He handed the letter to Robert, who surveyed it with curiosity. It was postmarked “Boston,” and addressed in a bold business hand to “Mrs. Captain Rushton, Millville.”
“Who can be writing to mother from Boston?” thought Robert.
The size of the letter also excited his curiosity. There were two stamps upon it, and it appeared bulky. Robert hurried home, and rushed into the kitchen where his mother was at work.
“Here’s a letter for you, mother,” he said.
“A letter for me!” repeated Mrs. Rushton.
“From Boston.”
“I don’t know who would be likely to write me from there. Open it for me, Robert.”
He tore open the envelope. It contained two inclosures–one a letter in the same handwriting as the address; the other a large sheet of foolscap rumpled up, and appearing once to have been rolled up, was written in pencil. Mrs. Rushton had no sooner looked at the latter than she exclaimed, in agitation: “Robert, it is your father’s handwriting. Read it to me, I am too agitated to make it out.”
Robert was equally excited. Was his father still alive, or was this letter a communication from the dead?
“First let me read the other,” he said. “It will explain about this.”
His mother sank back into a chair too weak with agitation to stand, while her son rapidly read the following letter:
“BOSTON, August 15, 1853.
MRS. RUSHTON, DEAR MADAM: The fate
of our ship _Norman_, which left this port now more than two years since, under the command of your husband, has until now been veiled in uncertainty. We had given up all hopes of obtaining any light upon the circumstances of its loss, when by a singular chance information was brought us yesterday. The ship
_Argo_, while in the South Pacific, picked up a bottle floating upon the surface of the water. On opening it, it was found to contain two communications, one addressed to us, the other to you, the latter to be forwarded to you by us. Ours contains the particulars of the loss of the _Norman_, and doubtless your own letter also contains the same particulars. There is a bare possibility that your husband is still alive, but as so long a period has passed since the letters were written it would not be well to place too much confidence in such a hope. But even if Captain Rushton is dead, it will be a sad satisfaction to you to receive from him this last communication, and learn the particulars of his loss. We lose no time in forwarding to you the letter referred to, and remain, with much sympathy, yours respectfully,
WINSLOW & CO.”
Mrs. Rushton listened to this letter with eager and painful interest, her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed upon Robert.
“Now read your father’s letter,” she said, in a low tone.
Robert unfolded the sheet, and his eyes filled with tears as he gazed upon the well-known handwriting of the father whose loss he had so long lamented. This letter, too, we transcribe:
“November 7, 1851.
MY DEAR WIFE AND SON: Whether these
lines will ever meet your eyes I know not. Whether I will be permitted again to look upon your dear faces, I also am ignorant. The good ship _Norman_, in which I sailed from Boston not quite three months ago, is burned to the water’s edge, and I find myself, with five of the sailors, afloat on the vast sea at the mercy of the elements, and with a limited supply of food. The chances are against our ever seeing land. Hundreds of miles away from any known
shores, our only hope of safety is in attracting the attention of some vessel. In the broad pathways of the ocean such a chance is doubtful. Fortunately I have a few sheets of paper and a pencil with me, and I write these lines, knowing well how improbable it is that you will ever read them. Yet it is a satisfaction to do what I can to let you know the
position in which I stand.
But for the revengeful and malignant disposition of one man I should still be walking
the deck of the _Norman_ as its captain. But to my story: My first mate was a man named Haley–Benjamin Haley–whose name you will perhaps remember. He was born in our neighborhood, or, at all events, once lived there, being the nephew of old Paul Nichols. He was a wild young man, and bore a bad reputation. Finally he disappeared, and, as it
seems, embraced the profession of a sailor. I was not prepossessed in his favor, and was not very well pleased to find him my second in command. However, he was regularly engaged, and it was of no use for me to say anything against him. I think, however, that he
suspected the state of my feelings, as, while studiously polite, I did not make an effort to be cordial. At any rate, he must have taken a dislike to me early in the voyage, though whether at that time he meditated evil, I cannot say.
After a time I found that he was disposed to encroach upon my prerogatives as captain of the vessel, and issue commands which he knew to be in defiance of my wishes. You can imagine that I would not pass over such conduct unnoticed. I summoned him to an interview, and informed him in decided terms
that I must be master in my own ship. He said little, but I saw from his expression that there could thereafter be no amicable relations between us.
I pass over the days that succeeded–days in which Haley went to the furthest verge of insolence that he felt would be safe. At length, carried away by impatience, I reprimanded him publicly. He grew pale with
passion, turned on his heel, and strode away. That night I was roused from my sleep by the cry of ‘Fire!’ I sprang to my feet and took immediate measures to extinguish the flames. But the incendiary had taken care to do his work so well that it was already impossible.
I did not at first miss Haley, until, inquiring for him, I learned that he was missing, and one of the ship’s boats. It was evident that he had deliberately fired the ship in order to revenge himself upon me. His hatred
must have been extreme, or he would not have been willing to incur so great a risk. Though he escaped from the ship, his position in an open boat must be extremely perilous.
When all hope of saving the ship was abandoned, we manned the remaining boats hastily, putting in each such a stock of provisions as we could carry without overloading the boats. Twenty-four hours have now passed, and we are still tossing about on the ocean. A storm would be our destruction. At this solemn time, my dear wife, my thoughts turn to you and my dear son, whom I am likely never to see again. There is one thing most of all which I wish you to know, but can hardly hope that these few lines will reach you. Just before I left home, on my present voyage, I deposited five thousand dollars with Mr. Davis, the superintendent of the factory, in trust for you, in case I should not return. You will be surprised to learn that I have so much money. It has been the accumulation of years, and was intended as a provision for you and Robert. I have no reason to doubt the integrity of Mr. Davis, yet I wish I had acquainted you with the fact of this deposit, and placed his written acknowledgment in your hands. My reason for concealment was, that I might surprise you at the end of this voyage.
When this letter comes to hand (if it ever should come to hand), in case the superintendent has not accounted to you for the money
placed in his hands, let Robert go to him and claim the money in my name. But I can hardly believe this to be necessary. Should I never return, I am persuaded that Mr. Davis will be true to the trust I have reposed in him, and come forward like an honest man to your relief.
And now, my dear wife and son, farewell! My hope is weak that I shall ever again see you, yet it is possible. May Heaven bless you, and permit us to meet again in another world, if not in this!
I shall inclose this letter, and one to my owners, in a bottle, which I have by me, and commit it to the sea, trusting that the merciful waves may waft it to the shore.”
Here Captain Rushton signed his name.
The feelings with which Robert read and his mother listened to this letter, were varied. Love and pity for the husband and father, now doubtless long dead, were blended with surprise at the revelation of the deposit made in the hands of the superintendent of the mill.
“Mother,” said Robert, “did you know anything of this money father speaks of?”
“No,” said Mrs. Rushton, “he never told me. It is strange that Mr. Davis has never informed us of it. Two years have passed, and we have long given him up as lost.”
“Mother,” said Robert, “it is my opinion that he never intends to let us know.”
“I cannot believe he would be so dishonorable.”
“But why should he keep back the knowledge? He knows that we are poor and need the money.”
“But he has the reputation of an honorable man.”
“Many have had that reputation who do not deserve it,” said Robert. “The temptation must have proved too strong for him.”
“What shall we do?”
“I know what I am going to do,” said Robert, resolutely. “I am going to his house, and shall claim restitution of the money which father intrusted to him. He has had it two years, and, with the interest, it will amount to nearer six than five thousand dollars. It will be a fortune, mother.”
“Don’t be hasty or impetuous, Robert,” said his mother. “Speak to him respectfully.”
“I shall be civil if he is,” said Robert.
He took his cap, and putting it on, left the cottage and walked with a quick pace to the house of the superintendent.
CHAPTER XX.
A DISAGEEEABLE SURPRISE.
Mr. Davis was seated in his office, but it was his own personal affairs rather than the business of the factory that engaged his attention. He was just in receipt of a letter from his broker in New York, stating that there were but slender chances of a rise in the price of some securities in which he had invested heavily. He was advised to sell out at once, in order to guard against a probable further depreciation. This was far from satisfactory, since an immediate sale would involve a loss of nearly a thousand dollars. Mr. Davis felt despondent, and, in consequence, irritable. It was at this moment that one of the factory hands came in and told him that Robert Rushton wished to see him.
