Alger Horatio Jr.
Making His Mark
CHAPTER XIX
A BOLD ROBBERY
"What does this mean, Mr. Brand?" demanded Gerald, with quick suspicion.
Brand sat down on the bed, and answered, with a smile:
"It means that I want your money, young man."
"How do you know that I have any?"
"I was in the Park National Bank when you drew money this morning. I want it."
"So you are a thief?" returned Gerald, hotly, "You would rob a boy?"
"I would rob any one that had money. The fact is, I am hard up and must get money somewhere."
"And this was your object in making my acquaintance and taking me about the city."
"Yes; you have guessed it."
"The money that I have does not belong to me. If I had any money of my own I would give it to you."
"I don't care whether the money is yours or the mayor's. A dollar is a dollar, no matter to whom it belongs. So fork over, young man, and don't keep me waiting."
"Is it possible such crimes are committed in a great city with hundreds near at hand?"
"That's a conundrum. However, I can answer in the affirmative. Now, how much money have you got?"
The money Gerald had drawn from the bank he had put in his inside vest-pocket. That amounted, as the reader is aware, to one hundred and fifty dollars. The money he had brought from Portville he had in his wallet, and this amounted to only fifty. The loss of this would not inconvenience him. He decided to give this up if necessary. The question in Gerald's mind was whether Brand had seen him put away the Park Bank money.
"I have fifty dollars," he answered. "I will give you ten dollars if you will let me go."
"Ten dollars!" repeated Brand, scornfully. "You must think me an idiot."
"But I can't get along without money."
"Neither can I. So hand over your money." It looked as if Brand were deceived, and that Gerald might save the more considerable sum in his vest-pocket. But to part with it too easily might excite suspicion.
"Mr. Brand," said Gerald, "I appeal to you once more. Let me go free; or, at any rate, don't take all my money."
"All your money is very little. I thought you had more. Fifty dollars will hardly pay me for the trouble I have taken."
"I didn't ask you to take any trouble. You would have done better to select some other victim."
"I thought you would be the easiest to deal with," returned Brand, coolly. "But we are wasting time. Produce your money."
Gerald drew out his wallet. Fortunately for him the contents were in bills of small denominations, so that, though only representing a small sum, they made quite a goodly show.
"Ah!" said Brand, in a tone of satisfaction, as he held out his hand, "that is something like. It is like the sight of water to a thirsty traveler."
As he spoke he deliberately put the wallet in his pocket.
"But," said Gerald, in apparent alarm, "if you take all my money how am I to get home?"
Brand shrugged his shoulders.
"You are young and strong; it won't hurt you to walk," he replied.
"Then I shall have to stay in the city."
"It will be safer for me to get him out of the city," thought Brand.
"How much will it cost you to get home?" he asked.
"A dollar."
Brand drew a dollar bill from the wallet and threw it out on the bed.
"There," he said, "you can't say I have treated you meanly. Have you any change?"
"No."
"Here is half a dollar besides. It was all the money I had before I struck luck in meeting you."
"It is not very good luck for me," said Gerald, with a long face.
"Oh, you'll get over it. And now, Mr. Lane, I will bid you a good morning."
He rose to his feet, and walking to the door, unlocked it. Gerald followed him.
Brand waved him back.
"You are not going out," he said. "You will have to wait here a little longer."
"Why won't you release me, Mr. Brand? You have got my money; what more do you want?"
"Because, my young friend, we might meet a policeman outside, and you might introduce me to him. Do you see?"
"Yes," answered Gerald, smiling.
"I must therefore bid you good-by in haste. I suppose we are not likely to meet again?"
"I hope not."
"I quite agree with you."
He opened the door and went out into the entry. Gerald heard the key turned in the lock, and sat down to consider the situation. He had no idea how long he should be compelled to remain in the room, but as might be expected, he was impatient to have his captivity ended. Reflecting over the events of the morning, he felt mortified to think that he had fallen such an easy victim to an unscrupulous adventurer.
