Alger Horatio Jr.
Mark Manning's Mission
CHAPTER XXIII.
MARK'S MISSION
Three days later, two things puzzled the good people of Pocasset. One was the removal of old Anthony from his lonely cabin to the small but comfortable cottage of Mrs. Manning. It was voted by the village people a very sensible move, but they were at a loss to understand how the recluse had been persuaded to change his mode of life. It was generally supposed that he was quite poor, but the two or three dollars a week he would be able to pay the widow would be a help. A room on the second floor was appropriated to old Anthony, where he spent much of his time. Every day, however, he wandered off to the woods, which had been his residence for several years. Though he said little, he was soon convinced that he had bettered himself by his removal. Mrs. Manning provided plain, well-cooked meals, which were far more attractive than the extemporized lunches with which he had thus far been content.
There was another circumstance, however, that equally puzzled the good people of the village. This was the disappearance of Mark. He was no longer seen walking about the streets, and many were the inquiries made of his mother as to where he had gone. At the request of old Anthony she answered very indefinitely. She could not tell just where Mark was, but he was employed. He would probably be home in a few weeks.
Among those whose curiosity was most keen were James Collins and Tom Wyman.
"Where do you think Mark has gone?" said James one day, throwing away a half-smoked cigarette.
"I don't know any more than the man in the moon," answered Tom. "I asked his mother the other day when I met her in the street, but I couldn't get any satisfaction out of her."
"Perhaps he has gone to the city in search of a place."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"He can't get anything to do here. Father won't take him back into the shop."
"He was at work for old Anthony."
"That couldn't amount to much. The hermit is as poor as Job's turkey."
"Do you know this? How about the gold we saw?"
"It was all he had," said James, who was in the habit of jumping at conclusions. "My father says he gets a small pension from some person in the city. Some rich relative, I suppose, is taking care of him. Do you know, Tom, I should be glad to come across Mark blacking boots, or selling papers in the city?"
"Why?"
"He is so mighty independent—poor and proud—that I believe he actually thinks himself as good as you or I."
"He is pretty pert, that's a fact."
"If he were only humble, and showed that he knew his place, I'd get father to take him back into the shop. It's his own fault that he got discharged."
"It's a good thing for his mother having a boarder, as Mark isn't able to help her."
"Pooh! what does that amount to? He probably pays two or three dollars a week. However, I suppose that's a good deal to her."
Mark would have been amused, but not surprised, if he could have heard this conversation between his two old companions. At present, however, he had other things to occupy his attention.
He had already reached Chicago and was staying there a day or two before going farther.
His ultimate destination was Claremont, in Indiana, the place where the daughter of the hermit was understood to have died. It was about seventy-five miles from Chicago, and could be reached in three hours. Mark felt that he could do no better in his brief stay in Chicago than walk about, and make himself familiar with the principal streets and avenues, and gain some knowledge of the western metropolis.
He kept his eyes wide open, and noticed all that came in his way. Everywhere throngs of busy wayfarers, and not one of whom he had ever seen before. It seemed strange to him, for in Pocasset he knew everybody.
"The world is larger than I thought," he reflected, "and there are more people in it. I wish I could see one familiar face."
He had hardly formulated the wish when his glance rested on a form that seemed strangely familiar. It was a man, tall, slender, with a slouching gait.
"That must be Lyman Taylor," he decided, with a natural start of astonishment.
It was indeed the man whom he had last seen in the woods at Pocasset. He had not thought to meet him, though he remembered now to have heard that Lyman had been sent to the West by his uncle.
On the whole, Mark was not as much pleased as he expected to see this familiar face. He did not care to be recognized, as Lyman might have his curiosity excited, and make him trouble.
Suddenly Lyman turned, and his glance fell upon Mark. The boy lowered his head, and walked on without notice. Lyman did not recognize him, though he was vaguely conscious of something familiar in Mark's appearance. But before he left New York, Mark had been provided with a new check traveling suit, and a hat of a different style from the one he was accustomed to wear.
Moreover, Lyman had no thought of meeting the country boy in a western city. So he turned his glance in a different direction, and descended the steps that led to a basement pool and billiard room.