The superintendent would have refused an interview but for one consideration. He thought that our hero was about to beg to be taken back into his employ. This request he intended to refuse, and enjoyed in advance the humiliation of young Rushton.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Robert, removing his hat on entering.
“I suppose you want to be taken back,” said the superintendent, abruptly.
“No, sir,” said Robert. “I have come on quite a different errand.”
Mr. Davis was disappointed. He was cheated of his expected triumph. Moreover, looking into our young hero’s face, he saw that he was entirely self-possessed, and had by no means the air of one about to ask a favor.
“Then state your business at once,” he said, roughly. “My time is too valuable to be taken up by trifles.”
“My business is important to both of us,” said Robert. “We have just received a letter from my father.”
The superintendent started and turned pale. This was the most unwelcome intelligence he could have received. He supposed, of course, that Captain Rushton was alive, and likely to reclaim the sum, which he was in no position to surrender,
“Your father!” he stammered. “Where is he? I thought he was dead.”
“I am afraid he is,” said Robert, soberly.
“Then how can you just have received a letter from him?” demanded Mr. Davis, recovering from his momentary dismay.
“The letter was inclosed in a bottle, which was picked up in the South Pacific, and brought to the owners of the vessel. My father’s ship was burned to the water’s edge, and at the time of writing the letter he was afloat on the ocean with five of his sailors in a small boat.”
“How long ago was this? I mean when was the letter dated.”
“Nearly two years ago–in the November after he sailed.”
“Then, of course, he must have perished,” said the superintendent, with a feeling of satisfaction. “However, I suppose your mother is glad to have heard from him. Is that all you have to tell me?”
“No, sir,” said Robert, looking boldly in the face of his former employer. “My father added in his letter, that just before sailing he deposited with you the sum of five thousand dollars, to be given to my mother in case he never returned.”
So the worst had come! The dead had revealed the secret which the superintendent hoped would never be known. He was threatened with ruin. He had no means of paying the deposit unless by sacrificing all his property, and it was doubtful whether even then he would be able wholly to make it up. If Robert possessed his acknowledgment he would have no defense to make. This he must ascertain before committing himself.
“Supposing this story to be true,” he said, in a half-sneering tone, “you are, of course, prepared to show me my receipt for the money?”
“That my father carried away with him. He did not send it with the letter.”
All the superintendent’s confidence returned. He no longer felt afraid, since all evidence of the deposit was doubtless at the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain. He resolved to deny the trust altogether.
“Rushton,” he said, “I have listened patiently to what you had to say, and in return I answer that in the whole course of my life I have never known of a more barefaced attempt at fraud. In this case you have selected the wrong customer.”
“What!” exclaimed Robert, hardly crediting the testimony of his ears; “do you mean to deny that my father deposited five thousand dollars with you just before sailing on his last voyage?”
“I certainly do, and in the most unqualified terms. Had such been the case, do you think I would have kept the knowledge of it from your mother so long after your father’s supposed death?”
“There might be reasons for that,” said Robert, significantly.
“None of your impertinent insinuations, you young rascal,” said Mr. Davis, hotly. “The best advice I can give you is, to say nothing to any one about this extraordinary claim. It will only injure you, and I shall be compelled to resort to legal measures to punish you for circulating stories calculated to injure my reputation.”
If the superintendent expected to intimidate Robert by this menace he was entirely mistaken in the character of our young hero. He bore the angry words and threatening glances of his enemy without quailing, as resolute and determined as ever.
“Mr. Davis,” he said, “if there is no truth in this story, do you think my father, with death before his eyes, would have written it to my mother?”
“I have no evidence, except your word, that any such letter has been received.”
“I can show it to you, if you desire it, in my father’s handwriting.”
“We will suppose, then, for a moment, that such a letter has been received, and was written by your father. I can understand how, being about to die, and feeling that his family were without provision, he should have written such a letter with the intention of giving you a claim upon me, whom he no doubt selected supposing me to be a rich man. It was not justifiable, but something can be excused to a man finding himself in such a position.”
Robert was filled with indignation as he listened to this aspersion upon his father’s memory. He would not have cared half so much for any insult to himself.
“Mr. Davis,” he said, boldly, “it is enough for you to cheat my mother out of the money which my father left her, but when you accuse my father of fraud you go too far. You know better than any one that everything which he wrote is true.”
The superintendent flushed under the boy’s honest scorn, and, unable to defend himself truthfully, he worked himself into a rage.
“What! do you dare insult me in my own office?” he exclaimed, half rising from his desk, and glaring at our hero. “Out of my sight at once, or I may be tempted to strike you!”
“Before I leave you, Mr. Davis,” said Robert, undauntedly, “I wish you to tell me finally whether you deny the deposit referred to in my father’s letter?”
“And I tell you, once for all,” exclaimed the superintendent, angrily, “if you don’t get out of my office I will kick you out.”
“I will leave you now,” said our hero, not intimidated; “but you have not heard the last of me. I will not rest until I see justice done to my mother.”
So saying, he walked deliberately from the office, leaving Mr. Davis in a state of mind no means comfortable. True, the receipt had doubtless gone to the bottom of the sea with the ill-fated captain, and, as no one was cognizant of the transaction, probably no claim could be enforced against his denial. But if the letter should be shown, as Robert would doubtless be inclined to do, he was aware that, however the law might decide, popular opinion would be against him, and his reputation would be ruined. This was an unpleasant prospect, as the superintendent valued his character. Besides, the five thousand dollars were gone and not likely to be recovered. Had they still been in his possession, that would have been some compensation.
CHAPTER XXI.
A DENIAL.
Robert left the superintendent’s office in deep thought. He understood very well that it would be impossible to enforce his claim without more satisfactory testimony than his father’s letter. If any one had been cognizant of the transaction between Mr. Davis and his father it would have helped matters, but no one, so far as he knew, was even aware that his father had possessed so large a sum as five thousand dollars. Had Captain Rushton inclosed the receipt, that would have been sufficient, but it had probably gone to the bottom with him. But, after all, was it certain that his father was dead? It was not certain, but our hero was forced to admit that the chances of his father’s being alive were extremely slender.
Finding himself utterly at a loss, he resolved to call upon his firm friend, Squire Paine, the lawyer. Going to his office, he was fortunate enough to find him in, and unengaged.
“Good-morning, Robert,” said the lawyer, pleasantly.
“Good-morning, sir. You find me a frequent visitor.”
“Always welcome,” was the pleasant reply. “You know I am your banker, and it is only natural for you to call upon me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Robert, smiling; “but it is on different business that I have come to consult you this morning.”
“Go on. I will give you the best advice in my power.”
The lawyer listened with surprise to the story Robert had to tell.
“This is certainly a strange tale,” he said, after a pause.
“But a true one,” said Robert, hastily.
“I do not question that. It affords another illustration of the old saying that truth is stranger than fiction. That a letter committed to the deep so many thousand miles away should have finally reached its destination is very remarkable, I may say Providential.”
“Do you think there is any chance of my father being yet alive?”
“There is a bare chance, but I cannot encourage you to place much reliance upon it.”
“If he had been picked up by any vessel I suppose he would have written.”
“You would doubtless have seen him at home before this time in that case. Still there might be circumstances,” added the lawyer, slowly, “that would prevent his communicating with friends at home. For instance, his boat might have drifted to some uninhabited island out of the course of ordinary navigation. I don’t say it is at all probable, but there is such a probability.”
“Is there any chance of making Mr. Davis return the money my father deposited with him?”
“There again there are difficulties. He may demand the return of his receipt, or he may continue to deny the trust altogether.”
“Won’t the letter prove anything?”
“It may produce a general conviction that such a deposit was made, since, admitting the letter to be genuine, no one, considering especially the character of your father, can readily believe that in the immediate presence of death he would make any such statement unless thoroughly reliable. But moral conviction and legal proof are quite different things. Unless that receipt is produced I don’t see that anything can be done.”
“Perhaps my father might have put that in a bottle also at a later date.”
“He might have done so when he became satisfied that there was no chance of a rescue. But even supposing him to have done it, the chances are ten to one that it will never find its way to your mother. The reception of the first letter was almost a miracle.”
