Alger Horatio Jr.
Driven from Home; Or, Carl Crawford's Experience
CHAPTER XX
REVEALS A MYSTERY
“Please read this letter, Mr. Jennings,” said Carl.
His employer took the letter from his hand, and ran his eye over it.
“Do you wish to ask my advice about the investment?” he said, quietly.
“No, sir. I wanted to know how such a letter came to be written to me.”
“Didn’t you send a letter of inquiry there?”
“No, sir, and I can’t understand how these men could have got hold of my name.”
Mr. Jennings looked thoughtful.
“Some one has probably written in your name,” he said, after a pause.
“But who could have done so?”
“If you will leave the letter in my hands, I may be able to obtain some information on that point.”
“I shall be glad if you can, Mr. Jennings.”
“Don’t mention to anyone having received such a letter, and if anyone broaches the subject, let me know who it is.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Mr. Jennings quietly put on his hat, and walked over to the post office. The postmaster, who also kept a general variety store, chanced to be alone.
“Good-evening, Mr. Jennings,” he said, pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”
“I want a little information, Mr. Sweetland, though it is doubtful if you can give it.”
Mr. Sweetland assumed the attitude of attention.
“Do you know if any letter has been posted from this office within a few days, addressed to Pitkins & Gamp, Syracuse, New York?”
“Yes; two letters have been handed in bearing this address.”
Mr. Jennings was surprised, for he had never thought of two letters.
“Can you tell me who handed them in?” he asked.
“Both were handed in by the same party.”
“And that was–”
“A boy in your employ.”
Mr. Jennings looked grave. Was it possible that Carl was deceiving him?
“The boy who lives at my house?” he asked, anxiously.
“No; the boy who usually calls for the factory mail. The nephew of your bookkeeper I think his name is Leonard Craig.”
“Ah, I see,” said Mr. Jennings, looking very much relieved. “And you say he deposited both letters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you happen to remember if any other letter like this was received at the office?”
Here he displayed the envelope of Carl’s letter.
“Yes; one was received, addressed to the name of the one who deposited the first letters—Leonard Craig.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sweetland. Your information has cleared up a mystery. Be kind enough not to mention the matter.”
“I will bear your request in mind.”
Mr. Jennings bought a supply of stamps, and then left the office.
“Well, Carl,” he said, when he re-entered the house, “I have discovered who wrote in your name to Pitkins & Gamp.”
“Who, sir?” asked Carl, with curiosity.
“Leonard Craig.”
“But what could induce him to do it?” said Carl, perplexed.
“He thought that I would see the letter, and would be prejudiced against you if I discovered that you were investing in what is a species of lottery.”
“Would you, sir?”
“I should have thought you unwise, and I should have been reminded of a fellow workman who became so infatuated with lotteries that he stole money from his employer to enable him to continue his purchases of tickets. But for this unhappy passion he would have remained honest.”
“Leonard must dislike me,” said Carl, thoughtfully.
“He is jealous of you; I warned you he or some one else might become so. But the most curious circumstance is, he wrote a second letter in his own name. I suspect he has bought a ticket. I advise you to say nothing about the matter unless questioned.”
“I won’t, sir.”
The next day Carl met Leonard in the street.
“By the way,” said Leonard, “you got a letter yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“I brought it to the factory with the rest of the mail.”
“Thank you.”
Leonard looked at him curiously.
“He seems to be close-mouthed,” Leonard said to himself. “He has sent for a ticket, I’ll bet a hat, and don’t want me to find out. I wish I could draw the capital prize—I would not mind old Jennings finding out then.”
“Do you ever hear from your—friends?” he asked a minute later.
“Not often.”
“I thought that letter might be from your home.”
“No; it was a letter from Syracuse.”
“I remember now, it was postmarked Syracuse. Have you friends there?”
“None that I am aware of.”
“Yet you receive letters from there?”
“That was a business letter.”
Carl was quietly amused at Leonard’s skillful questions, but was determined not to give him any light on the subject.
Leonard tried another avenue of attack.