"I would follow him down there, if I dared risk discovery," thought Mark. "However, it is none of my business what he does, as long as he doesn't annoy his uncle."
Lyman Taylor would have been glad to see Mark, or any one else representing his uncle. The sum he had brought away with him had nearly all melted away, and his prospects were by no means brilliant. The thought of engaging in any employment by which he might earn an honest and independent livelihood was by no means attractive to him.
In the afternoon of the second day Mark started by train for Claremont, and arrived at the Claremont Hotel in time for supper.
He found Claremont to be a fair sized town, containing perhaps four thousand inhabitants. It seemed to be growing rapidly, like most western towns favorably situated. After a comfortable supper he bethought himself of whom he could make inquiries as to the object of his journey.
As he sat in the office, a tall man, with long hair, and a look of speculation in his eyes accosted him.
"Have you just arrived in town, young man?"
"Yes, sir," answered Mark.
"Are you calculatin' to settle here?"
"No, sir; I am only here on a little business."
"Drummer, I reckon!"
"No, sir; I do not represent any business house."
"You do look rather young for a drummer, but you said you were travelin' on business."
"My business is of a different nature, sir."
"Just so! if I can help you, I will. I am Colonel Enoch Tarbox, well-known hereabouts."
"Thank you for your offer. If you will allow me, I will ask you one or two questions."
"Go ahead, young man; I'm ready to give you any information in my power."
"I am in search of a family named Ransom, who lived here some years ago."
"John Ransom?"
"Yes, sir."
"You won't find him; he's dead."
"So I have heard. Did you know him or his wife?"
"I've drank with John Ransom many a time at this very bar. He was rather fond of a social glass."
"Did you know his wife?"
"I've seen her often. She's dead too. They both died of a fever."
"I suppose they had no children," said Mark, putting the question anxiously.
"Let me see," said the colonel slowly, evidently searching his memory; "yes, I believe there was a child, a little boy."
"Is he alive?" asked Mark eagerly.
"There you've got me, stranger. Children ain't much in my line. I never heerd of Ransom's child dying. I reckon it left town though."
"Where could I get any information about it, do you think?"
Colonel Tarbox reflected.
"I reckon you'd better go to Mrs. Finn; she was intimate with Mrs. Ransom. She lives in the little white cottage alongside of the Presbyterian church."
"Thank you, Colonel Tarbox; I am much indebted to you for what you have told me."
"Don't mention it. Won't you take a drink?"
This kind offer Mark declined rather to the colonel's dissatisfaction. He decided to call upon Mrs. Finn the next day.
CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT MARK DISCOVERED
As the clock on the Presbyterian church struck nine, Mark stood knocking at the door of the little cottage hard by.
The door was opened by a comely woman of middle age, who, not recognizing Mark, looked at him inquiringly.
"What can I do for you?" she asked.
"My name is Mark Manning," said Mark, introducing himself. "I have been directed to you as likely to give me some information about Mrs. Ransom, who—"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Mrs. Finn, not waiting for Mark to finish his sentence. "Poor dear! I know all about her. Come in, do!"
She led the way into the neat sitting-room, where she invited Mark to be seated. Then she changed parts with Mark and began to ask questions.
"Are you related to Mrs. Ransom?" she asked.
"No," answered Mark, "but I come from one who is."
"Alas, it is too late! The poor woman is dead."
"I know that, but did she leave a child?"
"Yes, a little boy. She sat great store by little Jack."
"And what has become of him?" asked Mark, eagerly.
"That is more than I can tell. A tall gentleman—I don't rightly know his name—appeared at the funeral, said he was a relation, and took off little Jack to St. Louis, I think."
"A tall gentleman—a relation!" repeated Mark, surprised. "What was his appearance?"
Mark was destined to be surprised, for Mrs. Finn's description tallied exactly with the appearance of Lyman Taylor. This was a surprising discovery. Mark was sharp enough to guess that Lyman's object was to remove from his path any rival claimant to his uncle's property, supposing him to possess any.
"I think I know who you mean," he said, after a pause.
"Was it really a relation of Mrs. Ransom?"
"If it was the one I suppose, it was her cousin."