“I have no doubt you are right, Mr. Paine,” said Robert; “but it seems very hard that my poor father’s hard earnings should go to such an unprincipled man, and my mother be left destitute.”
“That is true, Robert, but I am obliged to say that your only hope is in awakening Mr. Davis to a sense of justice.”
“There isn’t much chance of that,” said Robert, shaking his head.
“If you will leave the matter in my hands, I will call upon him to-night, and see what I can do.”
“I shall feel very glad if you will do so, Squire Paine. I don’t want to leave anything undone.”
“Then I will do so. I don’t imagine it will do any good, but we can but try.”
Robert left the office, making up his mind to await the report of the lawyer’s visit before moving further.
That evening, the lawyer called at the house of the superintendent. Mrs. Davis and Halbert were in the room. After a little unimportant conversation, he said:
“Mr. Davis, may I ask the favor of a few minutes’ conversation with you in private?”
“Certainly,” said the superintendent, quite in the dark as to the business which had called his guest to the house. He led the way into another room, and both took seats.
“I may as well say to begin with,” commenced the lawyer, “that I call in behalf of the family of the late Captain Rushton.”
The superintendent started nervously.
“That boy has lost no time,” he muttered to himself.
“I suppose you understand what I have to say?”
“I presume I can guess,” said the superintendent, coldly. “The boy came into my office this morning, and made a most extraordinary claim, which I treated with contempt. Finding him persistent I ordered him out of my office. I need not say that no sane man would for a moment put confidence in such an incredible story or claim.”
“I can’t quite agree with you there,” said the lawyer, quietly. “There is nothing incredible about the story. It is remarkable, I grant, but such things have happened before, and will again.”
“I suppose you refer to the picking up of the bottle at sea.”
“Yes; I fail to see what there is incredible about it. If the handwriting can be identified as that of the late Captain Rushton, and Robert says both his mother and himself recognized it, the story becomes credible and will meet with general belief.”
“I thought you were too sensible and practical a man,” said the superintendent, sneering, “to be taken in by so palpable a humbug. Why, it reads like a romance.”
“In spite of all that, it may be true enough,” returned the lawyer, composedly.
“You may believe it, if you please. It seems to me quite unworthy of belief.”
“Waiving that point, Robert, doubtless, acquainted you with the statement made in the letter that Captain Rushton, just before sailing on his last voyage, deposited with you five thousand dollars. What have you to say to that?”
“What have I to say?” returned the superintendent. “That Captain Rushton never possessed five thousand dollars in his life. I don’t believe he possessed one quarter of the sum.”
“What authority have you for saying that? Did he make you his confidant?” asked the lawyer, keenly.
“Yes,” said the superintendent, promptly. “When last at home, he called at my house one day, and in the course of conversation remarked that sailors seldom saved any money. ‘For instance,’ said he, ‘I have followed the sea for many years, and have many times resolved to accumulate a provision for my wife and child, but as yet I have scarcely done more than to begin.’ He then told me that he had little more than a thousand dollars, but meant to increase that, if possible, during his coming voyage.”
To this statement Squire Paine listened attentively, fully believing it to be an impromptu fabrication, as it really was.
“Did he say anything about what he had done with this thousand dollars or more?” he asked.
“A part he left for his wife to draw from time to time for expenses; the rest, I suppose, he took with him.”
Mr. Paine sat silent for a moment. Things looked unpromising, he couldn’t but acknowledge, for his young client. In the absence of legal proof, and with an adroit and unscrupulous antagonist, whose interests were so strongly enlisted in defeating justice, it was difficult to see what was to be done.
“I understand then, Mr. Davis,” he said, finally, “that you deny the justice of this claim?”
“Certainly I do,” said the superintendent. “It is a palpable fraud. This boy is a precocious young swindler, and will come to a bad end.”
“I have a different opinion of him.”
“You are deceived in him, then. I have no doubt he got up the letter himself.”
“I don’t agree with you. I have seen the letter; it is in Captain Rushton’s handwriting. Moreover, I have seen the letter of the owners, which accompanied it.”
The superintendent was in a tight place, and he knew it. But there was nothing to do but to persist in his denial.
“Then I can only say that Captain Rushton was a party to the fraud,” he said.
“You must be aware, Mr. Davis, that when the public learns the facts in the case, the general belief will be the other way.”
“I can’t help that,” said the other, doggedly. “Whatever the public chooses to think, I won’t admit the justice of this outrageous claim.”
“Then I have only to bid you good-evening,” said the lawyer, coldly, affecting not to see the hand which the superintendent extended. The latter felt the slight, and foresaw that from others he must expect similar coldness, but there was no help for it. To restore the money would be ruin. He had entered into the path of dishonesty, and he was forced to keep on in it.
CHAPTER XXII.
ROBERT’S NEW PROJECT.
Mr. Paine called at Mrs. Rushton’s cottage, and communicated the particulars of his interview with the superintendent.
“It is evident,” he said, “that Mr. Davis is swayed by his interests, and feeling legally secure, prefers to defraud you rather than to surrender the five thousand dollars.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it of Mr. Davis,” said Mrs. Rushton; “he is considered such a respectable man.”
“I have heard rumors that he is dabbling in speculations, and I suspect he may find it inconvenient to pay away so large a sum of money.”
“He had no right to speculate with my mother’s money,” said Robert, indignantly.
“You are right there. He should have invested it securely.”
“Mr. Paine,” said Robert, after a pause, “I have an idea that father is still living, and that some day I shall find him.”
The lawyer shook his head.
“There is not one chance in ten that he is living,” he said. “It is only a fancy of yours.”
“It may be, but I can’t get it out of my head.”
“I hope you will prove correct, but I need not tell you of the many arguments against such a theory.”
“I know them all, but still I believe he is living. Mr. Paine,” continued Robert, earnestly, “I feel so strongly on the subject that, with my mother’s permission, I, mean to go out into the world in search of him.”
“I must say, Robert,” said Mr. Paine, “I did not expect such a visionary scheme from a boy of your good sense. You must see yourself how wild it is.”
“I know it,” said our hero; “but I want to take a year, at any rate, to see the world. If, at the end of that time, I discover no trace of my father, I will come home content.”
“But what will become of your mother during that time?”
“I will leave four hundred dollars in your hands for her. The rest I will draw for my own uses.”
“But you don’t expect to travel round the world on two hundred dollars, surely?” said the lawyer.
“I shall work my way as far as I can,” said Robert. “I can’t afford to travel as a gentleman.”
“Suppose you find yourself without money in a foreign land?”
“I am not afraid. I am willing to work, and I can make my way.”
“Surely, Mrs. Rushton, you do not approve Robert’s scheme?” said Mr. Paine.
But to his surprise he found that Mrs. Rushton was inclined to regard it favorably. She seemed to share Robert’s belief that her husband was still living, and that Robert could find him. She was not a woman in the habit of reasoning, and had no conception of the difficulties in his way. The money left behind in the hands of Mr. Paine, supplemented by her own earnings, would be enough to maintain her for two years, and this thought made her easy, for she had a great dread of poverty and destitution.
When the lawyer found how Mrs. Rushton felt on the subject, he ceased his objections to the plan; for, though he had no confidence in our young hero’s success in the object he had in view, he thought that a year’s tour might benefit him by extending his knowledge of the world and increasing his self-reliance.
“How soon do you wish to start, Robert?” he asked.
“It will take me a week to get your clothes ready,” said Mrs. Rushton.
“Then by a week from Monday I will start,” said Robert.
“Have you formed any definite plans about the manner of going?”
“I will go to New York first, and call on the gentleman who got up the subscription for me. I will tell him my story, and ask his advice.”
“The most sensible thing you could do. As to the money, I will have that ready for you. Of course, you will call on me before you go.”
The superintendent had made up his mind that Robert would spread the report of the deposit, and nervously awaited the result. But to his relief he observed no change in the demeanor of his fellow-townsmen. He could only conclude that, for reasons of his own, the boy he had wronged had concluded to defer the exposure. Next he heard with a feeling of satisfaction that Robert had decided to go abroad in quest of his father. He had no doubt that Captain Rushton was dead, and regarded the plan as utterly quixotic and foolish, but still he felt glad that it had been undertaken.
“If the boy never comes back, I shan’t mourn much,” he said to himself. “His mother is a weak woman, who will never give me any trouble, but this young rascal has a strong and resolute will, and I shall feel more comfortable to have him out of the way.”
