Alger Horatio Jr.
Joe the Hotel Boy; Or, Winning out by Pluck
CHAPTER XXII
ABOUT SOME MINING SHARES
“How do you do, Mr. Ball?” said our hero, coolly.
“Eh, what’s that?” questioned Malone, in amazement. Then he recognized Joe, and his face fell.
“I have often wondered what became of you,” went on our hero. “Let me help you up.”
“I—that is—who are you, boy?” demanded Malone, getting to his feet and picking up his hat and his bundle.
“You ought to remember me. I am Joe Bodley. I used to work for Mr. Mallison, at Riverside.”
“Don’t know the man or the place,” said Pat Malone, coolly. “You have made a mistake.”
“Then perhaps I had better call you Malone.”
“Not at all. My name is Fry—John Fry.”
“How often do you change your name, Mr. Fry.”
“Don’t get impudent!”
“I am not impudent,—I am only asking a plain question.”
“I never change my name.”
At that moment Joe saw a policeman on the opposite side of the street and beckoned for the officer to come over.
“Hi! what’s the meaning of this!” ejaculated Pat Malone.
“Officer, I want this man locked up,” said Joe, and caught the rascal by the arm, that he might not run away.
“What’s the charge?” asked the bluecoat.
“He is wanted for swindling.”
“Boy, are you really crazy?”
“No, I am not.”
“Who are you?” asked the policeman, eyeing Joe sharply.
“My name is Joe Bodley. I work at the Grandon House. I will make a charge against this man, and I’ll bring the man who was swindled, too.”
“That’s fair talk,” said the policeman. “I guess you’ll both have to go to the station with me.”
“I’m willing,” said Joe, promptly.
“I—I cannot go—I have a sick wife—I must get a doctor,” stammered Pat Malone. “Let me go. The boy is mistaken.”
“You’ll have to go with me.”
“But my sick wife?”
“You can send for your friends and they can take care of her.”
“I have no friends—we are strangers in Philadelphia. I don’t want to go.”
Pat Malone tried to move on, but the policeman and Joe detained him, and in the end he was marched off to the police station. Here Joe told what he knew and Malone’s record was looked up in the Rogues’ Gallery.
“You’ve got the right man, that’s sure,” said the desk sergeant to our hero. “Now where can you find this Mr. Maurice Vane?”
“I have his address at the hotel,” answered our hero. “If I can go I’ll get it and send Mr. Vane a telegram.”
“Bring the address here and we’ll communicate with Mr. Vane.”
Our hero agreed, and inside of half an hour a message was sent to Maurice Vane, notifying him of the fact that Pat Malone had been caught. Mr. Vane had gone to New York on business, but came back to Philadelphia the next day.
When he saw that he was caught Pat Malone broke down utterly and made a full confession, telling in detail how the plot against Maurice Vane had been carried out.
“It was not my plan,” said he. “Gaff Caven got the mining shares and he arranged the whole thing.”
“Where did you get the shares—steal them?” demanded Maurice Vane, sharply.
“No, we didn’t steal them. We bought them from an old miner for fifty dollars. The miner is dead now.”
“Can you prove this?”
“Yes.”
“Then do so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t care to answer that question. But if you can prove to me that you and Caven came by those shares honestly I won’t prosecute you, Malone.”
“I will prove it!” was the quick answer, and that very afternoon Pat Malone proved beyond a doubt that the shares had belonged to himself and Gaff Caven when they sold them to Maurice Vane.
“That is all I want of you,” said Maurice Vane. “I shan’t appear against you, Malone.”
“Then those shares must be valuable after all?” queried the swindler.
“Perhaps they are. I am having them looked up. I am glad of this opportunity of proving that they are now my absolute property.”
“If Caven and I sold you good stocks we ought to be kicked full of holes,” grumbled Malone.
“That was your lookout, not mine,” returned Maurice Vane. “Mind, I don’t say the shares are valuable. But they may be, and if so I shall be satisfied with my bargain.”
“Humph! where do I come in?”
“You don’t come in at all—and you don’t deserve to.”
“If I didn’t swindle you, you can’t have me held for swindling.”
“I don’t intend to have you held. You can go for all I care.”
