well,” said the pedler, drawing a long breath, “that’s cool,–denyin’ his own flesh and blood. Rather stuck up, ain’t he?”
“He is, somewhat,” said Paul; “if I were you, I shouldn’t be disposed to own him as a relation.”
“Darned ef I will!” said Jehoshaphat
sturdily; “I have some pride, ef I am a pedler. Guess I’m as good as he, any day.”
VII.
MR. MUDGE’S FRIGHT.
Squire Newcome sat in a high-backed chair before the fire with his heels on the fender. He was engaged in solemnly perusing the leading editorial in the evening paper, when all at once the table at his side gave a sudden lurch, the lamp slid into his lap, setting the paper on fire, and, before the Squire realized his situation, the flames singed his whiskers, and made his face unpleasantly warm.
“Cre-a-tion!” he exclaimed, jumping
briskly to his feet.
The lamp had gone out, so that the cause of the accident remained involved in mystery. The Squire had little trouble in conjecturing, however, that Ben was at the bottom of it.
Opening the door hastily, he saw, by the light in the next room, that young gentleman rising from his knees in the immediate vicinity of the table.
“Ben-ja-min,” said the Squire, sternly,
“What have you been a-doing?”
Ben looked sheepish, but said nothing.
“I repeat, Benjamin, what have you been a-doing?”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Ben.
“That does not answer my interrogatory. What have you been a-doing?”
“I was chasing the cat,” said Ben, “and she got under the table. I went after her, and somehow it upset. Guess my head might have knocked against the legs.”
“How old are you, Benjamin?”
“Fifteen.”
“A boy of fifteen is too old to play with cats. You may retire to your dormitory.”
“It’s only seven o’clock, father,” said Ben, in dismay.
“Boys that play with cats are young enough to retire at seven,” remarked the Squire, sagaciously.
There was nothing for Ben but to obey.
Accordingly with reluctant steps he went up to his chamber and went to bed. His active mind, together with the early hour, prevented his sleeping. Instead, his fertile imagination was employed in devising some new scheme, in which, of course, fun was to be the object attained. While he was thinking, one scheme flashed upon him which he at once pronounced “bully.”
“I wish I could do it to-night,” he sighed.
“Why can’t I?” he thought, after a
moment’s reflection.
The more he thought of it, the more feasible it seemed, and at length he decided to attempt it.
Rising from his bed he quickly dressed himself, and then carefully took the sheet, and folding it up in small compass put it under his arm.
Next, opening the window, he stepped out upon the sloping roof of the ell part, and slid down to the end where he jumped off, the height not being more than four feet from the ground. By some accident, a tub of suds was standing under the eaves, and Ben, much to his disgust, jumped into it.
“Whew!” exclaimed he, “I’ve jumped into that plaguy tub. What possessed Hannah to put it in a fellow’s way?”
At this moment the back door opened, and Hannah called out, in a shrill voice, “Who’s there?” Ben hastily hid himself, and thought it best not to answer.
“I guess ’twas the cat,” said Hannah, as she closed the door.
“A two-legged cat,” thought Ben, to
himself; “thunder, what sopping wet feet I’ve got. Well, it can’t be helped.”
With the sheet still under his arm, Ben climbed a fence and running across the fields reached the fork of the road. Here he concealed himself under a hedge, and waited
silently till the opportunity for playing his practical joke arrived.
I regret to say that Mr. Mudge, with whom we have already had considerable to do, was not a member of the temperance society. Latterly, influenced perhaps by Mrs. Mudge’s
tongue, which made his home far from a happy one, he had got into the habit of spending his evenings at the tavern in the village, where he occasionally indulged in potations that were not good for him. Generally, he kept within the bounds of moderation, but occasionally he exceeded these, as he had done on the present occasion.
Some fifteen minutes after Ben had taken his station, he saw, in the moonlight, Mr. Mudge coming up the road, on his way home. Judging from his zigzag course, he was not quite himself.
Ben waited till Mr. Mudge was close at hand, when all at once he started from his place of concealment completely enveloped in the sheet with which he was provided. He stood motionless before the astounded Mudge.
“Who are you?” exclaimed Mudge, his
knees knocking together in terror, clinging to an overhanging branch for support.
There was no answer.
“Who are you?” he again asked in affright.
“Sally Baker,” returned Ben, in as
sepulchral a voice as he could command.
Sally Baker was an old pauper, who had recently died. The name occurred to Ben on the spur of the moment. It was with some difficulty that he succeeded in getting out the name, such was his amusement at Mr. Mudge’s evident terror.
“What do you want of me?” inquired Mudge, nervously.
“You half starved me when I was alive,” returned Ben, in a hollow voice, “I must be revenged.”
So saying he took one step forward,
spreading out his arms. This was too much for Mr. Mudge. With a cry he started and ran towards home at the top of his speed, with Ben in pursuit.
“I believe I shall die of laughing, exclaimed Ben, pausing out of breath, and sitting down on a stone, “what a donkey he is, to be sure, to think there are such things as ghosts. I’d like to be by when he tells Mrs. Mudge.”
After a moment’s thought, Ben wrapped up the sheet, took it under his arm, and once more ran in pursuit of Mr. Mudge.
Meanwhile Mrs. Mudge was sitting in the kitchen of the Poorhouse, mending stockings. She was not in the pleasantest humor, for one of the paupers had managed to break a plate at tea-table (if that can be called tea where no tea is provided), and trifles were sufficient to ruffle Mrs. Mudge’s temper.
“Where’s Mudge, I wonder?” she said,
sharply; “over to the tavern, I s’pose, as usual. There never was such a shiftless, good-for- nothing man. I’d better have stayed unmarried all the days of my life than have married him. If he don’t get in by ten, I’ll lock the door, and it shall stay locked. ‘Twill serve him right to stay out doors all night.”
Minutes slipped away, and the decisive hour approached.