When Robert got ready to leave he made a farewell call on the lawyer, and drew two hundred dollars of his money.
“I don’t know but one hundred will do,” he said. “Perhaps I ought to leave five hundred for my mother.”
“You carry little enough, Robert. Don’t have any anxiety about your mother. I will not see her suffer.”
Robert grasped his hand in earnest gratitude.
“How can I thank you?” he said.
“You need not thank me. I had a warm regard for your father, and shall be glad to help your mother if there is any occasion. Not only this, but if in your wanderings you find yourself in a tight place, and in want of help, write to me, and I will help you.”
“You are a true friend,” said Robert, gratefully. “I wish my father had intrusted his money to you instead of to the superintendent.”
“I wish he had as matters have turned out, I should have taken care that your interests did not suffer.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Robert, fervently, “if I could only find my father, and bring him home to confront this false friend, and convict him of his base fraud, I believe I would willingly give ten years of my life.”
“That question can only be solved by time. I, too, should earnestly rejoice if such an event could be brought about. And now, Robert, good-by, and Heaven bless you. Don’t forget that you can count always on my friendship and assistance.”
On the way home Robert fell in with Halbert Davis. Halbert, of course, knew nothing of the claim made upon his father, but he had heard that Robert proposed to leave home. He was both sorry and glad on account of this–sorry because he had hoped to see our hero fall into poverty and destitution, and enjoy the spectacle of his humiliation. Now he was afraid Robert would succeed and deprive him of the enjoyment he had counted upon. On the other hand, Robert’s departure would leave the field free so far as concerned Hester Paine, and he hoped to win the favor of that young lady in the absence of any competitor. Of this there was not the slightest chance, but Halbert was blinded by his own vanity to the obvious dislike which Hester entertained for him.
Now when he saw Robert approaching he couldn’t forego the pleasure of a final taunt.
“So you’re going to leave town, Rushton?'” he commenced.
“Yes, Davis,” answered Robert, in the same tone. “Shall you miss me much?”
“I guess I shall live through it,” said Halbert. “I suppose you are going because you can’t make a living here!”
“Not exactly. However, I hope to do better elsewhere.”
“If you’re going to try for a place, you’d better not mention that you got turned out of the factory. You needn’t apply to my father for a recommendation.”
“I shan’t need any recommendation from your father,” said Robert. “He is about the last man that I would apply to.”
“That’s where you are right,” said Halbert. “What sort of a place are you going to try for?”
He knew nothing of Robert’s intention to seek his father, but supposed he meant to obtain a situation in Hew York.
“You seem particularly interested in my movements, Davis.”
“Call me Mr. Davis, if you please,” said Halbert, haughtily.
“When you call me Mr. Rushton, I will return the compliment.”
“You are impertinent.”
“Not more so than you are.”
“You don’t seem to realize the difference in our positions.”
“No, I don’t, except that I prefer my own.”
Disgusted with Robert’s evident determination to withhold the respect which he considered his due, Halbert tried him on another tack.
“Have you bidden farewell to Hester Paine?” he asked, with a sneer.
“Yes,” said Robert.
“I suppose she was very much affected!” continued Halbert.
“She said she was very sorry to part with me.”
“I admire her taste.”
“You would admire it more if she had a higher appreciation of you.”
“I shall be good friends with her, when you are no longer here to slander me to her.”
“I am not quite so mean as that,” said Robert. “If she chooses to like you, I shan’t try to prevent it.”
“I ought to be very much obliged to you, I am sure.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself to be grateful,” returned Robert, coolly. “But I must bid you good-by, as I have considerable to do.”
“Don’t let me detain you,” said Halbert, with an elaborate share of politeness.
“I wonder why Halbert hates me so much!” he thought. “I don’t like him, but I don’t wish him any harm.”
He looked with satisfaction upon a little cornelian ring which he wore upon one of his fingers. It was of very trifling value, but it was a parting gift from Hester, and as such he valued it far above its cost.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A DISHONEST BAGGAGE-SMASHER.
On the next Monday morning Robert started for the city. At the moment of parting he began to realize that he had undertaken a difficult task. His life hitherto had been quiet and free from excitement. Now he was about to go out into the great world, and fight his own way. With only two hundred dollars in his pocket he was going in search of a father, who, when last heard from was floating in an open boat on the South Pacific. The probabilities were all against that father’s being still alive. If he were, he had no clew to his present whereabouts.
All this Robert thought over as he was riding in the cars to the city. He acknowledged that the chances were all against his success, but in spite of all, he had a feeling, for which he could not account, that his father was still living, and that he should find him some day. At any rate, there was something attractive in the idea of going out to unknown lands to meet unknown adventures, and so his momentary depression was succeeded by a return of his old confidence.
Arrived in the city, he took his carpetbag in his hand, and crossing the street, walked at random, not being familiar with the streets, as he had not been in New York but twice before, and that some time since.
“I don’t know where to go,” thought Robert. “I wish I knew where to find some cheap hotel.”
Just then a boy, in well-ventilated garments and a rimless straw hat, with a blacking box over his shoulder, approached.
“Shine your boots, mister?” he asked.
Robert glanced at his shoes, which were rather deficient in polish, and finding that the expense would be only five cents, told him to go ahead.
“I’ll give you the bulliest shine you ever had,” said the ragamuffin.
“That’s right! Go ahead!” said Robert.
When the boy got through, he cast a speculative glance at the carpetbag.
“Smash yer baggage?” le asked.
“What’s that?”
“Carry yer bag.”
“Do you know of any good, cheap hotel where I can put up?” asked Robert.
“Eu-ro-pean hotel?” said the urchin, accenting the second syllable.
“What kind of a hotel is that?”
“You take a room, and get your grub where you like.”
“Yes, that will suit me.”
“I’ll show you one and take yer bag along for two shillings.”
“All right,” said our hero. “Go ahead.”
The boy shouldered the carpetbag and started in advance, Robert following. He found a considerable difference between the crowded streets of New York and the quiet roads of Millville. His spirits rose, and he felt that life was just beginning for him. Brave and bold by temperament, he did not shrink from trying his luck on a broader arena than was afforded by the little village whence he came. Such confidence is felt by many who eventually fail, but Robert was one who combined ability and willingness to work with confidence, and the chances were in favor of his succeeding.
Unused to the city streets, Robert was a little more cautious about crossing than the young Arab who carried his bag. So, at one broad thoroughfare, the latter got safely across, while Robert was still on the other side waiting for a good opportunity to cross in turn. The bootblack, seeing that communication was for the present cut off by a long line of vehicles, was assailed by a sudden temptation. For his services as porter he would receive but twenty-five cents, while here was an opportunity to appropriate the entire bag, which must be far more valuable. He was not naturally a bad boy, but his street education had given him rather loose ideas on the subject of property. Obeying his impulse, then, he started rapidly, bag in hand, up a side street.
“Hold on, there! Where are you going?” called out Robert.
He received no answer, but saw the baggage-smasher quickening his pace and dodging round the corner. He attempted to dash across the street, but was compelled to turn back, after being nearly run over.
“I wish I could get hold of the young rascal!” he exclaimed indignantly.
“Who do you mane, Johnny?” asked a boy at his side.
“A boy has run off with my carpetbag,” said Robert.
“I know him. It’s Jim Malone.”
“Do you know where I can find him?” asked Robert, eagerly. “If you’ll help me get back my bag, I’ll give you a dollar.”
“I’ll do it then. Come along of me. Here’s a chance to cross.”
Following his new guide, Robert dashed across the street at some risk, and found himself safe on the other side.
“Now where do you think he’s gone?” demanded Robert.
“It’s likely he’ll go home.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No.–Mulberry street.”
“Has he got any father and mother?”
“He’s got a mother, but the ould woman’s drunk most all the time.”
“Then she won’t care about his stealing?”
“No, she’ll think he’s smart.”
“Then we’ll go there. Is it far?”
“Not more than twenty minutes.”
The boy was right. Jim steered for home, not being able to open the bag in the street without suspicion. His intention was to appropriate a part of the clothing to his own use, and dispose of the rest to a pawnbroker or second-hand dealer, who, as long as he got a good bargain, would not be too particular about inquiring into the customer’s right to the property. He did not, however, wholly escape suspicion. He was stopped by a policeman, who demanded, “Whose bag is that, Johnny?”