Maurice Vane explained the situation to the police authorities and that evening Pat Malone was allowed to go. He threatened to have somebody sued for false imprisonment but the police laughed at him.
“Better not try it on, Malone,” said one officer. “Remember, your picture is in our Rogues’ Gallery,” and then the rascal was glad enough to sneak away. The next day he took a train to Baltimore, where, after an hour’s hunt, he found Gaff Caven.
“We made a fine mess of things,” he said, bitterly. “A fine mess!”
“What are you talking about, Pat?” asked Caven.
“Do you remember the mining stocks we sold to Maurice Vane?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Well, he has got ‘em yet.”
“All right, he can keep them. We have his money too,” and Gaff Caven chuckled.
“I’d rather have the shares.”
“Eh?”
“I said I’d rather have the shares, Gaff. We put our foot into it when we sold ‘em.”
“Do you mean to say the shares are valuable?” demanded Gaff Caven.
“That’s the size of it.”
“Who told you this?”
“Nobody told me, but I can put two and two together as quick as anybody.”
“Well, explain.”
“I was in Philadelphia when I ran into that hotel boy, Joe Bodley.”
“What of that?”
“He had me arrested. Then they sent for Mr. Maurice Vane, and Vane made me prove that the shares were really ours when we sold them to him. I thought I’d go clear if I could prove that, so I went and did it. Then Vane said he wouldn’t prosecute me, for the shares might be valuable after all.”
“But the mine is abandoned.”
“Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. I guess Mr. Maurice Vane knows what he is doing, and we were fools to sell out to him.”
“If that mine is valuable I’m going to have it!” cried Gaff Caven. “He can have his money back!” and the rascal who had overreached himself began to pace the floor.
“Maybe he won’t take his money back.”
“Then I’ll claim the mine anyway, Pat—and you must help me.”
“What can you do?”
“Go out to Montana, just as soon as the weather is fit, and relocate the mine. If it’s any good we can find some fellows to help us hold it somehow. I’m not going to let this slip into Maurice Vane’s hands without a struggle.”
“Talk is cheap, but it takes money to pay for railroad tickets,” went on Malone.
“I’ve got the dust, Pat.”
“Enough to fight Vane off if he should come West?”
“I think so. I met a rich fellow last week and I got a loan of four thousand dollars.”
“Without security?” and Malone winked suggestively.
“Exactly. Oh, he was a rich find,” answered Gaff Caven, and gave a short laugh.
“I’m willing to go anywhere. I’m tired of things here. It’s getting too warm for comfort.”
“Then let us start West next week—after I can finish up a little business here.”
“I am willing.”
And so the two rascals arranged to do Maurice Vane out of what had become his lawful property.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIRE AT THE HOTEL
On the day following the scene at the police station Maurice Vane stopped at the Grandon House to interview our hero.
“I must thank you for the interest you have taken in this matter, Joe,” said he. “It is not every lad who would put himself out to such an extent.”
“I wanted to see justice done, Mr. Vane,” answered our hero, modestly.
“Things have taken a sudden change since I saw you last summer,” went on Maurice Vane. “Perhaps it will be as well if I tell my whole story.”
“I’d like first rate to hear it.”
“After I got those shares of stock I felt that I had been swindled, and I was very anxious to get hold of the rascals. But as time went on and I could not locate them I resolved to look into the deal a little more minutely and see if there was any chance of getting my money, or a portion of it, back.”
“I should have done the same.”
“I wrote to a friend out West and he put me in communication with a mining expert who set to work to find out all about the mine. The expert sent me word, late in the fall, that the mine was, in his opinion, located on a vein of gold well worth working.”
“What did you do then?”
“I wanted to go West at once and look into the matter personally, but an aunt died and I had to settle up her estate and see to the care of her two children, and that held me back. Then winter came on, and I knew I’d have to let matters rest until spring.”
“Are you going out there in the spring?”
“Yes,—as early as possible, too.”
“I hope you find the mine a valuable one, Mr. Vane.”
“I place great reliance on what the mining expert said, for he is known as a man who makes no mistakes.”