The door was locked, but there was a window. Could he escape that way? He walked to the window and looked out. There was a small yard below, but, as the room was on the third floor, the distance was too great for him to jump or let himself down. Besides, should he do so, he might be taken for a burglar or unauthorized intruder, and stand in danger of being arrested.
Possibly there might be some person in the adjoining room—some one whose attention he might attract. He judged that the partition was thin, and that any noise he made would be heard. He began to pound on the wall, gradually increasing the vigor of his efforts.
"If there is anybody there he can't help hearing," he reflected.
He was soon assured that he was right.
In a minute he heard a voice outside his door. It was the sharp, shrill voice of a woman.
"What are you doin' there, you spalpeen?" were the words he heard. "Do you want to batter down the wall?"
"No," answered Gerald, "I want to get out."
"Why don't you get out, then? What's to hinder?"
"I am locked in!"
"Shure, that's quare! Who locked you in?"
"Mr. Brand."
"I don't know any such man."
It had not occurred to Gerald that his acquaintance of the morning might have given him a false name.
"It's the man that lives here, then. He said his name was Brand."
"Mr. Turner occupies the room."
"Is he a tall, dark man?"
"Yes."
"Then he's the one that lured me here, robbed me of my money, and then left after locking me in."
"Oh, my gracious! I didn't think he was such a man!"
"Can you open the door? Have you a key?"
"Yes, but it is the key of my own room. I don't think it will fit."
"Try it, won't you?" asked Gerald, anxiously.
The key was thrust into the lock, but it would not open it.
"No, it won't fit," said the woman.
This was discouraging.
"Won't you ask the landlady to open the door?" asked the young prisoner. "Probably she has a key that will open it."
There was a step heard on the stairs.
"Oh, Mr. Brown," said the woman, "will your key open the door of this room?"
"I will try it. What's up?" asked the new arrival, who seemed to be a young man.
Gerald waited in anxious suspense while the key was thrust into the lock. It fitted, and the door was opened.
"How were you locked in?" asked the young man looking puzzled. "You don't lodge here, do you?"
"No; I was lured here by the man who occupies the room. He robbed me of my wallet, and then went away, locking me in."
"Whew!" exclaimed the young man. "That will make an item for my paper."
"Are you an editor?" asked Gerald.
"I am a reporter on an evening paper," he replied. "Miss Sloan, this is Mr. Turner's room, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mr. Brown. Do you think he is a burglar? If so, I sha'n't dare to live in the house."
"He won't try to rob you, and I feel safe. Editors and reporters are not attractive game for gentlemen of his profession." Then turning to Gerald, he asked: "Did he relieve you of much money?"
"Fifty dollars."
"Oh, my gracious!" exclaimed Miss Sloan, throwing up her hands. "Poor boy, did he take all you had?"
"No, ma'am, I have a little left. What ought I to do?"
"Report the matter to the police. I'll go with you. The fellow ought to be arrested."
CHAPTER XX
A LETTER FROM PORTVILLE
Gerald followed the reporter to the nearest station-house, and gave an account of the robbery. Notes were taken and he was asked, "If we arrest this man will you appear against him?"
"I want to leave town to-morrow, if possible."
"You will have to stay longer than that. However, we will hurry up the trial."
By this time Gerald was hungry.
"Is there a restaurant near by?" he said.
"Yes. I am going out to lunch myself; you can accompany me."
The reporter led the way to Fourteenth Street, where Gerald found a neat and satisfactory restaurant. The robbery had not spoiled his appetite, and he did justice to a generous meal.
When they left the restaurant the reporter asked: "Where are you going now?"
"I don't know. I have no particular plans."
"Then come with me. There has been a fire on Third Avenue, and I am commissioned to inquire particulars of the losses and insurance. It will give you an insight into city life."
"I shall be glad to go with you."
They visited the scene of the fire, and half an hour was consumed by the reporter in gathering the needed information. Then they walked down the avenue toward Fourteenth Street.