“It belongs to a gentleman that wants it carried to the St. Nicholas,” answered Jim, promptly.
“Where is the gentleman?”
“He’s took a car to Wall street on business.”
“How came he to trust you with the bag? Wasn’t he afraid you’d steal it?”
“Oh, he knows me. I’ve smashed baggage for him more’n once.”
This might be true. At any rate, it was plausible, and the policeman, having no ground of detention, suffered him to go on.
Congratulating himself on getting off so well, Jim sped on his way, and arrived in quick time at the miserable room in Mulberry street, which he called home.
His mother lay on a wretched bed in the corner, half stupefied with drink. She lifted up her head as her son entered.
“What have you there, Jimmy?” she asked.
“It’s a bag, mother.”
“Whose is it?”
“It’s mine now.”
“And where did ye get it?”
“A boy gave it to me to carry to a chape hotel, so I brought it home. This is a chape hotel, isn’t it?”
“You’re a smart boy, an’ I always said it, Jimmy. Let me open it,” and the old woman, with considerable alacrity, rose to her feet and came to Jim’s side.
“I’ll open it myself, mother, that is, I if I had a kay. Haven’t you got one?”
“I have that same. I picked up a bunch of kays in the strate last week.”
She fumbled in her pocket, and drew out half a dozen keys of different sizes, attached to a steel ring.
“Bully for you, old woman!” said Jim. “Give ’em here.”
“Let me open the bag,” said Mrs. Malone, persuasively.
“No, you don’t,” said her dutiful son. “‘Tain’t none of yours. It’s mine.”
“The kays is mine,” said his mother, “and I’ll kape ’em.”
“Give ’em here,” said Jim, finding a compromise necessary, “and I’ll give you fifty cents out of what I get”
“That’s the way to talk, darlint,” said his mother, approvingly. “You wouldn’t have the heart to chate your ould mother out of her share?”
“It’s better I did,” said Jim; “you’ll only get drunk on the money.”
“Shure a little drink will do me no harm,” said Mrs. Malone.
Meanwhile the young Arab had tried key after key until he found one that fitted–the bag flew open, and Robert’s humble stock of clothing lay exposed to view. There was a woolen suit, four shirts, half a dozen collars, some stockings and handkerchiefs. Besides these there was the little Bible which Robert had had given him by his father just before he went on his last voyage. It was the only book our hero had room for, but in the adventurous career upon which he had entered, exposed to perils of the sea and land, he felt that he would need this as his constant guide,
“Them shirts’ll fit me,” said Jim. “I guess I’ll kape ’em, and the close besides.”
“Then where’ll you git the money for me?” asked his mother,
“I’ll sell the handkerchiefs and stockings. I don’t nade them,” said Jim, whose ideas of full dress fell considerably short of the ordinary standard. “I won’t nade the collars either.”
“You don’t nade all the shirts,” said his mother.
“I’ll kape two,” said Jim. “It’ll make me look respectable. Maybe I’ll kape two collars, so I can sit up for a gentleman of fashion.”
“You’ll be too proud to walk with your ould mother,” said Mrs. Malone.
“Maybe I will,” said Jim, surveying his mother critically. “You aint much of a beauty, ould woman.”
“I was a purty gal, once,” said Mrs. Malone, “but hard work and bad luck has wore on me.”
“The whisky’s had something to do with it,” said Jim. “Hard work didn’t make your face so red.”
“Is it my own boy talks to me like that?” said the old woman, wiping her eyes on her dress.
But her sorrow was quickly succeeded by a different emotion, as the door opened suddenly, and Robert Rushton entered the room.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A GOOD BEGINNING.
Jim started to his feet at the sight of the equally unwelcome and unexpected visitor. His mother, ignorant that she saw before her the owner of the bag, supposed it might be a customer wanting some washing done.
“Good-morning, sir,” said she, “And have yez business with me?”
“No,” said Robert, “I have business with your son, if that’s he.”
“Shure he’s my son, and a smart bye he is too.”
“He’s a little too smart sometimes,” returned our hero. “I gave him my carpetbag to carry this morning, and he ran away with it.”
Mrs. Malone’s face fell at this unexpected intelligence.
“Shur an’ it was a mistake of his,” she said. “He’s too honest entirely to stale the value of a pin, let alone a carpetbag.”
Meanwhile Jim was rapidly reviewing the situation. He was not naturally bad, but he had fallen a victim to sudden temptation. He was ashamed, and determined to make amends by a frank confession.
“My mother is wrong,” he said; “I meant to kape it, and I’m sorry. Here’s the bag, wid nothing taken out of it.”
“That’s right, to own up,” said Robert, favorably impressed with his frank confession. “Give me the bag and it’ll be all right. I suppose you were poor, and that tempted you. I am poor, too, and couldn’t afford to lose it. But I’d rather starve than steal, and I hope you will not be dishonest again.”
“I won’t!” said Jim, stoutly. “I’ll go with you now to a chape hotel, and won’t charge you nothin’.”
“I’ve got a boy downstairs who will take it. Don’t forget what you said just now.”
“No, I won’t,” said Jim. “Shure if I’d known what a bully young gentleman you was, I wouldn’t have took it on no account.”
So Robert descended the stairs, having by his forbearance probably effected a moral reformation in Jim, and confirmed in him the good principles, which, in spite of his mother’s bad example, had already taken root in his heart. If the community, while keeping vigilant watch over the young outcasts that throng our streets, plying their petty avocations, would not always condemn, but encourage them sometimes to a better life, the results would soon appear in the diminution of the offenses for which they are most frequently arrested.
His new guide shouldered Robert’s carpetbag, and conducted him to a hotel of good standing, managed on the European system. Dismissing the boy with the promised reward, Robert went up to his room on the fifth floor, and after attending to his toilet, sallied out into the street and made his way to the warehouse of the merchant who had been instrumental in raising the fund for him.
“Mr. Morgan is engaged,” said a clerk to whom he spoke.
“I will wait for him, if you please,” said Robert.
“Is it any business that I can attend to?” asked the clerk.
“No, I wish to see Mr. Morgan himself.”
Mr. Morgan was engaged with two gentlemen, and our hero was obliged to wait nearly half an hour. At the end of that time, the merchant consented to see him. He did not at first recognize him, but said, inquiringly, “Well, my young friend, from whom do you come?”
“I come from no one, sir.”
“Have you business with me?”
“You do not remember me, Mr. Morgan. Do you remember when the cars came so near running off the track a short time since at Millville?”
“Certainly I do,” said Mr. Morgan, heartily; “and I now remember you as the brave boy who saved all our lives.”
“You gave me your card and told me I might call on you.”
“To be sure, I did, and I am very glad to see you. You must go home and dine with me to-day.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kind invitation.”
“This is my address,” said the merchant, writing it in pencil, and handing it to Robert. “We dine at half-past six. You had better be at the door at six. We will then talk over your plans, for I suppose you have some, and I will do what I can to promote them. At present I am busy, and am afraid I must ask you to excuse me.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Robert, gratefully.
He left the office, not a little elated at his favorable reception. Mr. Morgan, judging from his place of business, must be a man of great wealth, and could no doubt be of essential service to him. What was quite as important, he seemed disposed to help him.
“That’s a good beginning,” thought Robert. “I wish mother knew how well I have succeeded so far. I’ll just write and let her know that I have arrived safe. To-morrow perhaps I shall have better news to tell.”
He went back to his hotel, and feeling hungry, made a substantial meal. He found the restaurants moderate in price, and within his means.
Six o’clock found him ringing the bell of a handsome brownstone house on Fifth avenue. Though not disposed to be shy, he felt a little embarrassed as the door opened and a servant in livery stood before him.
“Is Mr. Morgan at home?” inquired Robert.
“Yes, sir,” said the servant, glancing speculatively at the neat but coarse garments of our hero.
“He invited me to dine with him,” said Robert.
“Won’t you walk in, sir?” said the servant, with another glance of wild surprise at the dress of the dinner guest. “If you’ll walk in here,” opening the door of a sumptuously furnished parlor, “I will announce you. What name shall I say?”
“Robert Rushton.”