“Then, if the mine proves of value, you’ll have gotten a cheap piece of property after all.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Won’t those swindlers be mad when they hear of this!”
“Most likely, my lad; but they have nobody to blame but themselves. I bought their shares in good faith, while they sold them in bad faith.”
“Is your title perfectly clear now?”
“Absolutely so.”
“Then I hope the mine proves to be worth millions.”
“Thank you, my boy.”
“I’d like to own a mine like that myself.”
“Would you? Well, perhaps you will some day.”
“It’s not likely. A hotel boy doesn’t earn enough to buy a mine,” and our hero laughed.
“If I find the mine worth working and open up for business, how would you like to go out there and work for me?”
“I’d like it very much, Mr. Vane.”
“Very well, I’ll bear that in mind,” answered the possessor of the mining shares.
“Why don’t you buy up the rest of the mining shares first?”
“I am going to do so—if I can locate them.”
“Perhaps the owners will sell cheap.”
“I shall explain the situation and make a fair offer. I do not believe in any underhand work,” was the ready answer.
“Then you are not like some men I have met,” said Joe, and told about Ulmer Montgomery and his so-called antiquities.
“That man will never amount to anything, Joe—mark my words. He will always be a hanger-on as we call them, in the business world.”
“I believe you, sir.”
“Honesty pays in the long run. A rogue may make something at the start but sooner or later he will find himself exposed.”
Maurice Vane remained at the hotel for a week and then left to go to Chicago on business. From that point he was going to Montana as soon as the weather permitted.
After that several weeks slipped by without anything unusual happening. During those days Joe fell in again with Felix Gussing.
“We are going to move to Riverside,” said the dude, if such he may still be called, although he was a good business man. “I have rented a house there—the old Martin place—and if you ever come to the town you must visit us.”
“Thank you, I will,” answered our hero.
“My wife thinks a great deal of you and you must stop at the house during your stay at Riverside,” went on Felix Gussing.
A change came for Joe much quicker than was anticipated. One night, late in the winter, he was just preparing to retire, when he smelt smoke. He ran out of his room and to an air shaft and saw the smoke coming up thickly.
“The hotel must be on fire!” he thought. “If it is, I’ll have to notify the management!”
He jumped rather than ran down the several stairways to the hotel office. Here he told the proprietor and the cashier. An examination was made and the fire was located in the laundry.
“Go and awaken all the guests,” said Mr. Drew, and Joe ran off to do as bidden. Other boys did the same, and before long the guests were hurrying through the hallways and down the elevators and stairs.
By this time the smoke was coming thickly, and presently a sheet of flame burst through at the rear of the hotel. The fire alarm had been given and several engines and a hook-and-ladder company dashed on the scene.
“Are your guests all out?” demanded a police officer.
“I believe so,” answered Mr. Drew.
“I’m going to take a look around,” said Joe, and darted upstairs once more.
He visited room after room, only to find them empty. From the rear of the hotel came the crackling of flames and down in the street the fire engines were pounding away, sending their streams of water into the structure.
On the third floor of the building our hero came across an old lady who was rather queer in her mind. The lady was also lame and walked with great difficulty.
“Oh, Joseph! what is the trouble?” she cried.
“The hotel is on fire, Mrs. Dalley. Come, let me help you out.”
“On fire! Oh, I must save my canary!” And the old lady started back for her room.
“You haven’t got time, Mrs. Dalley. Come with me.”
“I cannot let my dear Dick perish!” answered the old lady, firmly.
Joe looked along the hall and saw that the flames were moving swiftly toward the room the old lady had occupied. To enter the apartment would be highly dangerous.
“You simply can’t go after the bird, madam,” he said. “Come with me!”
“My bird! my bird!” screamed Mrs. Dalley, and tried to run, or rather hobble, towards her room, despite the smoke that was now rolling over her head.
“You must come with me!” exclaimed Joe, and drew her back. She tried to struggle and then, without warning, fainted in his arms.
The burden was a heavy one, but our hero did not shirk the task before him. He half dragged and half carried the unconscious lady to the nearest staircase and almost fell to the bottom.
The smoke on the second floor was so thick he could scarcely see.
But he kept on and went down another flight and reached the office. He could hardly breathe and the tears were running down both cheeks.