“Oh, dear!” he sighed, “I wish I was rich.”
“I shouldn’t mind being rich myself,” said Carl, with a smile.
“I suppose old Jennings must have a lot of money.”
“Mr. Jennings, I presume, is very well off,” responded Carl, emphasizing the title “Mr.”
“If I had his money I wouldn’t live in such Quaker style.”
“Would you have him give fashionable parties?” asked Carl, smiling.
“Well, I don’t know that he would enjoy that; but I’ll tell you what I would do. I would buy a fast horse—a two-forty mare—and a bangup buggy, and I’d show the old farmers round here what fast driving is. Then I’d have a stylish house, and–”
“I don’t believe you’d be content to live in Milford, Leonard.”
“I don’t think I would, either, unless my business were here. I’d go to New York every few weeks and see life.”
“You may be rich some time, so that you can carry out your wishes.”
“Do you know any easy way of getting money?” asked Leonard, pointedly.
“The easy ways are not generally the true ways. A man sometimes makes money by speculation, but he has to have some to begin with.”
“I can’t get anything out of him,” thought Leonard. “Well, good-evening.”
He crossed the street, and joined the man who has already been referred to as boarding at the hotel.
Mr. Stark had now been several days in Milford. What brought him there, or what object he had in staying, Leonard had not yet ascertained. He generally spent part of his evenings with the stranger, and had once or twice received from him a small sum of money. Usually, however, he had met Mr. Stark in the billiard room, and played a game or two of billiards with him. Mr. Stark always paid for the use of the table, and that was naturally satisfactory to Leonard, who enjoyed amusement at the expense of others.
Leonard, bearing in mind his uncle’s request, had not mentioned his name to Mr. Stark, and Stark, though he had walked about the village more or less, had not chanced to meet Mr. Gibbon.
He had questioned Leonard, however, about Mr. Jennings, and whether he was supposed to be rich.
Leonard had answered freely that everyone considered him so.
“But he doesn’t know how to enjoy his money,” he added.
“We should,” said Stark, jocularly.
“You bet we would,” returned Leonard; and he was quite sincere in his boast, as we know from his conversation with Carl.
“By the way,” said Stark, on this particular evening, “I never asked you about your family, Leonard. I suppose you live with your parents.”
“No, sir. They are dead.”
“Then whom do you live with?”
“With my uncle,” answered Leonard, guardedly.
“Is his name Craig?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I’ve got to tell him,” thought Leonard. “Well, I don’t suppose there will be much harm in it. My uncle is bookkeeper for Mr. Jennings,” he said, “and his name is Julius Gibbon.”
Philip Stark wheeled round, and eyed Leonard in blank astonishment.
“Your uncle is Julius Gibbon!” he exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be blowed.”
“Do you—know my uncle?” asked Leonard, hesitating.
“I rather think I do. Take me round to the house. I want to see him.”
CHAPTER XXI
AN UNWELCOME GUEST
When Julius Gibbon saw the door open and Philip Stark enter the room where he was smoking his noon cigar, his heart quickened its pulsations and he turned pale.
“How are you, old friend?” said Stark, boisterously. “Funny, isn’t it, that I should run across your nephew?”
“Very strange!” ejaculated Gibbon, looking the reverse of joyous.
“It’s a happy meeting, isn’t it? We used to see a good deal of each other,” and he laughed in a way that Gibbon was far from enjoying. “Now, I’ve come over to have a good, long chat with you. Leonard, I think we won’t keep you, as you wouldn’t be interested in our talk about old times.”
“Yes, Leonard, you may leave us,” added his uncle.
Leonard’s curiosity was excited, and he would have been glad to remain, but as there was no help for it, he went out.
When they were alone, Stark drew up his chair close, and laid his hand familiarly on the bookkeeper’s knee.
“I say, Gibbon, do you remember where we last met?”
Gibbon shuddered slightly.
“Yes,” he answered, feebly.
“It was at Joliet—Joliet Penitentiary. Your time expired before mine. I envied you the six months’ advantage you had of me. When I came out I searched for you everywhere, but heard nothing.”