Robert entered the parlor, and sat down on a sofa. He looked around him with a little, pardonable curiosity, for he had never before been in an elegant city mansion.
“I wonder whether I shall ever be rich enough to live like this!” he thought.
The room, though elegant, was dark, and to our hero, who was used to bright, sunny rooms, it seemed a little gloomy. He mentally decided that he would prefer a plain country house; not so plain, indeed, as the little cottage where his mother lived, but as nice, perhaps, as the superintendent’s house, which was the finest in the village, and the most magnificent he had until this time known. Its glories were wholly eclipsed by the house he was in, but Robert thought he would prefer it. While he was looking about him, Mr. Morgan entered, and his warm and cordial manner made his boy guest feel quite at his ease.
“I must make you acquainted with my wife and children,” he said. “They have heard of you, and are anxious to see you.”
Mrs. Morgan gave Robert a reception as warm as her husband had done.
“So this is the young hero of whom I have heard!” she said.
“I am afraid you give me too much credit,” said Robert, modestly.
This modest disclaimer produced a still more favorable impression upon both Mr. and Mrs. Morgan.
I do not propose to speak in detail of the dinner that followed. The merchant and his wife succeeded in making Robert feel entirely at home, and he displayed an ease and self-possession wholly free from boldness that won their good opinion.
When the dinner was over, Mr. Morgan commenced:
“Now, Robert, dinner being over, let us come to business. Tell me your plans, and I will consider how I can promote them.”
In reply, Robert communicated the particulars, already known to the reader, of his father’s letter, his own conviction of his still living, and his desire to go in search of him.
“I am afraid you will be disappointed,” said the merchant, “in the object of your expedition. It may, however, be pleasant for you to see something of the world, and luckily it is in my power to help you. I have a vessel which sails for Calcutta early next week. You shall go as a passenger.”
“Couldn’t I go as cabin-boy?” asked Robert. “I am afraid the price of a ticket will be beyond my means.”
“I think not,” said the merchant, smiling, “since you will go free. As you do not propose to follow the sea, it will not be worth while to go as cabin-boy. Besides, It interfere with your liberty to leave the vessel whenever you deemed it desirable in order to carry on your search for your father.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Morgan,” said Robert, gratefully.
“So I ought to be and mean to be,” said the merchant. “You know I am in your debt.”
We pass over the few and simple preparations which Robert made for his long voyage. In these he was aided by Mrs. Morgan, who sent on board, without his knowledge, a trunk containing a complete outfit, considerably better than the contents of the humble carpetbag he had brought from home.
He didn’t go on board till the morning on which the ship was to sail. He went down into the cabin, and did not come up until the ship had actually started. Coming on deck, he saw a figure which seemed familiar to him. From his dress, and the commands he appeared to be issuing, Robert judged that it was the mate. He tried to think where he could have met him, when the mate turned full around, and, alike to his surprise and dismay, he recognized Ben Haley, whom he had wounded in his successful attempt to rob his uncle.
CHAPTER XXV.
A DECLARATION OF WAR.
If Robert was surprised, Ben Haley had even more reason for astonishment. He had supposed his young enemy, as he chose to consider him, quietly living at home in the small village of Millville. He was far from expecting to meet him on shipboard bound to India. There was one difference, however, between the surprise felt by the two. Robert was disagreeably surprised, but a flash of satisfaction lit up the face of the mate, as he realized that the boy who had wounded him was on the same ship, and consequently, as he supposed, in his power.
“How came you here?” he exclaimed, hastily advancing toward Robert.
Resenting the tone of authority in which these words were spoken, Robert answered, composedly:
“I walked on board.”
“You’d better not be impudent, young one,” said Ben, roughly.
“When you tell me what right you have to question me in that style,” said Robert, coolly, “I will apologize.”
“I am the mate of this vessel, as you will soon find out.”
“So I supposed,” said Robert.
“And you, I suppose, are the cabin-boy. Change your clothes at once, and report for duty.”
Robert felt sincerely thankful at that moment that he was not the cabin-boy, for he foresaw that in that case he would be subjected to brutal treatment from the mate–treatment which his subordinate position would make him powerless to resent. Now, as a passenger, he felt independent, and though it was disagreeable to have the mate for an enemy, he did not feel afraid.
“You’ve made a mistake, Mr. Haley,” said our hero. “I am not the cabin-boy.”
“What are you, then?”
“I am a passenger.”
“You are telling a lie. We don’t take passengers,” said Ben Haley, determined not to believe that the boy was out of his power.
“If you will consult the captain, you may learn your mistake,” said Robert.
Ben Haley couldn’t help crediting this statement, since it would have done Robert no good to misrepresent the facts of the case. He resolved, however, to ask the captain about it, and inquire how it happened that he had been received as a passenger, contrary to the usual custom.
“You will hear from me again,” he said, in a tone of menace.
Robert turned away indifferently, so far as appearance went, but he couldn’t help feeling a degree of apprehension as he thought of the long voyage he was to take in company with his enemy, who doubtless would have it in his power to annoy him, even if he abstained from positive injury.
“He is a bad man, and will injure me if he can,” he reflected; “but I think I can take care of myself. If I can’t I will appeal to the captain.”
Meanwhile the mate went up to the captain.
“Captain Evans,” said he, “is that boy a passenger?”
“Yes, Mr. Haley.”
“It is something unusual to take passengers, is it not?”
“Yes; but this lad is a friend of the owner; and Mr. Morgan has given me directions to treat him with particular consideration.”
Ben Haley was puzzled. How did it happen that Mr. Morgan, one of the merchant princes of New York, had become interested in an obscure country boy?
“I don’t understand it,” he said, perplexed.
“I suppose the boy is a relation of Mr. Morgan.”
“Nothing of the kind. He is of poor family, from a small country town.”
“Then you know him?”
“I know something of him and his family. He is one of the most impudent young rascals I ever met.”
“Indeed!” returned the captain, surprised. “From what I have seen of him, I have come to quite a different conclusion. He has been very gentlemanly and polite to me.”
“He can appear so, but you will find out, sooner or later. He has not the slightest regard for truth, and will tell the most unblushing falsehoods with the coolest and most matter-of-fact air.”
“I shouldn’t have supposed it,” said Captain Evans, looking over at our hero, at the other extremity of the deck. “Appearances are deceitful, certainly.”
“They are in this case.”
This terminated the colloquy for the time. The mate had done what he could to prejudice the captain against the boy he hated. Not, however, with entire success.
Captain Evans had a mind of his own, and did not choose to adopt any man’s judgment or prejudices blindly. He resolved to watch Robert a little more closely than he had done, in order to see whether his own observation confirmed the opinion expressed by the mate. Of the latter he did not know much, since this was the first voyage on which they had sailed together; but Captain Evans was obliged to confess that he did not wholly like his first officer. He appeared to be a capable seaman, and, doubtless, understood his duties, but there was a bold and reckless expression which impressed him unfavorably.
Ben Haley, on his part, had learned something, but not much. He had ascertained that Robert was a _protégé_ of the owner, and was recommended to the special care of the captain; but what could be his object in undertaking the present voyage, he did not understand. He was a little afraid that Robert would divulge the not very creditable part he had played at Millville; and that he might not be believed in that case, he had represented him to the captain as an habitual liar. After some consideration, he decided to change his tactics, and induce our hero to believe he was his friend, or, at least, not hostile to him. To this he was impelled by two motives. First, to secure his silence respecting the robbery; and, next, to so far get into his confidence as to draw out of him the object of his present expedition. Thus, he would lull his suspicions to sleep, and might thereafter gratify his malice the more securely.
He accordingly approached our hero, and tapped him on the shoulder.
Robert drew away slightly. Haley saw the movement, and hated the boy the more for it.
“Well, my lad,” he said, “I find your story is correct.”
“Those who know me don’t generally doubt my word,” said Robert, coldly.
“Well, I don’t know you, or, at least, not intimately,” said Haley, “and you must confess that I haven’t the best reasons to like you.”
“Did you suffer much inconvenience from your wound?” asked Robert.
“Not much. It proved to be slight. You were a bold boy to wing me. I could have crushed you easily.”
“I suppose you could, but you know how I was situated. I couldn’t run away, and desert your uncle.”
“I don’t know about that. You don’t understand that little affair. I suppose you think I had no right to the gold I took.”