All at once Gerald clutched his companion's arm.
"Look, Mr. Brown," he said; "there is the man that robbed me!"
A few rods in advance, walking with his usual sauntering gait, was Turner, known to Gerald as William Brand.
"You are right. That's the man."
"What shall I do?"
"Keep him in sight till you see a policeman. Then ask to have him arrested."
Usually it is said that a policeman is never in sight when he is wanted; but in this case there was an exception. One of the bluecoats turned into Third Avenue from a side street. Gerald darted forward and touched him on the arm.
"What's wanted, sonny?" asked the officer.
"I have been robbed of fifty dollars, and there's the man that robbed me."
"Are you sure about this? I don't want to make a mistake."
By this time the reporter came up.
"It's all right, officer," he said. "I know the man."
"And who are you, sir?"
"A reporter on the Evening–"
The policeman regarded him with respect. He felt that it was well for him to keep in with reporters on the daily papers.
"All right, sir," he answered. "You will accompany me to the station-house?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll make the arrest. Keep close at hand."
Increasing his pace, the officer caught up with Brand and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, and when he recognized who it was that had touched him, his face underwent a quick change. But he put on a bold front.
"How are you, captain?" he said, with assumed nonchalance. "You are Officer Benson, are you not?"
"No."
"I thought you were. Benson is a fine fellow, and an old-time friend of mine."
"That's all very well, but I have business with you. You are charged with the robbery of a wallet containing fifty dollars."
"This must be a joke!" said Brand, in assumed surprise. "Who makes the charge?"
The officer pointed out Gerald.
"Never saw him before in my life!" he exclaimed.
"Perhaps you never saw me, Mr. Turner?" struck in the reporter.
"Yes; you live in the same house with me."
"Exactly. You lured this boy to your room, and, after robbing him, locked him in. I released him."
"Was this the story he told you?"
"Yes."
"All I can say is, that if he got into my room it was for the purpose of robbery."
Gerald was about to make an indignant denial, when the officer said: "You'll have to go with me, Mr. Brandon Turner, or whatever your name is. I am not running a police court. You can defend yourself in the court-room."
"But this is an outrage!" blustered Brand. "To be arrested on a false charge made by a young rascal!"
"Come along! I didn't recognize you at first, but I believe you are Jim Hayden, whose picture is in the Rogues' Gallery, in Mulberry Street."
In spite of further remonstrance, Brand was taken to the police station, and, at Gerald's request, was searched. The missing wallet was found in his pocket, and proved to contain the lost money with the exception of five dollars, which had probably been spent.
He was tried the next day, and sentenced to three years in State's prison. Altogether Gerald was delayed three days. Then, with his restored money in his pocket, he started for Chicago. His new friend the reporter accompanied him to the depot of the Pennsylvania Railroad at Jersey City.
"I wish you good luck, Gerald," he said. "If you triumph over obstacles as you have done here, there is little doubt that you will come out successful in the end. I shall be glad if you will write me a line occasionally."
"I will do so, Mr. Brown. You have done me a great service, which I shall not readily forget."
Gerald remained two days in Chicago. By Mr. Nugent's advice he put up at the Palmer House, and devoted a part of his time to looking about the city. He was very much impressed by the bustling activity and energy of the Chicago people. He felt that life there and in New York was very different from the hum-drum existence of Portville. Yet there was no lack of attachment for his native village; and when, on the second day, the clerk handed him a letter with the familiar postmark, he opened it eagerly. The letter, as he surmised, was from Richard Childs, to whom alone he had said anything of his destination.
This was the letter:
"Dear Gerald—It seems odd for me to sit down to write you a letter in Chicago. I cannot realize that you are so far away. What a lot you must have seen already! I only wish I were with you, instead of standing behind the counter in Mr. Tubbs' grocery store.