“I’ll go to the door and look out,” thought Mrs. Mudge, “if he ain’t anywhere in sight I’ll fasten the door.”
She laid down her work and went to the door.
She had not quite reached it when it was flung open violently, and Mr. Mudge, with a wild, disordered look, rushed in, nearly over- turning his wife, who gazed at him with mingled anger and astonishment.
“What do you mean by this foolery, Mudge?” she demanded, sternly.
“What do I mean?” repeated her husband, vaguely.
“I needn’t ask you,” said his wife, contemptuously. “I see how it is, well enough. You’re drunk!”
“Drunk!”
“Yes, drunk; as drunk as a beast.”
“Well, Mrs. Mudge,” hiccoughed her husband, in what he endeavored to make a dignified tone, “you’d be drunk too if you’d seen what I’ve seen.”
“And what have you seen, I should like to know?” said Mrs. Mudge.
Mudge rose with some difficulty, steadied himself on his feet, and approaching his wife, whispered in a tragic tone, “Mrs. Mudge, I’ve seen a sperrit.”
“It’s plain enough that you’ve seen spirit,” retorted his wife. “‘Tisn’t many nights that you don’t, for that matter. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mudge.”
“It isn’t that,” said her husband, shaking his hand, “it’s a sperrit,–a ghost, that I’ve seen.”
“Indeed!” said Mrs. Mudge, sarcastically, “perhaps you can tell whose it is.”
“It was the sperrit of Sally Baker,” said Mudge, solemnly.
“What did she say?” demanded Mrs. Mudge, a little curiously.
“She said that I–that we, half starved her, and then she started to run after me–and– oh, Lordy, there she is now!”
Mudge jumped trembling to his feet. Following the direction of his outstretched finger, Mrs. Mudge caught a glimpse of a white figure just before the window. I need hardly say that it was Ben, who had just arrived upon the scene.
Mrs. Mudge was at first stupefied by what she saw, but being a woman of courage she speedily recovered herself, and seizing the broom from behind the door, darted out in search of the “spirit.” But Ben, perceiving that he was discovered, had disappeared, and there was nothing to be seen.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” muttered Mudge, as his wife re-entered, baffled in her attempt, “you’ll believe it’s a sperrit, now.”
“Go to bed, you fool!” retorted his wife.
This was all that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Mudge on the subject. Mr. Mudge firmly believes, to this day, that the figure which appeared to him was the spirit of Sally Baker.
XXVIII.
HOW BEN GOT HOME.
Delighted with the complete success of his practical joke, Ben took his way homeward with the sheet under his arm. By the time he reached his father’s house it was ten o’clock. The question for Ben to consider now was, how to get in. If his father had not fastened the front door he might steal in, and slip up stairs on tiptoe without being heard. This would be the easiest way of overcoming the difficulty, and Ben, perceiving that the light was still burning in the sitting-room, had some hopes that he would be able to adopt it. But while he was only a couple of rods distant he saw the lamp taken up by his father, who appeared to be moving from the room.
“He’s going to lock the front door,” thought Ben, in disappointment; “if I had only got along five minutes sooner.”
From his post outside he heard the key turn in the lock.
The ‘Squire little dreamed that the son whom he imagined fast asleep in his room was just outside the door he was locking.
“I guess I’ll go round to the back part of the house,” thought Ben, “perhaps I can get in the same way I came out.”
Accordingly he went round and managed to clamber upon the roof, which was only four feet from the ground. But a brief trial served to convince our young adventurer that it is a good deal easier sliding down a roof than it is climbing up. The shingles being old were slippery, and though the ascent was not steep, Ben found the progress he made was very
much like that of a man at the bottom of a well, who is reported as falling back two feet for every three that he ascended. What
increased the difficulty of his attempt was that the soles of his shoes were well worn, and slippery as well as the shingles.
“I never can get up this way,” Ben concluded, after several fruitless attempts; “I know what I’ll do,” he decided, after a moment’s perplexity; “I’ll pull off my shoes and stockings, and then I guess I can get along better.”
Ben accordingly got down from the roof, and pulled off his shoes and stockings. As he wanted to carry these with him, he was at first a little puzzled by this new difficulty. He finally tied the shoes together by the strings and hung them round his neck. He disposed of the stockings by stuffing one in each pocket.
“Now,” thought Ben, “I guess I can get along better. I don’t know what to do with the plaguy sheet, though.”
But necessity is the mother of invention, and Ben found that he could throw the sheet over his shoulders, as a lady does with her shawl. Thus accoutered he recommenced the ascent with considerable confidence.
He found that his bare feet clung to the roof more tenaciously than the shoes had done, and success was already within his grasp, when an unforeseen mishap frustrated his plans. He had accomplished about three quarters of the ascent when all at once the string which united the shoes which he had hung round his neck gave way, and both fell with a great thump on the roof. Ben made a clutch for them in which he lost his own hold, and made a hurried descent in their company, alighting with his bare feet on some flinty gravel stones, which he found by no means agreeable.
“Ow!” ejaculated Ben, limping painfully, “them plaguy gravel stones hurt like thunder. I’ll move ’em away the first thing to-morrow. If that confounded shoe-string hadn’t broken I’d have been in bed by this time.”
Meanwhile Hannah had been sitting over the kitchen fire enjoying a social chat with a “cousin” of hers from Ireland, a young man whom she had never seen or heard of three months before. In what way he had succeeded in convincing her of the relationship I have never been able to learn, but he had managed to place himself on familiar visiting terms with the inmate of ‘Squire Newcome’s kitchen.
“It’s only me cousin, sir,” Hannah explained to the ‘Squire, when he had questioned her on the subject; “he’s just from Ireland, sir, and it seems like home to see him.”
On the present occasion Tim Flaherty had outstayed his usual time, and was still in the kitchen when Ben reached home. They did
not at first hear him, but when he made his last abortive attempt, and the shoes came clattering down, they could not help hearing.