“Hullo there, boy!” came the call of a fireman, as he appeared through the smoke. “Better get out of here!”
“Help me with this lady,” answered Joe.
“A lady! Oh, all right!” And in a moment more the fireman had Mrs. Dalley over his shoulder and was carrying her out. Joe came close behind. The lady was taken to a nearby drug store where she speedily revived.
By the prompt efforts of the fire department only a small portion of the hotel was burnt. But the whole building was water-soaked, and all of the boarders had to move out, and then the place was closed up.
“Out of a place once again,” thought our hero, rather dismally. “What’s to do next?”
This was not an easy question to answer. He looked around for another opening but, finding none, resolved to pay a visit to Riverside.
“I can call on the Gussings, and on Ned,” he thought. “I know all of them will be glad to see me. And maybe Mr. Mallison will be wanting to make some arrangements for next summer. I suppose he’ll run the boats as usual.”
“Going to leave Philadelphia, eh?” said Frank. “Do you intend to come back, Joe?”
“I don’t know yet, Frank.”
“Well, I wish you luck.”
“I wish you the same.”
“If you go to work for Mallison this summer, maybe you can get me a job too.”
“I’ll remember that,” answered our hero.
His preparations were soon made, and then he boarded a train for Riverside. He did not dream of the surprises in store for him.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BLUE BOX AT LAST
After calling on the Gussings and being invited to remain there for several days, Joe took himself to Ned Talmadge’s residence.
Ned was very glad to see him and had to give all the particulars of another trip he had made to the West.
“I had a splendid time,” said Ned. “I wish you had been along.”
“Then you like the West, Ned?”
“Indeed I do,—better than the East.”
“Perhaps I’ll go West some day,” went on our hero, and told his friend of what Maurice Vane had said.
“I saw some mines while I was out there,” continued Ned. “I went to the very bottom of one mine. I can tell you I felt a bit shivery, being so far underground.”
“I suppose the miners get used to it.”
“It would be a joke on those swindlers if that mine should prove of value,” went on Ned, after a pause.
“I hope, for Mr. Vane’s sake, it does prove valuable.”
“Now your hotel is burnt out, what are you going to do?”
“I haven’t made up my mind, Ned. Perhaps I’ll come back here, to work for Mr. Mallison.”
“Then we’ll be together again next summer. That will suit me.”
The boys had a good time together and then Joe said he would like to pay a visit to his old home on the mountain side. Ned readily consented to go along.
“But I don’t imagine you’ll find much of the old cabin left,” he added.
There was still a little ice in the lake, but they rowed to the spot without great difficulty and made their way to the tumble-down cabin.
It was not an inviting sight and it made Joe feel sober to view the locality.
“Joe, you never heard anything of that blue box, did you?” asked Ned, after several minutes of silence.
“No.”
“It ought to be somewhere in this vicinity.”
“It’s gone, and that is all there is to it,” said our hero, and gave a long sigh.
The boys tramped around the vicinity for a good half hour, and then sat down on a hollow log to eat a lunch they had brought along.
“Let us build a fire beside the old log,” said Ned. “It will help to keep us warm.”
Joe was willing and the two boys soon had some leaves and twigs gathered, and placed some good-sized branches on top to make the blaze last. Then they began to eat and to warm themselves at the same time.
“This log would make a good hiding-place for some wild animal,” remarked Ned. “Can anything be inside?”
“It’s not likely, Ned. The smoke would drive out any living creature.”
“I’m going to get a stick and poke into the log.”
Both boys procured sticks and began to poke at the log. Presently they felt something move and a half-dazed snake came into view.
“There’s your animal, Ned!” exclaimed Joe.
“Oh, a snake! Keep him away!” roared Ned, badly frightened.
“He can’t hurt you—he is too stiff from the cold,” answered our hero, and quickly dispatched the snake with a stone.
“Do you suppose there are any more in the tree?” asked the rich boy, still keeping at a distance.
“More than likely. I’ll poke around with my stick and see.”
“Be careful!”
“I am not afraid.”
Joe’s stick had something of a crotch on the end of it and with this he began to rake among the dead leaves that had blown into the hollow log. He brought out a great quantity but no more snakes showed themselves.