“How did you know I was here?” asked the bookkeeper.
“I didn’t know. I had no suspicion of it. Nor did I dream that Leonard, who was able to do me a little service, was your nephew. I say, he’s a chip of the old block, Gibbon,” and Stark laughed as if he enjoyed it.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was lying in a field, overcome by liquor, an old weakness of mine, you know, and my wallet had slipped out of my pocket. I chanced to open my eyes, when I saw it in the hands of your promising nephew, ha! ha!”
“He told me that.”
“But he didn’t tell you that he was on the point of appropriating a part of the contents? I warrant you he didn’t tell you that.”
“Did he acknowledge it? Perhaps you misjudged him.”
“He didn’t acknowledge it in so many words, but I knew it by his change of color and confusion. Oh, I didn’t lay it up against him. We are very good friends. He comes honestly by it.”
Gibbon looked very much annoyed, but there were reasons why he did not care to express his chagrin.
“On my honor, it was an immense surprise to me,” proceeded Stark, “when I learned that my old friend Gibbon was a resident of Milford.”
“I wish you had never found it out,” thought Gibbon, biting his lip.
“No sooner did I hear it than I posted off at once to call on you.”
“So I see.”
Stark elevated his eyebrows, and looked amused. He saw that he was not a welcome visitor, but for that he cared little.
“Haven’t you got on, though? Here I find you the trusted bookkeeper of an important business firm. Did you bring recommendations from your last place?” and he burst into a loud guffaw.
“I wish you wouldn’t make such references,” snapped Gibbon. “They can do no good, and might do harm.”
“Don’t be angry, my dear boy. I rejoice at your good fortune. Wish I was equally well fixed. You don’t ask how I am getting on.”
“I hope you are prosperous,” said Gibbon, coldly.
“I might be more so. Is there a place vacant in your office?”
“No.”
“And if there were, you might not recommend me, eh?”
“There is no need to speak of that. There is no vacancy.”
“Upon my word, I wish there were, as I am getting to the end of my tether. I may have money enough to last me four weeks longer, but no more.”
“I don’t see how I can help you,” said Gibbon.
“How much salary does Mr. Jennings pay you?”
“A hundred dollars a month,” answered the bookkeeper, reluctantly.
“Not bad, in a cheap place like this.”
“It takes all I make to pay expenses.”
“I remember—you have a wife. I have no such incumbrance.”
“There is one question I would like to ask you,” said the bookkeeper.
“Fire away, dear boy. Have you an extra cigar?”
“Here is one.”
“Thanks. Now I shall be comfortable. Go ahead with your question.”
“What brought you to Milford? You didn’t know of my being here, you say.”
“Neither did I. I came on my old business.”
“What?”
“I heard there was a rich manufacturer here—I allude to your respected employer. I thought I might manage to open his safe some dark night.”
“No, no,” protested Gibbon in alarm. “Don’t think of it.”
“Why not?” asked Stark, coolly.
“Because,” answered Gibbon, in some agitation, “I might be suspected.”
“Well, perhaps you might; but I have got to look out for number one. How do you expect me to live?”
“Go somewhere else. There are plenty of other men as rich, and richer, where you would not be compromising an old friend.”
“It’s because I have an old friend in the office that I have thought this would be my best opening.”
“Surely, man, you don’t expect me to betray my employer, and join with you in robbing him?”
“That’s just what I do expect. Don’t tell me you have grown virtuous, Gibbon. The tiger doesn’t lose his spots or the leopard his stripes. I tell you there’s a fine chance for us both. I’ll divide with you, if you’ll help me.”
“But I’ve gone out of the business,” protested Gibbon.
“I haven’t. Come, old boy, I can’t let any sentimental scruples interfere with so good a stroke of business.”
“I won’t help you!” said Gibbon, angrily. “You only want to get me into trouble.”
“You won’t help me?” said Stark, with slow deliberation.
“No, I can’t honorably. Can’t you let me alone?”