“What’s that?” asked Hannah, listening attentively.
She went to the door to look out, her cousin following.
There was nothing to be seen.
“Perhaps you was dramin’ Hannah,” said Tim, “more by token, it’s time we was both doin’ that same, so I’ll bid you good-night.”
“Come again soon, Tim,” said Hannah,
preparing to close the door.
A new plan of entrance flashed upon Ben.
He quickly put on his shoes and stockings, unfolded the sheet and prepared to enact the part of a ghost once more,–this time for the special benefit of Hannah.
After fully attiring himself he came to the back door which Hannah had already locked, and tapped three times.
Hannah was engaged in raking out the
kitchen fire.
“Sure it’s Tim come back,” thought she, as she went to the door. “Perhaps he’s
forgotten something.”
She opened the door unsuspiciously, fully expecting to see her Irish cousin standing before her.
What was her terror on beholding a white- robed figure, with extended arms.
“Howly virgin, defend me!” she exclaimed, in paralyzing terror, which was increased by a guttural sound which proceeded from the throat of the ghost, who at the same time waved his arms aloft, and made a step towards Hannah.
Hannah, with a wild howl dropped the lamp and fed towards the sitting-room, where
‘Squire Newcome was still sitting.
Ben sped upstairs at the top of his speed, dashed into his own chamber, spread the sheet on the bed, and undressed so rapidly that he seemed only to shake his clothes off, and jumped into bed. He closed his eyes and
appeared to be in a profound slumber.
Hannah’s sudden appearance in the sitting- room in such a state naturally astonished the ‘Squire.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded of the affrighted servant.
“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I’m almost kilt entirely.”
“Are you?” said the ‘Squire, “you appear to be more frightened than hurt.”
“Yes, sir, shure I am frightened, which indeed I couldn’t help it, sir, for I never saw a ghost before in all my life.”
“A ghost! What nonsense are you talking, Hannah?”
“Shure it’s not nonsense, for it’s just now that the ghost came to the door, sir, and knocked, and I went to the door thinking it might be me cousin, who’s been passing the evening with me, when I saw a great white ghost, ten foot tall, standing forninst me.”
“Ten feet tall?”
“Yes, sir, and he spread out his arms and spoke in a terrible voice, and was going to carry me off wid him, but I dropped the lamp, and O sir, I’m kilt entirely.”
“This is a strange story,” said ‘Squire Newcome, rather suspiciously; “I hope you have not been drinking.”
Hannah protested vehemently that not a drop of liquor had passed her lips, which was true.
“I’ll go out and hunt for the ghost,” said the ‘Squire.
“Oh, don’t sir. He’ll carry you off,” said Hannah, terrified.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the ‘Squire. “Follow me, or you may stay here if you are frightened.”
This Hannah would by no means do, since the ‘Squire had taken the lamp and she would be left in the dark.
Accordingly she followed him with a
trembling step, as he penetrated through the kitchen into the back room, ready to run at the least alarm.
The back-door was wide open, but nothing was to be seen of the ghost.
“Perhaps the ghost’s up-stairs,” said Hannah, “I can’t sleep up there this night, shure.”
But something had attracted Squire Newcome’s attention. It was quite muddy out of
doors, and Ben had tracked in considerable mud with him. The footprints were very
perceptible on the painted floor.
“The ghost seems to have had muddy shoes,” said the ‘Squire dryly; “I guess I can find him.”
He followed the tracks which witnessed so strongly against Ben, to whose chamber they led.
Ben, though still awake, appeared to be in a profound slumber.
“Ben-ja-min!” said his father, stooping over the bed.
There was no answer.
“Ben-ja-min!” repeated his father, giving him a shake, “what does all this mean?”
“What?” inquired Ben, opening his eyes, and looking very innocent.
“Where have you been, to-night?”
“You sent me to bed,” said Ben, “and I came.”
But the ‘Squire was not to be deceived. He was already in possession of too much information to be put off. So Ben, who with all his
love of mischief was a boy of truth, finally owned up everything. His father said very little, but told him the next morning that he had made up his mind to send him to a military boarding-school, where the discipline was very strict. Ben hardly knew whether to he glad or sorry, but finally, as boys like change and variety, came to look upon his new
prospects with considerable cheerfulness.
XXIX.
DAWKINS IN DIFFICULTIES.
George Dawkins was standing at his desk one morning, when a man entered the office, and stepping up to him, unceremoniously
tapped him on the shoulder.
Dawkins turned. He looked extremely
annoyed on perceiving his visitor, whose outward appearance was certainly far from prepossessing. His face exhibited unmistakable
marks of dissipation, nor did the huge breast pin and other cheap finery which he wore conceal the fact of his intense vulgarity. His eyes were black and twinkling, his complexion very dark, and his air that of a foreigner. He was, in fact, a Frenchman, though his language would hardly have betrayed him, unless, as sometimes, he chose to interlard his discourse with French phrases.
“How are you this morning, my friend?” said the newcomer.
“What are you here for?” asked Dawkins, roughly.
“That does not seem to me a very polite way of receiving your friends.”
“Friends!” retorted Dawkins, scornfully, “who authorized you to call yourself my friend?”
“Creditor, then, if it will suit you better, mon ami.”
“Hush,” said Dawkins, in an alarmed whisper, “he will hear,” here he indicated Paul with his finger.
“And why should I care? I have no secrets from the young man.”
“Stop, Duval,” exclaimed Dawkins, in an angry whisper, “Leave the office at once. Your appearing here will injure me.”
“But I am not your friend; why should I care?” sneered Duval.
“Listen to reason. Leave me now, and I will meet you when and where you will.”
“Come, that sounds better.”
“Now go. I’m afraid Mr. Danforth will be in.”
“If he comes, introduce me.”
Dawkins would like to have knocked the fellow over.
“Name your place and time, and be quick about it,” said he impatiently.
“Eight o’clock this evening, you know where,” was the answer.