“I certainly do think so.”
“Then you are mistaken. My uncle got his money from my grandfather. A part should have gone to my mother, and, consequently, to me, but he didn’t choose to act honestly. My object in calling upon him was to induce him to do me justice at last. But you know the old man has become a miser, and makes money his idol. The long and short of it was, that, as he wouldn’t listen to reason, I determined to take the law into my own hands, and carry off what I thought ought to come to me.”
Robert listened to this explanation without putting much faith in it. It was not at all according to the story given by Mr. Nichols, and he knew, moreover, that the man before him had passed a wild and dissolute youth.
“I suppose what I did was not strictly legal,” continued Ben Haley, lightly; “but we sailors are not much versed in the quips of the law. To my thinking, law defeats justice about as often as it aids it.”
“I don’t know very much about law,” said Robert, perceiving that some reply was expected.
“That’s just my case,” said Ben, “and the less I have to do with it the better it will suit me. I suppose my uncle made a great fuss about the money I carried off.”
“Yes,” said Robert. “It was quite a blow to him, and he has been nervous ever since for fear you would come back again.”
Ben Haley shrugged his shoulders and laughed.
“He needn’t be afraid. I don’t want to trouble him, but I was bound he shouldn’t keep from me what was rightly my due. I haven’t got all I ought to have, but I am not a lover of money, and I shall let it go.”
“I hope you won’t go near him again, for he got a severe shock the last time.”
“When you get back, if you get a chance to see him privately, you may tell him there is no danger of that.”
“I shall be glad to do so,” said Robert.
“I thought I would explain the matter to you,” continued the mate, in an off-hand manner, “for I didn’t want you to remain under a false impression. So you are going to see a little of the world?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose that is your only object?”
“No. I have another object in view.”
The mate waited to learn what this object was, but Robert stopped, and did not seem inclined to go on.
“Well,” said Haley, after a slight pause, “as we are to be together on a long voyage, we may as well be friends. Here’s my hand.”
To his surprise, Robert made no motion to take it.
“Mr. Haley,” said he, “I don’t like to refuse your hand, but when I tell you that I am the son of Captain Rushton, of the ship, _Norman_, you will understand why I cannot accept your hand.”
Ben Haley started back in dismay. How could Robert have learned anything of his treachery to his father? Had the dead come back from the bottom of the sea to expose him? Was Captain Rushton still alive? He did not venture to ask, but he felt his hatred for Robert growing more intense.
“Boy,” he said, in a tone of concentrated passion, “you have done a bold thing in rejecting my hand. I might have been your friend. Think of me henceforth as your relentless enemy.”
He walked away, his face dark with the evil passions which Robert’s slight had aroused in his breast.
CHAPTER XXVI.
OUT ON THE OCEAN.
We must now go back nearly two years. Five men were floating about in a boat in the Southern ocean. They looked gaunt and famished. For a week they had lived on short allowance, and now for two days they had been entirely without food. There was in their faces that look, well-nigh hopeless, which their wretched situation naturally produced. For one day, also, they had been without water, and the torments of thirst were worse than the cravings of hunger. These men were Captain Rushton and four sailors of the ship _Norman_, whose burning has already been described.
One of the sailors, Bunsby, was better educated and more intelligent than the rest, and the captain spoke to him as a friend and an equal, for all the distinctions of rank were broken down by the immediate prospect of a terrible death.
“How is all this going to end, Bunsby?” said the captain, in a low voice, turning from a vain search for some sail; in sight, and addressing his subordinate.
“I am afraid there is only one way,” answered Bunsby. “There is not much prospect of our meeting a ship.”
“And, if we do, it is doubtful if we can attract their attention.”
“I should like the chance to try.”
“I never knew before how much worse thirst is than hunger.”
“Do you know, captain, if this lasts much longer, I shall be tempted to swallow some of this sea water.”
“It will only make matters worse.”
“I know it, but, at least, it will moisten my throat.”
The other sailors sat stupid and silent, apparently incapable of motion,
“I wish I had a plug of tobacco,” said one, at last.
“If there were any use in wishing, I’d wish myself on shore,” said the second.
“We’ll never see land again,” said the third, gloomily. “We’re bound for Davy Jones’ locker.”
“I’d like to see my old mother before I go down,” said the first.
“I’ve got a mother, too,” said the third. “If I could only have a drop of the warm tea such as she used to make! She’s sitting down to dinner now, most likely, little thinking that her Jack is dying of hunger out here.”
There was a pause, and the captain spoke again.
“I wish I knew whether that bottle will ever reach shore. When was it we launched it?”
“Four days since.”
“I’ve got something here I wish I could get to my wife.” He drew from his pocketbook a small, folded paper.
“What is that, captain?” asked Bunsby.
“It is my wife’s fortune.”
“How is that, captain?”
“That paper is good for five thousand dollars.”
“Five thousand dollars wouldn’t do us much good here. It wouldn’t buy a pound of bread, or a pint of water.”
“No; but it would–I hope it will–save my wife and son from suffering. Just before I sailed on this voyage I took five thousand dollars–nearly all my savings–to a man in our village to keep till I returned, or, if I did not return, to keep in trust for my wife and child. This is the paper he gave me in acknowledgment.”
“Is he a man you can trust, captain?”
“I think so. It is the superintendent of the factory in our village–a man rich, or, at any rate, well-to-do. He has a good reputation for integrity.”
“Your wife knew you had left the money in his hands?”
“No; I meant it as a surprise to her.”
“It is a pity you did not leave that paper in her hands.”
“What do you mean, Bunsby?” asked the captain, nervously. “You don’t think this man will betray his trust?”
“I can’t say, captain, for I don’t know the man; but I don’t like to trust any man too far.”
Captain Rushton was silent for a moment. There was a look of trouble on his face.
“You make me feel anxious, Bunsby. It is hard enough to feel that I shall probably never again see my wife and child–on earth, I mean–but to think that they may possibly suffer want makes it more bitter.”
“The man may be honest, captain: Don’t trouble yourself too much.”
“I see that I made a mistake. I should have left this paper with my wife. Davis can keep this money, and no one will be the wiser. It is a terrible temptation.”
“Particularly if the man is pressed for money.”
“I don’t think that. He is considered a rich man. He ought to be one, and my money would be only a trifle to him.”
“Let us hope it is so, captain,” said Bunsby, who felt that further discussion would do no good, and only embitter the last moments of his commander. But anxiety did not so readily leave the captain. Added to the pangs of hunger and the cravings of thirst was the haunting fear that by his imprudence his wife and child would suffer.
“Do you think it would do any good, Bunsby,” he said, after a pause, “to put this receipt in a bottle, as I did the letter?”
“No, captain, it is too great a risk. There is not more than one chance in a hundred of its reaching its destination. Besides, suppose you should be picked up, and go home without the receipt; he might refuse to pay you.”
“He would do so at the peril of his life, then,” said the captain, fiercely. “Do you think, if I were alive, I would let any man rob me of the savings of my life?”
“Other men have done so.”
“It would not be safe to try it on me, Bunsby.”
“Well, captain?”
“It is possible that I may perish, but you may be saved.”
“Not much chance of it.”
“Yet it is possible. Now, if that happens, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Name it, captain.”
“I want you, if I die first, to take this paper, and guard it carefully; and, if you live to get back, to take it to Millville, and see that justice is done to my wife and child.”
“I promise that, captain; but I think we shall die together.”
Twenty-four hours passed. The little boat still rocked hither and thither on the ocean billows. The five faces looked more haggard, and there was a wild, eager look upon them, as they scanned the horizon, hoping to see a ship. Their lips and throats were dry and parched.
“I can’t stand it no longer,” said one–it was the sailor I have called Jack–“I shall drink some of the sea water.”
“Don’t do it, Jack,” said Bunsby. “You’ll suffer more than ever.”
“I can’t,” said Jack, desperately; and, scooping up some water in the hollow of his hand, he drank it eagerly. Again and again he drank with feverish eagerness.
“How is it?” said the second sailor,
“I feel better,” said Jack; “my throat so dry.”
“Then I’ll take some, too.”
The other two sailors, unheeding the remonstrances of Bunsby and the captain, followed the example of Jack. They felt relief for the moment, but soon their torments became unendurable. With parched throats, gasping for breath, they lay back in agony. Suffering themselves, Captain Rushton and Bunsby regarded with pity the greater sufferings of their wretched companions.