“I reckon he was the only one after all, Ned.”
“The log is burning!” said Ned, an instant later. “See, the smoke is coming out of the hollow.”
“My stick is caught,” said Joe, pulling hard on something. “I guess—well, I declare!”
He gave a jerk, and from the hollow came a square object, covered with smoking dirt and leaves.
“What is it?”
“Unless I am mistaken, it is a tin box.”
“Oh, Joe, the blue box?”
Joe did not answer for he was brushing the smoking leaves and dirt from the object. As he cleaned it off he caught sight of some blue paint. On one end the box was badly charred from the fire.
“It’s the blue box, sure enough,” said Joe.
“And we came close to burning it up!” groaned Ned. “Oh, Joe, I am so sorry!”
“It’s not your fault, Ned, I was as much to blame as anybody. But who would look for the box out here?”
“Perhaps some wild animal carried it off.”
“That may be.”
Joe had the box cleaned off by this time. It was still hot at one end and smoking. He tried to pull it open, but found it locked.
“The contents will burn up before I can open it!” cried Joe.
He did not know what to do, and in desperation began to pry at the box with his stick and his jackknife. Then the box broke open, scattering some half-burnt papers in all directions.
The boys picked the papers up and also a small bag of buckskin. When Joe opened the bag he found it contained exactly a hundred dollars in gold.
“That’s a nice find,” said Ned. “Anyway, you are a hundred dollars richer than you were.”
Joe began to peruse the half-burnt documents but could make little or nothing out of them. He saw his own name and also that of a certain William A. Bodley, and an estate in Iowa was mentioned.
“What do you find, Joe?”
“I can’t tell you, Ned. The papers are too badly burnt.”
“Let me look at them.”
Our hero was willing, and the two boys spent an hour in trying to decipher the documents.
“It is certainly a puzzle,” said the rich boy. “Why not let my father look over them?”
Joe was willing, and after wrapping up the documents with care, and pocketing the hundred dollars in gold, Joe led the way back to the boat. The wreck of the blue box was left behind, for it was rusty and worthless.
That evening Mr. Talmadge, Ned and Joe spent two hours in going over the documents and trying to supply the parts which had been rotted or burnt away. They were only successful in part.
“I do not wish to say much about this, Joe,” said Ned’s father. “But it would seem from these papers that you are the son of one William A. Bodley, who at one time owned a farm in Iowa, in the township of Millville. Did you ever hear Hiram Bodley speak of this?”
“Never.”
“We might write to the authorities at Millville and see what they have to say.”
“I wish you’d do it. They may pay more attention to you than to a boy.”
“I’ll write at once.”
“Father, hadn’t Joe better stay here until we get a reply?” put in Ned.
“He may do so and welcome,” answered Mr. Talmadge.
The letter was dispatched the next day and our hero waited anxiously for the reply. It came five days later and was as follows:
“Your letter of inquiry received. There was a William A. Bodley in this township twelve years ago. He sold his farm to a man named Augustus Greggs and then disappeared. Before he sold out he lost his wife and several children by sickness. Nobody here seems to know what became of him.
“Joseph Korn.”
“That is short and to the point,” said Mr. Talmadge, “but it is not satisfying. It does not state if this William A. Bodley had any relatives so far as known.”
“I guess the authorities did not want to bother about the matter,” said Joe.
“Why don’t you visit Millville, Joe?” questioned Ned.
“I was thinking I could do that. It wouldn’t cost a fortune, and I’ve got that hundred dollars in gold to fall back on, besides my regular savings.”
“You might learn something to your advantage,” came from Mr. Talmadge. “I think it would be money well spent.”
“Father, can’t I go with Joe?” asked Ned.
“No, Ned, you must attend to your school duties.”
“Then, Joe, you must send me full particulars by mail,” said the rich boy.
“Of course I’ll do that, Ned,” replied our hero.
It was arranged that Joe should leave Riverside on Monday and Ned went to the depot to see him off.
“I wish you the best of luck, Joe!” called out Ned, as the train left the station. “I don’t know of a fellow who deserves better luck than you do!”