“Very well. Good-morning.”
“Mind you bring some money.”
“Good-morning,” returned Dawkins, angrily.
At length, much to his relief, Duval left the office. Dawkins stole a side glance at Paul, to see what impression the interview had made upon him, but our hero, who had overheard some portions of the dialogue, perceiving that Dawkins wished it to be private, took as little notice of the visitor as possible. He could not help thinking, however, that Duval was a man whose acquaintance was likely to be of little benefit to his fellow clerk.
Throughout the day Dawkins appeared
unusually nervous, and made several blunders which annoyed Mr. Danforth. Evidently he had something on his mind. Not to keep the reader in suspense, George had fallen among bad companions, where he had learned both to drink and to gamble. In this way he had made the acquaintance of Duval, an unscrupulous sharper, who had contrived to get away all his ready money, and persuading him to play longer in the hope of making up his losses had run him into debt one hundred and fifty dollars. Dawkins gave him an acknowledgment
of indebtedness to that amount. This of course placed him in Duval’s power, since he knew of no means of raising such a sum. He therefore kept out of the Frenchman’s way, avoiding the old haunts where he would have been likely to meet him. Dawkins supposed Duval
ignorant of the whereabouts of his employer’s counting-room. So he had been, but he made it his business to ascertain where it was. He had no idea of losing sight of so valuable a prize.
Dawkins would willingly have broken the appointment he had made with Duval, but he did not dare to do so. He knew that the man was well able to annoy him, and he would not on any account have had the affair disclosed to his father or Mr. Danforth.
As Trinity clock struck eight, he entered a low bar-room in the neighborhood of the docks.
A young man with pale, sandy hair stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled up. He was supplying the wants of a sailor who already appeared to have taken more drink than was good for him.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawkins,” said he, “you’re a stranger.”
“Is Duval in?” inquired Dawkins, coldly. His pride revolted at the place and company. He had never been here but once before, having met Duval elsewhere.
“He’s up in his room. John show the young gentleman up to No. 9. Won’t you have a
glass of something this evening?”
“No,” said Dawkins, abruptly.
The boy preceded him up a dark and dirty staircase.
“That’s the room, sir,” he said.
“Stop a minute,” said Dawkins, “he may not be in.”
He inwardly hoped he might not. But
Duval answered his knock by coming to the door himself.
“Delighted to see you, mon ami. John, may leave the lamp. That’s all, unless Mr. Dawkins wishes to order something.”
“I want nothing,” said Dawkins.
“They have some capital brandy.”
“I am not in the mood for drinking tonight.”
“As you please,” said the Frenchman,
disappointed; “be seated.”
Dawkins sat down in a wooden rocking- chair, minus an arm.
“Well,” said Duval, “how much money
have you brought me?”
“None.”
The Frenchman frowned and stroked his mustache, fiercely.
“What does all this mean? Are you going to put me off longer?”
“I would pay it if I could,” said Dawkins, “but I haven’t got the money.”
“You could get it.”
“How?”
“Ask your father.”
“My father would rave if he knew that I had lost money in such a way.”
“But you need not tell him.”
“If I ask for money, he will be sure to ask what I want it for.”
“Tell him you want clothes, or a watch, or a hundred things.”
Dawkins shook his head; “it won’t do,” said he. “He wouldn’t give me a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Then ask seventy-five, and I will wait a month for the rest.”
“Look here, Duval, you have no rightful claim to this money. You’ve got enough out of me. Just tear up the paper.”
Duval laughed scornfully, “Aha, Mr.
Dawkins,” he said, “that would be a very pretty arrangement FOR YOU. But I don’t see how it is going to benefit me. No, no, I can’t afford to throw away a hundred and fifty dollars so easily. If I was a rich man like your father it would make a difference.”
“Then you won’t remit the debt,” said Dawkins, sullenly.
“You would think me a great ninny, if I did.”
“Then you may collect it the best way you can.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded
the Frenchman, his face darkening.
“I mean what I say,” said Dawkins, desperately, “Gambling debts are not recognizable in law.”
“Nothing is said about it’s being a gambling debt. I have your note.”
“Which is worth nothing, since I am a minor.”
Duval’s face became black with rage.
“Aha, my friend,” said he showing his teeth, “this is a very nice game to cheat me out of my money. But it won’t do, it won’t do.”
“Why won’t it?”
“I shall say a word in your father’s ear, mon ami, and in the ear of your worthy employer whom you were so anxious for me not
to see, and perhaps that would be worse for you than to pay me my money.”
Dawkins’s brief exultation passed away. He saw that he was indeed in the power of an unscrupulous man, who was disposed to push his advantage to the utmost.
He subsided into a moody silence, which Duval watched with satisfaction.
“Well, my friend, what will you do about it?”
“I don’t know what I can do.”
“You will think of something. You will find it best,” said the Frenchman, in a tone which veiled a threat.
“I will try,” said Dawkins, gloomily.
“That is well. I thought you would listen to reason, mon ami. Now we will have a pleasant chat. Hold, I will order some brandy myself.”
“Not for me,” said Dawkins, rising from his chair, “I must be going.”
“Will you not have one little game?” asked Duval, coaxingly.
“No, no, I have had enough of that. Goodnight.”
“Then you won’t stop. And when shall I have the pleasure of seeing you at my little apartment once more?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it is any trouble to you to come, I will call at your office,” said Duval, significantly.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Dawkins, hastily; “I will come here a week from today.”
“A week is a long time.”
“Long or short, I must have it.”
“Very well, mon ami. A week let it be. Good-night. Mind the stairs as you go down.”
Dawkins breathed more freely as he passed out into the open air. He was beginning to realize that the way of the transgressor is hard.
XXX.
A TRAP IS LAID FOR PAUL.