“Sorry to say, I can’t. If I was rich, I might; but as it is, it is quite necessary for me to raise some money somewhere. By all accounts, Jennings is rich, and can spare a small part of his accumulations for a good fellow that’s out of luck.”
“You’d better give up the idea. It’s quite impossible.”
“Is it?” asked Stark, with a wicked look. “Then do you know what I will do?”
“What will you do?” asked Gibbon, nervously.
“I will call on your employer, and tell him what I know of you.”
“You wouldn’t do that?” said the bookkeeper, much agitated.
“Why not? You turn your back upon an old friend. You bask in prosperity, and turn from him in his poverty. It’s the way of the world, no doubt; but Phil Stark generally gets even with those who don’t treat him well.”
“Tell me what you want me to do,” said Gibbon, desperately.
“Tell me first whether your safe contains much of value.”
“We keep a line of deposit with the Milford Bank.”
“Do you mean to say that nothing of value is left in the safe overnight?” asked Stark, disappointed.
“There is a box of government bonds usually kept there,” the bookkeeper admitted, reluctantly.
“Ah, that’s good!” returned Stark, rubbing his hands. “Do you know how much they amount to?”
“I think there are about four thousand dollars.”
“Good! We must have those bonds, Gibbon.”
CHAPTER XXII
MR. STARK IS RECOGNIZED
Phil Stark was resolved not to release his hold upon his old acquaintance. During the day he spent his time in lounging about the town, but in the evening he invariably fetched up at the bookkeeper’s modest home. His attentions were evidently not welcome to Mr. Gibbon, who daily grew more and more nervous and irritable, and had the appearance of a man whom something disquieted.
Leonard watched the growing intimacy with curiosity. He was a sharp boy, and he felt convinced that there was something between his uncle and the stranger. There was no chance for him to overhear any conversation, for he was always sent out of the way when the two were closeted together. He still met Mr. Stark outside, and played billiards with him frequently. Once he tried to extract some information from Stark.
“You’ve known my uncle a good while,” he said, in a tone of assumed indifference.
“Yes, a good many years,” answered Stark, as he made a carom.
“Were you in business together?”
“Not exactly, but we may be some time,” returned Stark, with a significant smile.
“Here?”
“Well, that isn’t decided.”
“Where did you first meet Uncle Julius?”
“The kid’s growing curious,” said Stark to himself. “Does he think he can pull wool over the eyes of Phil Stark? If he does, he thinks a good deal too highly of himself. I will answer his questions to suit myself.”
“Why don’t you ask your uncle that?”
“I did,” said Leonard, “but he snapped me up, and told me to mind my own business. He is getting terribly cross lately.”
“It’s his stomach, I presume,” said Stark, urbanely. “He is a confirmed dyspeptic—that’s what’s the matter with him. Now; I’ve got the digestion of an ox. Nothing ever troubles me, and the result is that I am as calm and good-natured as a May morning.”
“Don’t you ever get riled, Mr. Stark?” asked Leonard, laughing.
“Well, hardly ever. Sometimes when I am asked fool questions by one who seems to be prying into what is none of his business, I get wrathy, and when I’m roused look out!”
He glanced meaningly at Leonard, and the boy understood that the words conveyed a warning and a menace.
“Is anything the matter with you, Mr. Gibbon? Are you as well as usual?” asked Mr. Jennings one morning. The little man was always considerate, and he had noticed the flurried and nervous manner of his bookkeeper.
“No, sir; what makes you ask?” said Gibbon, apologetically.
“Perhaps you need a vacation,” suggested Mr. Jennings.
“Oh, no, I think not. Besides, I couldn’t be spared.”
“I would keep the books myself for a week to favor you.”
“You are very kind, but I won’t trouble you just yet. A little later on, if I feel more uncomfortable, I will avail myself of your kindness.”
“Do so. I know that bookkeeping is a strain upon the mind, more so than physical labor.”
There were special reasons why Mr. Gibbon did not dare to accept the vacation tendered him by his employer. He knew that Phil Stark would be furious, for it would interfere with his designs. He could not afford to offend this man, who held in his possession a secret affecting his reputation and good name.