“This is horrible,” said the captain.
“Yes,” said Bunsby, sadly. “It can’t last much longer now.”
His words were truer than he thought. Unable to endure his suffering, the sailor named Jack suddenly staggered to his feet.
“I can’t stand it any longer,” he said, wildly; “good-by, boys,” and before his companions well knew what he intended to do, he had leaped over the side of the boat, and sunk in the ocean waves.
There was a thrilling silence, as the waters closed over his body.
Then the second sailor also rose to his feet.
“I’m going after Jack,” he said, and he, too, plunged into the waves.
The captain rose as if to hinder him, but Bunsby placed his hand upon his arm.
“It’s just as well, captain. We must all come to that, and the sooner, the more suffering is saved.”
“That’s so,” said the other sailor, tormented like the other two by thirst, aggravated by his draughts of seawater. “Good-by, Bunsby! Good-by, captain! I’m going!”
He, too, plunged into the sea, and Bunsby and the captain were left alone.
“You won’t desert me, Bunsby?” said the captain.
“No, captain. I haven’t swallowed seawater like those poor fellows. I can stand it better.”
“There is no hope of life,” said the captain, quietly; “but I don’t like to go unbidden into my Maker’s presence.”
“Nor I. I’ll stand by you, captain”
“This is a fearful thing, Bunsby. If it would only rain.”
“That would be some relief.”
As if in answer to his wish, the drops began to fall–slowly at first, then more copiously, till at last their clothing was saturated, and the boat partly filled with water. Eagerly they squeezed out the welcome dregs from their clothing, and felt a blessed relief. They filled two bottles they had remaining with the precious fluid.
“If those poor fellows had only waited,” said the captain.
“They are out of suffering now,” said Bunsby.
The relief was only temporary, and they felt it to be so. They were without food, and the two bottles of water would not last them long. Still, there was a slight return of hope, which survives under the most discouraging circumstances.
CHAPTER XXVII.
FRANK PRICE.
The ship _Argonaut_, bound for Calcutta, was speeding along with a fair wind, when the man at the lookout called:
“Boat in sight!”
“Where away?”
The sailor pointed, out a small boat a mile distant, nearly in the ship’s track, rising and falling with the billows.
“Is there any one in it?”
“I see two men lying in the bottom. They are motionless. They may be dead.”
The boat was soon overtaken. It was the boat from the ill-fated _Norman_, Captain Rushton and Bunsby were lying stretched out in the bottom, both motionless and apparently without life. Bunsby was really dead. But there was still some life left in the captain, which, under the care of the surgeon of the ship, was carefully husbanded until he was out of immediate danger. But his system, from the long privation of food, had received such a shock, that his mind, sympathizing with it, he fell into a kind of stupor, mental and physical, and though strength and vigor came slowly back, Captain Rushton was in mind a child. Oblivion of the past seemed to have come over him. He did not remember who he was, or that he had a wife and child.
“Poor man!” said the surgeon; “I greatly fear his mind has completely given way.”
“It is a pity some of his friends were not here,” said the captain of the ship that had rescued him. “The sight of a familiar face might restore him.”
“It is possible, but I am not sure of even that.”
“Is there any clew to his identity?”
“I have found none.”
It will at once occur to the reader that the receipt would have supplied the necessary information, since it was dated Millville, and contained the captain’s name. But this was concealed in an inner pocket in Captain Rushton’s vest, and escaped the attention of the surgeon. So, nameless and unknown, he was carried to Calcutta, which he reached without any perceptible improvement in his mental condition.
Arrived at Calcutta, the question arose: “What shall we do with him?” It was a perplexing question, since if carried back to New York, it might be difficult to identify him there, or send him back to his friends. Besides, the care of a man in his condition would be a greater responsibility than most shipmasters would care to undertake. It was at this crisis that a large-hearted and princely American merchant, resident in Calcutta, who had learned the particulars of the captain’s condition, came forward, saying: “Leave him here. I will find him a home in some suitable boarding-house, and defray such expenses as may be required. God has blessed me with abundant means. It is only right that I should employ a portion in His service. I hope, under good treatment, he may recover wholly, and be able to tell me who he is, and where is his home. When that is ascertained, if his health is sufficiently good, I will send him home at my own expense.”
The offer was thankfully accepted, and the generous merchant was as good as his word. A home was found for Captain Rushton in the boarding-house of Mrs. Start, a widow, who, thrown upon her own exertions for support, had, by the help of the merchant already referred to, opened a boarding-house, which was now quite remunerative.
“He will require considerable care, Mrs. Start,” said Mr. Perkins, the merchant, “but I am ready and willing to compensate you for all the trouble to which you are put. Will you take him?”
“Certainly I will,” said the warm-hearted widow, “if only because you ask it. But for you, I should not be earning a comfortable living, with a little money laid up in the bank, besides.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Start,” said the merchant. “I know the poor man could be in no better hands. But you mustn’t let any considerations of gratitude interfere with your charging a fair price for your trouble. I am able and willing to pay whatever is suitable.”
“I don’t believe we shall quarrel on that point,” said the widow, smiling. “I will do all I can for your friend. What is his name?”
“That I don’t know.”
“We shall have to call him something.”
“Call him Smith, then. That will answer till we find out his real name, as we may some day, when his mind comes back, as I hope it may.”
From that time, therefore, Captain Rushton was known as Mr. Smith. He recovered in a considerable degree his bodily health, but mentally he remained in the same condition. Sometimes he fixed his eyes upon Mrs. Start, and seemed struggling to remember something of the past; but after a few moments his face would assume a baffled look, and he would give up the attempt as fruitless.
One day when Mrs. Start addressed him as Mr. Smith, he asked:
“Why do you call me by that name?”
“Is not that your name?” she asked.
“No.”
“What, then, is it?”
He put his hand to his brow, and seemed to be thinking. At length he turned to the widow, and said, abruptly:
“Do you not know my name?”
“No.”
“Nor do I,” he answered, and left the room hastily.
She continued, therefore, to address him as Mr. Smith, and he gradually became accustomed to it, and answered to it.
Leaving Captain Rushton at Calcutta, with the assurance that, though separated from home and family, he will receive all the care that his condition requires, we will return to our hero, shut up on shipboard with his worst enemy. I say this advisedly, for though Halbert Davis disliked him, it was only the feeling of a boy, and was free from the intensity of Ben Haley’s hatred.
No doubt, it was imprudent tor him to reject the mate’s hand, but Robert felt that he could not grasp in friendship the hand which had deprived him of a father. He was bold enough to brave the consequences of this act, which he foresaw clearly.
Ben Haley, however, was in no hurry to take the vengeance which he was fully resolved sooner or later to wreak upon our young hero. He was content to bide his time. Had Robert been less watchful, indeed, he might have supposed that the mate’s feelings toward him had changed. When they met, as in the narrow limits of the ship they must do every day, the forms of courtesy passed between them. Robert always saluted the mate, and Haley responded by a nod, or a cool good-morning, but did not indulge in any conversation.
Sometimes, however, turning suddenly, Robert would catch a malignant glance from the mate, but Haley’s expression immediately changed, when thus surprised, and he assumed an air of indifference.
With Captain Evans, on the other hand, Robert was on excellent terms. The captain liked the bold, manly boy, and talked much with him of the different countries he had visited, and seemed glad to answer the questions which our hero asked.
“Robert,” said the captain, one day, “how is it that you and Mr. Haley seem to have nothing to say to each other?”
“I don’t think he likes me, Captain Evans,” said Robert.
“Is there any reason for it, or is it merely a prejudice?”
“There is a reason for it, but I don’t care to mention it. Not that it is anything I have reason to regret, or to be ashamed of,” he added, hastily. “It is on Mr. Haley’s account that I prefer to keep it secret.”
“Is there no chance of your being on better terms?” asked the captain, good-naturedly, desirous of effecting a reconciliation.
Robert shook his head.
“I don’t wish to be reconciled, captain,” he said. “I will tell you this much, that Mr. Haley has done me and my family an injury which, perhaps, can never be repaired. I cannot forget it, and though I am willing to be civil to him, since we are thrown together, I do not want his