Three months before, George Dawkins had made his first visit to a gambling house. At first, he had entered only from curiosity. He watched the play with an interest which gradually deepened, until he was easily persuaded to try his own luck. The stakes were small, but fortune favored him, and he came out some dollars richer than he entered. It would have been fortunate for him if he had failed. As it was, his good fortune encouraged him to another visit. This time he was less fortunate,
but his gains about balanced his losses, so that he came out even. On the next occasion he left off with empty pockets. So it went on until at length he fell into the hands of Duval, who had no scruple in fleecing him to as great an extent as he could be induced to go.
George Dawkins’s reflections were not of the most cheerful character as, leaving Duval, he slowly pursued his way homeward. He felt that he had fallen into the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would have no mercy upon
him. He execrated his own folly, without which all the machination of Duval would have been without effect.
The question now, however, was, to raise the money. He knew of no one to whom he could apply except his father, nor did he have much hope from that quarter. Still, he would make the effort.
Reaching home he found his father seated in the library. He looked up from the evening paper as George entered.
“Only half-past nine,” he said, with an air of sarcasm. “You spend your evenings out so systematically that your early return surprises me. How is it? Has the theater begun to lose its charm!”
There was no great sympathy between father and son, and if either felt affection for the other, it was never manifested. Mutual
recrimination was the rule between them, and George would now have made an angry answer but that he had a favor to ask, and felt it politic to be conciliatory.
“If I had supposed you cared for my society, sir, I would have remained at home oftener.”
“Umph!” was the only reply elicited from his father.
“However, there was a good reason for my not going to the theater to-night.”
“Indeed!”
“I had no money.”
“Your explanation is quite satisfactory,” said his father, with a slight sneer.
“I sympathize in your disappointment.”
“There is no occasion, sir,” said George, good humoredly, for him. “I had no great desire to go.”
Dawkins took down a book from the library and tried to read, but without much success. His thoughts continually recurred to his pecuniary embarrassments, and the debt which
he owed to Duval seemed to hang like a millstone around his neck. How should he approach
his father on the subject? In his present humor he feared he would have little chance.
As his father laid down the newspaper Dawkins said, “Wouldn’t you like a game of checkers, sir?”
This, as he well knew, was a favorite game with his father.
“I don’t know but I should,” said Mr. Dawkins, more graciously than was his wont.
The checker-board was brought, and the two commenced playing. Three games were played all of which his father won. This appeared to put him in a good humor, for as the two ceased playing, he drew a ten-dollar-bill from his pocket-book, and handed to his son, with the remark, “There, George, I don’t want you to be penniless. You are a little extravagant, though, I think. Your pay from Mr. Danforth ought to keep you in spending money.”
“Yes, sir, I have been rather extravagant, but I am going to reform.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“I wish, sir,” said George a moment
afterwards,” that you would allow me to buy my own clothes.”
“I’ve no sort of an objection, I am sure. You select them now, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but I mean to suggest that you should make me an allowance for that purpose, –about as much as it costs now,–and give me the money to spend where I please.”
Mr. Dawkins looked sharply at his son.
“The result would probably be,” he said, “that the money would be expended in other ways, and I should have to pay for the clothes twice over.”
Dawkins would have indignantly disclaimed this, if he had not felt that he was not altogether sincere in the request he had made.
“No,” continued his father, “I don’t like the arrangement you propose. When you need
clothing you can go to my tailor and order it, of course not exceeding reasonable limits.”
“But,” said Dawkins, desperately, “I don’t like Bradshaw’s style of making clothes. I would prefer trying some other tailor.”
“What fault have you to find with Bradshaw? Is he not one of the most fashionable
tailors in the city?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so, but—-“
“Come, sir, you are growing altogether too particular. All your garments set well, so far as I can judge.”
“Yes, sir, but one likes a change sometimes,” persisted George, a little embarrassed for further objections.
“Well,” said Mr. Dawkins, after a pause, “If you are so strongly bent upon a new tailor, select one, and order what you need. You can tell him to send in his bill to me.”
“Thank you sir,” said his son, by no means pleased at the manner in which his request had been granted. He saw that it would in no manner promote the plan which he had in view,
since it would give him no command of the ready money. It is hardly necessary to say that his alleged dissatisfaction with his father’s tailor had all been trumped up for the occasion, and would never have been thought of
but for the present emergency.
“What shall I do!” thought Dawkins, in perplexity, as he slowly undressed himself and retired to bed.
The only true course, undoubtedly, was to confess all to his father, to incur the storm of reproaches which would have followed as the just penalty of his transgression, and then the haunting fear of discovery would have been once and forever removed. But Dawkins was not brave enough for this. He thought only of escaping from his present difficulty without his father’s knowledge.
He rose the next morning with the burden of care still weighing upon him. In the
evening the thought occurred to him that he might retrieve his losses where he had incurred them, and again he bent his steps to the gambling house. He risked five dollars, being one-half of what he had. This was lost. Desperately he hazarded the remaining five dollars, and lost again.
With a muttered oath he sprang to his feet, and left the brilliant room, more gloomy and discouraged than ever. He was as badly off as before, and penniless beside. He would have finished the evening at the theater, but his recent loss prevented that. He lounged about the streets till it was time to go to bed, and then went home in a very unsatisfactory state of mind.
A day or two after, he met on Broadway the man whom of all others he would gladly have avoided.
“Aha, my friend, I am glad to meet you,” said Duval, for it was he.
Dawkins muttered something unintelligible, and would have hurried on, but Duval detained him.
“Why are you in such a hurry, my friend?” he said.
“Business,” returned Dawkins, shortly.
“That reminds me of the little business affair between us, mon ami. Have you got any money for me?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet! It is three days since we saw each other. Could you not do something in three days?”
“I told you I required a week,” said
Dawkins, roughly, “Let go my arm. I tell you I am in haste.”
“Very well, mon ami,” said Duval, slowly relinquishing his hold, “take care that you do not forget. There are four days more to the week.”
Dawkins hurried on feeling very uncomfortable. He was quite aware that four days hence
he would be as unprepared to encounter the Frenchman as now. Still, something might happen.