"You will ask how I like it. Well, I don't like it. It is hard work and long hours, and I don't find much interest in selling butter, sugar and other groceries over the counter. Still, we have had a share of excitement. You will be surprised to hear that your old friend Brandon has been discharged, and a new clerk hired from Dana. You remember the trouble you had, and the charge of stealing which was brought against you. I believe that up to the time of your going away Mr. Tubbs still believed you to be a thief. You can't wonder at it so much, for Brandon was constantly talking against you. But you were not without friends. Mr. Barton, from the savings bank, had an interview with Mr. Tubbs, and persuaded him to lay a trap for Brandon. Two marked bills—fives—were placed in the drawer, and presently one disappeared. I don't know whether Tubbs thought that I had taken it or not, but a day or two later Mr. Sullivan, who keeps the livery-stable, handed one in payment of his grocery bill.
"'Where did you get this five-dollar note?' asked Tubbs.
"'Why, isn't it good?' asked Sullivan.
"'Yes; but I have a reason for asking. I hope you haven't forgotten who gave it to you?'
"'No; I don't have so many fives handed in that I can't remember. That bill was given me by your clerk Brandon. He hired a team to go to Sherborn last Sunday and paid me with this bill.'
"'You could swear to that?'
"'Yes; certainly.'
"Of course this was convincing, and Brandon was summoned. When confronted with the charge he turned pale, and tried to brazen it out, saying that Sullivan was mistaken. But the livery man persisted in his assertion, saying that he noticed a cross in red ink on the bill when he took it. Upon that Brandon was discharged, and I understand his father has agreed to pay Mr. Tubbs fifty dollars to save him from arrest and prosecution. His successor, Mr. Toner, is a great improvement on him, and is much more satisfactory to me.
"I see your dear stepbrother Abel now and then. He asked me if I had heard from you, knowing our intimacy; but I answered 'No.' He was wondering whether you were still in New York. I could have told him, but I didn't. He isn't very popular in the village. He tries to boss the other boys, but doesn't succeed very well. The boys are getting up a baseball club. He wanted to be captain, but only received one vote—his own. The captain chosen is my honorable self. What do you think of Captain Childs? Sounds great, doesn't it? Write as soon as you can, and let me know what has happened to you.
"Your true friend,"Richard Childs."
CHAPTER XXI
A MINING SETTLEMENT IN MONTANA
Campville was a small mining settlement in Montana.
All the buildings were of a temporary character—generally of one story. There was a long street, after the fashion of most western-pioneer settlements, but the houses on it were not many. The largest was a general store for the sale of such articles as miners need. It was kept by one Joe Loche. He came from Maine to Montana, mined for a while with indifferent success, and then opened a store. This was a business he knew something about, and he succeeded almost immediately. His store was a general rendezvous of miners in the intervals of work.
One morning, when four or five persons were in Loche's store, sitting around on kegs, a young man of about thirty entered. He had a long, thin face and roving eyes, and looked like one whom a prudent man would not care to meet on a dark night.
He entered the store and looked about him curiously. He was a stranger in the settlement, and his glances were returned with interest.
"Mornin' stranger!" said Loche, who always had an eye for a possible customer. "What can I do for you? What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't say."
This curt answer produced an unfavorable impression.
"I reckon you've got a name, ain't yer?" said Joe, coldly.
"Yes. My name is Ralph Nixon."
The statement was received with surprise.
"Any relation to old Tom Nixon, who lives on the hill?"
This question, asked by Joe Loche, voiced the question which all wished to ask.
"He is my uncle. Can you tell me about him?"
"The old man is pretty sick," said Joe.
"Like to die?" asked Ralph, eagerly.
"Oh, well, I don't know. Men that are always dying live for years sometimes. Haven't you seen him lately?"
"No; I never saw him."
"How is that?"
"He came West when I was a baby."
"Have you come out to see him?"
"Yes. I thought the old man might need some one to look after him. Has he got any money—enough to live on?"