The presence of a stranger in a small town always attracts public attention, and many were curious about the rakish-looking man who had now for some time occupied a room at the hotel.
Among others, Carl had several times seen him walking with Leonard Craig
“Leonard,” he asked one day, “who is the gentleman I see you so often walking with?”
“It’s a man that’s boarding at the hotel. I play billiards with him sometimes.”
“He seems to like Milford.”
“I don’t know. He’s over at our house every evening.”
“Is he?” asked Carl, surprised.
“Yes; he’s an old acquaintance of Uncle Julius. I don’t know where they met each other, for he won’t tell. He said he and uncle might go into business together some time. Between you and me, I think uncle would like to get rid of him. I know he doesn’t like him.”
This set Carl to thinking, but something occurred soon afterwards that impressed him still more.
Occasionally a customer of the house visited Milford, wishing to give a special order for some particular line of goods. About this time a Mr. Thorndike, from Chicago, came to Milford on this errand, and put up at the hotel. He had called at the factory during the day, and had some conversation with Mr. Jennings. After supper a doubt entered the mind of the manufacturer in regard to one point, and he said to Carl: “Carl, are you engaged this evening?”
“No, sir.”
“Will you carry a note for me to the hotel?”
“Certainly, sir; I shall be glad to do so.”
“Mr. Thorndike leaves in the morning, and I am not quite clear as to one of the specifications he gave me with his order. You noticed the gentleman who went through the factory with me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He is Mr. Thorndike. Please hand him this note, and if he wishes you to remain with him for company, you had better do so.”
“I will, sir.”
“Hannah,” said Mr. Jennings, as his messenger left with the note, “Carl is a pleasant addition to our little household?”
“Yes, indeed he is,” responded Hannah, emphatically.
“If he was twice the trouble I’d be glad to have him here.”
“He is easy to get along with.”
“Surely.”
“Yet his stepmother drove him from his father’s house.”
“She’s a wicked trollop, then!” said Hannah, in a deep, stern voice. “I’d like to get hold of her, I would.”
“What would you do to her?” asked Mr. Jennings, smiling.
“I’d give her a good shaking,” answered Hannah.
“I believe you would, Hannah,” said Mr. Jennings, amused. “On the whole, I think she had better keep out of your clutches. Still, but for her we would never have met with Carl. What is his father’s loss is our gain.”
“What a poor, weak man his father must be,” said Hannah, contemptuously, “to let a woman like her turn him against his own flesh and blood!”
“I agree with you, Hannah. I hope some time he may see his mistake.”
Carl kept on his way to the hotel. It was summer and Mr. Thorndike was sitting on the piazza smoking a cigar. To him Carl delivered the note.
“It’s all right!” he said, rapidly glancing it over. “You may tell Mr. Jennings,” and here he gave an answer to the question asked in the letter.
“Yes, sir, I will remember.”
“Won’t you sit down and keep me company a little while?” asked Thorndike, who was sociably inclined.
“Thank you, sir,” and Carl sat down in a chair beside him.
“Will you have a cigar?”
“No, thank you, sir. I don’t smoke.”
“That is where you are sensible. I began to smoke at fourteen, and now I find it hard to break off. My doctor tells me it is hurting me, but the chains of habit are strong.”
“All the more reason for forming good habits, sir.”
“Spoken like a philosopher. Are you in the employ of my friend, Mr. Jennings?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Learning the business?”
“That is my present intention.”
“If you ever come out to Chicago, call on me, and if you are out of a place, I will give you one.”
“Are you not a little rash, Mr. Thorndike, to offer me a place when you know so little of me?”
“I trust a good deal to looks. I care more for them than for recommendations.”
At that moment Phil Stark came out of the hotel, and passing them, stepped off the piazza into the street.
Mr. Thorndike half rose from his seat, and looked after him.
“Who is that?” he asked, in an exciting whisper.
“A man named Stark, who is boarding at the hotel. Do you know him?”
“Do I know him?” repeated Thorndike. “He is one of the most successful burglars in the West.”