Something, unfortunately, did happen.
The next day Mr. Danforth was counting a roll of bills which had been just paid in, when he was unexpectedly called out of the counting-room. He unguardedly left the bills upon his own desk. Dawkins saw them lying there. The thought flashed upon him, “There lies what will relieve me from all my embarrassment.”
Allowing himself scarcely a minute to think, he took from the roll four fifty dollar notes, thrust one into the pocket of Paul’s overcoat, which hung up in the office, drew off his right boot and slipped the other three into the bottom of it, and put it on again. He then nervously resumed his place at his desk. A moment
afterwards, Paul, who had been to the post-office, entered with letters which he carried into the inner office and deposited on Mr. Danforth’s desk. He observed the roll of bills, and thought his employer careless in leaving so much money exposed, but said nothing on the subject to Dawkins, between whom and himself there was little communication.
XXXI.
CONVICTED OF THEFT.
Half an hour later Mr. Danforth returned.
“Has any one been here?” he asked as he passed through the outer office.
“No, sir,” said Dawkins, with outward composure though his heart was beating rapidly.
While apparently intent upon his writing he listened attentively to what might be going on in the next room. One,–two,–three minutes passed. Mr. Danforth again showed himself.
“Did you say that no one has been here?” he demanded, abruptly.
“No, sir.”
“Have either of you been into my office since I have been out?”
“I have not, sir,” said Dawkins.
“I went in to carry your letters,” said Paul.
“Did you see a roll of bills lying on my desk?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul, a little surprised at the question.
“I have just counted it over, and find but six hundred dollars instead of eight hundred. Can you account for the discrepancy?”
Mr. Danforth looked keenly at the two boys. Dawkins, who had schooled himself to the ordeal, maintained his outward calmness. Paul,
beginning to perceive that his honesty was called in question, flushed.
“No, sir,” said the boys simultaneously.
“It can hardly be possible, that Mr. Thompson, who is a very careful man, should have made such a mistake in paying me,” resumed Mr. Danforth.
“As we have been the only persons here,” said Dawkins, “the only way to vindicate ourselves from suspicion is, to submit to a search.”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul promptly.
Both boys turned their pockets inside out, but the missing money was not found.
“There is my overcoat, sir,” said Dawkins, “will you be kind enough to search it for yourself?”
Next, of course, Paul’s overcoat was searched.
What was our hero’s dismay when from one of the pockets Mr. Danforth produced a fifty dollar bill.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed in as much grief as surprise, “Unhappy boy, how came you by this money in your pocket?”
“I don’t know, sir,” returned Paul, his cheek alternately flushing and growing pale.
“I wish I could believe you,” said Mr. Danforth; “where have you put the other bills? Produce them, and I may overlook this first offense.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Paul, in great distress, “I have not the slightest knowledge of how this bill came into my pocket. I hope you will believe me, sir.”
“How can I? The money evidently did not go into your pocket without hands.”
A sudden thought came to Paul. “Dawkins,” said he, “did you put that money into my pocket?”
“What do you mean, sir?” returned Dawkins, haughtily. “Is it your intention to insult me?”
Dawkins could not prevent his face from flushing as he spoke, but this might easily be referred to a natural resentment of the imputation cast upon him.
“Paul,” said his employer, coldly, “you will not help your own cause by seeking to involve another. After what has happened you can hardly expect me to retain you in my employment. I will not make public your disgrace,
nor will I inquire farther for the remainder of the money for which you have been willing to barter your integrity. I will pay your wages up to the end of this week, and—-“
“Mr. Danforth,” said Paul, manfully,
though the tears almost choked his utterance, “I am sorry that you have no better opinion of me. I do not want the balance of my wages. If I have taken so large a sum which did not belong to me, I have no claim to them.
Good-morning, sir. Sometime I hope you will think better of me.”
Paul put on his coat, and taking his cap from the nail on which it hung, bowed respectfully to his employer and left the office.
Mr. Danforth looked after him, and seemed perplexed. Could Paul be guilty after all?
“I never could have suspected him if I had not this evidence in my hand,” said Mr. Danforth, to himself, fixing his eyes upon the bill which he had drawn from Paul’s overcoat.
“Dawkins, did you observe whether Paul remained long in the office?” he asked,
“Longer than sufficient to lay the letters on the desk?”
“Yes, sir, I think he did.”
“Did you notice whether he went to his overcoat after coming out?”
“Yes, sir, he did,” said Dawkins, anxious to fix in Mr. Danforth’s mind the impression of Paul’s guilt.
“Then I am afraid it is true,” said his employer sadly. “And yet, what a fine, manly boy he is too. But it is a terrible fault.”
Mr. Danforth was essentially a kind-hearted man, and he cared much more for Paul’s dereliction from honesty than for the loss of the
money. Going home early to dinner, he communicated to his wife the unpleasant
discovery which he had made respecting Paul.
Now, from the first, Paul had been a great favorite with Mrs. Danforth, and she scouted at the idea of his dishonesty.
“Depend upon it, Mr. Danforth,” she said decisively, “you have done the boy an injustice. I have some skill in reading faces, and I tell you that a boy with Paul Prescott’s open, frank expression is incapable of such a crime.”
“So I should have said, my dear, but we men learn to be less trustful than you ladies, who stay at home and take rose-colored views of life. Unfortunately, we see too much of the dark side of human nature.”
“So that you conclude all to be dark.”
“Not so bad as that.”
“Tell me all the circumstances, and perhaps a woman’s wit may help you.”
Mr. Danforth communicated all the details, with which the reader is already familiar.
“What sort of a boy is this Dawkins?” she asked, “Do you like him?”
“Not particularly. He does his duties passably well. I took him into my counting-room to oblige his father.”
“Perhaps he is the thief.”
“To tell the truth I would sooner have suspected him.”
“Has he cleared himself from suspicion?”