"I reckon so. He's interested in some mines at Eldorado, but he stays in an old tumble-down cabin, and it doesn't cost him anything to live."
"Where does he live?"
"Come out and I'll show you. About a quarter of a mile back of the settlement."
Ralph followed Joe Loche out of the store, and received directions.
"So he owns some mines, does he?" asked the young man, with a covetous gleam in his small, bead-like eyes.
"Yes."
"They ought to be worth something," he said, meditatively.
"Yes, the old man may be worth near five thousand dollars."
"Does he live alone?"
"Yes, quite alone."
"I suppose he was never married?"
"Don't you know?"
"No; he has never written East since he left us. It was only lately that we learned where he was. Then father thought I'd better come out here and look him up."
"I reckon he will be glad to see you."
"He ought to be; but I am a stranger to him."
"I haven't seen him round town lately. I guess he's under the weather."
Joe went back into the store, and Ralph Nixon made his way over the rough ground to the old cabin which had been pointed out to him.
"I shouldn't wonder if he were a miser," he reflected. "He's been out here twenty-five years, more or less, and has lived on next to nothing. Even if he hasn't made much he's got it all, according to accounts. I'm the only one of his kith and kin that he is likely to see, and he can't do any better than to leave me what he's got. If he doesn't, I'll stay out here and try my own luck at mining. There's no chance for me in the East, even if I hadn't got into trouble."
He reached the cabin, and paused for a short time on the outside. It was a tumble-down affair, and looked by no means like the residence of a rich man. This might have dampened Ralph's courage, but that he had made up his mind that his uncle was a miser.
Finally he edged round to the side of the cabin and looked in at the window.
What he saw was this: in a wooden chair, evidently of home manufacture, sat a decrepit old man. His face was thin, his cheeks hollow, and his hair, perfectly white, scarcely covered his head. His limbs were attenuated, his chest was hollow, and he looked like a very old and infirm man, though he numbered but sixty-five years.
"What a skeleton he is!" thought Ralph. "He is just on the verge of the grave, ready to tumble in. It's a lucky thing I came here, for if he had died those roughs at the store would have taken his money and his relations would never have been the wiser. Well, I'll go in and scrape acquaintance with the old effigy."
He walked round to the door, and without the ceremony of knocking, opened it and made his way into the cabin.
Thomas Nixon looked up, and seemed alarmed when he saw the intruder.
"Who are you?" he asked, in a thin, quavering voice.
It was natural that he should be alarmed, for a western mining settlement has generally its share of rough and unscrupulous men, social outlaws, who have made their way thither in search of gain or booty.
"Don't be alarmed, Uncle Thomas," said Ralph, in a reassuring tone. "I am your nephew Ralph, come from the East to look after you."
"I know of no Ralph. Whose son are you?"
"My father is Gideon Nixon."
"My oldest brother?"
"Yes."
"How did you know where I lived?"
"A man came to Stamford who had been here. Learning my name, he told us he knew a man named Nixon out here. He said you were old and feeble, and father thought I had better come out and look you up."
"It wasn't worth while. I am a poor old man, and I can do you no good."
"Are you poor?" asked Ralph, his tone betraying his disappointment.
"Look around you and judge for yourself," returned the old man, eying his nephew with a glance of mingled curiosity and shrewdness.
"I was told in the village that you were interested in some mines."
"My affairs are known only to myself. If you have come out to help me and supply my old age with comfort, it is a kind and charitable object."
Ralph was much disturbed by these words. He was very much afraid that his uncle was nearly as poor as he claimed. In that case his errand would be bootless. But, looking about him with a feeling of discontent, his eye fell on a tin box such as may be found in grocery stores filled with crackers.
"I'll find out what there is in that box," he decided.
Without answering the old man, he rose, and moving toward the box, lifted the lid.
"What are you doing?" asked Mr. Nixon, in alarm.
Ralph did not answer. He had something else to think of. The box was a third full of glittering gold pieces, upon which he gazed as if fascinated.