“He was the first to suggest a search.”
“Precisely the thing he would have done, if he had placed the bill in Paul’s pocket. Of course he would know that the search must result favorably for him.”
“There is something in that.”
“Besides, what could have been more foolish, if Paul wished to hide the money, than to multiply his chances of detection by hiding it in two different places, especially where one was so obvious as to afford no concealment at all.”
“Admitting this to be true, how am I to arrive at the proof of Paul’s innocence?”
“My own opinion is, that George Dawkins has the greater part of the money stolen. Probably he has taken it for some particular purpose. What it is, you may learn, perhaps, by watching him.”
“I will be guided by your suggestion. Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than to find that I have been mistaken in assuming Paul’s guilt, though on evidence that seemed convincing.”
This conversation took place at the dinner- table. Mr. Danforth understood that no time was to be lost if he expected to gain any information from the movements of his clerk.
George Dawkins had ventured upon a bold act, but he had been apparently favored by fortune, and had succeeded. That he should have
committed this crime without compunction could hardly be expected. His uneasiness, however, sprang chiefly from the fear that in some way he might yet be detected.
He resolved to get rid of the money which he had obtained dishonestly, and obtain back from Duval the acknowledgment of indebtedness which he had given him.
You will perhaps ask whether the wrong which he had done Paul affected him with uneasiness. On the contrary, it gratified the dislike which from the first he had cherished towards our hero.
“I am well rid of him, at all events,” he muttered to himself, “that is worth risking some thing for.”
When office hours were over Dawkins gladly threw down his pen, and left the counting-room.
He bent his steps rapidly towards the locality where he had before met Duval. He had decided to wait some time before meeting that worthy. He had to wait till another day, when as he was emerging from the tavern he encountered
the Frenchman on the threshold.
“Aha, my good friend,” said Duval, offering his hand, which Dawkins did not appear to see, “I am very glad to see you. Will you come in?”
“No, I have not time,” said Dawkins, shortly.
“Have you brought me my money?”
“Yes.”
“Aha, that is well. I was just about what you call cleaned out.”
“Have you my note with you?”
Duval fumbled in his pocket-book, and finally produced the desired document.
“Give it to me.”
“I must have the money first,” said the Frenchman, shrewdly.
“Take it,” said Dawkins contemptuously. “Do you judge me by yourself?”
He tore the note which he received into small pieces, and left Duval without another word.
Sheltered by the darkness, Mr. Danforth, who had tracked the steps of Dawkins, had been an unseen witness of this whole transaction.
XXXII.
RIGHT TRIUMPHANT.
George Dawkins resumed his duties the next morning as usual. Notwithstanding the crime he had committed to screen himself from the consequences of a lighter fault, he felt immeasurably relieved at the thought that he had shaken himself free from the clutches of Duval. His satisfaction was heightened by the disgrace and summary dismissal of Paul, whom he had never liked. He decided to ask the place for a cousin of his own, whose society would be more agreeable to him than that of his late associate.
“Good-morning, sir,” he said, as Mr. Danforth entered.
“Good-morning,” returned his employer, coldly.
“Have you selected any one in Prescott’s place, yet, sir?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I have a cousin, Malcolm Harcourt, who would be glad to take it.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Danforth, whose manner somewhat puzzled Dawkins.
“I should enjoy having him with me,”
continued Dawkins.
“Did you like Prescott?”
“No, sir,” said Dawkins, promptly, “I didn’t want to say so before, but now, since he’s turned out so badly, I don’t mind saying that I never thought much of him.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Danforth, “I liked him from the first. Perhaps we are wrong in thinking that he took the money.”
“I should think there could be no doubt of it,” said Dawkins, not liking the sympathy and returning good feeling for Paul which his employer manifested.
“I don’t agree with you,” said Mr. Danforth, coldly. “I have decided to reinstate Paul in his former place.”
“Then, if any more money is missing, you will know where it has gone,” said Dawkins, hastily.
“I shall.”
“Then there is no chance for my cousin?”
“I am expecting to have a vacancy.”
Dawkins looked up in surprise.
“I shall require some one to fill YOUR place,” said Mr. Danforth, significantly.
“Sir!” exclaimed Dawkins, in astonishment and dismay.
His employer bent a searching glance upon him as he asked, sternly, “where did you obtain the money which you paid away last evening?”
“I–don’t–understand–you, sir,” gasped Dawkins, who understood only too well.
“You met a man at the door of a low tavern in–Street, last evening, to whom you paid one hundred and fifty dollars, precisely the sum which I lost yesterday.”
“Who has been slandering me, sir?” asked Dawkins, very pale.
“An eye-witness of the meeting, who heard the conversation between you. If you want more satisfactory proof, here it is.”
Mr. Danforth took from his pocket-book the torn fragments of the note which Dawkins had given to Duval.
“Here is an obligation to pay a certain Duval the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars. It bears your signature. How you could have incurred such a debt to him you best know.”
Dawkins maintained a sullen silence.
“I suppose you wish me to leave your employment,” he said at length.
“You are right. Hold,” he added, as Dawkins was about leaving the room, “a word more. It is only just that you should make a
restitution of the sum which you have taken. If you belonged to a poor family and there were extenuating circumstances, I might
forego my claim. But your father is abundantly able to make good the loss, and I shall
require you to lay the matter before him without loss of time. In consideration
of your youth, I shall not bring the matter before the public tribunals, as I have a right to do.”
Dawkins turned pale at this allusion, and muttering some words to the effect that he would do what he could, left the counting-room.
This threat proved not to be without its effect. The next day he came to Mr. Danforth and brought the sum for which he had become responsible. He had represented to his father that he had had his pocket picked of this sum belonging to Mr. Danforth, and in that manner obtained an equal amount to replace it. It was some time before Mr. Dawkins learned the truth. Then came a storm of reproaches in which all the bitterness of his father’s nature was fully exhibited. There had never been much love between father and son. Henceforth there was open hatred.
We must return to Paul, whom we left in much trouble.
It was a sad walk which he took homeward on the morning of his dismissal.
“What brings you home so early?” asked Mrs. Cameron, looking up from her baking, as Paul entered.
Paul tried to explain, but tears came to his eyes, and sobs choked his utterance.
“Are you sick, Paul?” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, in alarm.
“No, Aunt Hester.”
“Then what is the matter?” she asked anxiously.
“I have lost my place.”
“Poor boy! I am very sorry to hear it. But it might have been worse.”
“No, not very well, Aunt Hester, for Mr. Danforth thinks I have taken some of his money.”
“He is very unjust!” exclaimed Aunt Hester, indignantly, “he ought to have known better than to think you would steal.”
“Why, no,” said Paul, candidly, “I must confess the evidence was against me, and he doesn’t know me as well as you do, Aunt Hester.”
“Tell me all about it, Paul.”
Aunt Hester sat down and listened
attentively to our hero’s story.
“How do you account for the money being found in your pocket?” she asked at length.
“I think it must have been put there by some one else.”
“Have you any suspicions?”
“Yes,” said Paul, a little reluctantly, “but I don’t know whether I ought to have. I may be wronging an innocent person.”
“At any rate it won’t do any harm to tell me.”
“You’ve heard me speak of George Dawkins?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t help thinking that he put the fifty dollars into my pocket, and took the rest himself.”
“How very wicked he must be!” exclaimed Mrs. Cameron, indignantly.
“Don’t judge him too hastily; Aunt Hester, he may not be guilty, and I know from my own experience how hard it is to be accused when you are innocent.”
Soon after the sexton came in, and Paul of course, told his story over again.
“Never mind, Paul,” said Uncle Hugh, cheerily. “You know your own innocence; that is the main thing. It’s a great thing to have a clear conscience.”
“But I liked Mr. Danforth and I think he liked me. It’s hard to feel that he and Mrs. Danforth will both think me guilty, especially after the kindness which I have experienced from them.”
“We all have our crosses, my boy,–some light and others heavy. Yours, I admit is a heavy one for a boy to bear. But when men are unjust there is One above who will deal justly with us. You have not forgotten him.”
“No, Uncle Hugh,” said Paul, reverently.
“Trust in him, Paul, and all will come out right at last. He can prove your innocence, and you may be sure he will, in his own good time. Only be patient, Paul.”
“I will try to be, Uncle Hugh.”
The simple, hearty trust in God, which the sexton manifested, was not lost upon Paul. Sustained by his own consciousness of innocence, and the confidence reposed in him by
those who knew him best, his mind soon regained its cheerful tone. He felt an inward conviction that God would vindicate his innocence.
His vindication came sooner than he anticipated.
The next day as the sexton’s family were seated at their plain dinner, a knock was heard upon the outer door.
“Sit still, Hester,” said Mr. Cameron. “I will go to the door.”
Opening the door he recognized Mr. Danforth, who attended the same church.
“Mr. Cameron, I believe,” said Mr. Danforth, pleasantly.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I come in? I am here on a little business.”
“Certainly, Mr. Danforth. Excuse my not inviting you before; but in my surprise at seeing you, I forgot my politeness.”
The sexton led the way into the plain sitting-room.
“I believe Paul Prescott is an inmate of your family.”
“Yes, sir. I am sorry—-“
“I know what you would say, sir; but it is needless. May I see Paul a moment?”
Paul was surprised at the summons, and still more surprised at finding who it was that wished to see him.
He entered the room slowly, uncertain how to accost Mr. Danforth. His employer solved the doubt in his mind by advancing cordially, and taking his hand.
“Paul,” he said pleasantly, “I have come here to ask your forgiveness for an injustice, and to beg you to resume your place in my counting-room.”
“Have you found out who took the money, sir?” asked Paul, eagerly.
“Yes.”
“Who was it, sir?”
“It was Dawkins.”
Mr. Danforth explained how he had become acquainted with the real thief. In conclusion, he said, “I shall expect you back to-morrow morning, Paul.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Dawkins of course leaves my employ. You will take his place, and receive his salary, seven dollars a week instead of five. Have you any friend whom you would like to have in your own place?”
Paul reflected a moment and finally named a schoolmate of his, the son of poor parents, whom he knew to be anxiously seeking a situation, but without influential friends to help him.
“I will take him on your recommendation,” said Mr. Danforth, promptly. “Can you see him this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul.
The next day Paul resumed his place in Mr. Danforth’s counting-room.
XXXIII.
PAUL REDEEMS HIS PLEDGE.
Two years passed, unmarked by any
incident of importance. Paul continued in Mr. Danforth’s employment, giving, if possible, increased satisfaction. He was not only faithful, but exhibited a rare aptitude for business, which made his services of great value to his employer. From time to time Mr. Danforth increased his salary, so that, though only nineteen, he was now receiving twelve dollars per week, with the prospect of a speedy
increase. But with his increasing salary, he did not increase his expenses. He continued as economical as ever. He had not forgotten his father’s dying injunction. He remained true to the charge which he had taken upon himself, that of redeeming his father’s memory from reproach. This, at times subjected him to the imputation of meanness, but for this he cared little. He would not swerve from the line of duty which he had marked out.
One evening as he was walking down Broadway with an acquaintance, Edward Hastings,
who was employed in a counting-room near him, they paused before a transparency in front of a hall brilliantly lighted.
“The Hutchinsons are going to sing to-night, Paul,” said Hastings. “Did you ever hear them?”
“No; but I have often wished to.”
“Then suppose we go in.”
“No, I believe not.”
“Why not. Paul? It seems to me you never go anywhere. You ought to amuse yourself now and then.”
“Some other time I will,–not now.”
“You are not required to be at home in the evening, are you?”
“No.”
“Then why not come in now? It’s only twenty-five cents.”