"I am glad to hear it. Then poor Jack was taken care of."
"I am not sure about that," said Mark, gravely. "Though a relative, he is a selfish, bad man, and I am afraid he meant the poor boy no good."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Finn, startled, "you don't think he would murder the innocent child?"
"No, I don't think that, but I think he wanted to put him where his grandfather would never find him."
"Is it his grandfather you come from, then?"
"Yes; he does not even know of his grandchild's existence, but if I find him, the boy will never need any other protector. Can you tell me anything of Mrs. Ransom—of her husband?"
"Poor Mrs. Ransom was a sweet woman, who deserved a better fate. As for her husband, he was a drunkard, and a loafer. Those are hard words, but he deserved them both. They hadn't much money, but what there was he spent for liquor at the hotel yonder. More than once his poor wife and little child wouldn't have had any breakfast if I hadn't taken some over."
And warm-hearted Mrs. Finn wiped away a tear.
"Did her husband treat her very badly? Did he beat her?"
"I am afraid he did when he was very far gone, but, poor thing! she never complained. She always looked sad, though, and she didn't enjoy her life very much."
"Did she ever speak of her father?"
"Once only. She told me she had ill-treated, him, and been a disobedient daughter. I think it was in marrying Ransom."
"Did she ever write to him?"
"She told me she did once, but never received an answer. 'He won't forgive me,' she said, with a sigh, and never wrote again."
"I am sure he did not receive the letter, Mrs. Finn. If he had, he would have noticed it."
"I hope so; at any rate she was sadder than ever when no letter came to her in return. Finally, her husband took sick with a fever. Bad as he had been to her, she nursed him like a devoted wife as she was. But she couldn't save him. Hardly was he dead, when she, too, caught sick, and in the end she died. While she was sick I took little Jack home, for fear he would catch the fever too. I was thinking of adopting him after his mother's death, when the man I spoke of called and took away the boy, saying he would provide for him."
"And that was—how many years ago?"
"Nearly six, I think."
"And I suppose you have neither seen nor heard of him since?"
Mrs. Finn shook her head.
"Where does little Jack's grandfather live?" she asked.
"Near New York."
"Is he a rich man?"
"Moderately rich. He is well able to take care of his grandson, if he could find him."
"I wish I could tell you more, I am sure," said Mrs. Finn heartily. "If the poor boy yet lives, Heaven knows what his condition may be. If you could find the man that took him away–"
"I can," answered Mark.
"Then why don't you go to him, and ask him where to find the child?"
"Because it is against his interests to have him found. He and the little boy are the only heirs to the grandfather's property. His uncle has good reason to dislike him, and if the boy is found, Lyman Taylor will get nothing, I feel sure."
"Well, well! What wickedness there is in the world!" ejaculated Mrs. Finn. "What will you do?"
"I don't know. I shall have to consider."
"Did the grandfather send you out here?"
"Yes."
"Excuse my remarking that you are very young to undertake such a responsible task."
"I think so myself, Mrs. Finn," Mark answered, modestly. "But it so happened that he hadn't much choice. I shall do my best, and if I can't find him, I shall go home and report, and advise Mr. Taylor to send an older and more competent person."
"You won't be offended by what I said?"
"Certainly not. Any one would think as you do. Is there any other information you can give me, Mrs. Finn?"
Mrs. Finn shook her head.
"I am afraid not," she said.
"You are sure the boy was carried to St. Louis?"
"Quite certain."
"I might go to St. Louis, but without any clue I am afraid I should stand little chance of succeeding."
"You might advertise."
"That is true," said Mark. "Indeed, it appears to be the only thing I can do. How old would the boy be now?"
"About eight years old, I think."
"Thank you."
Mark took out a small memorandum book, and noted down the small amount of information he had obtained.
It did not appear to be much, and yet it was of great importance. He had ascertained that Mrs. Ransom had left a child, and moreover that Lyman Taylor had been aware of the fact, and had conspired to keep its existence from old Anthony.
"Does he know where it is now?" Mark asked himself.
Mark was inclined to think not. Shortly after the boy was carried away, Lyman had gone East, got into trouble, and served a term of some years in a prison.
During those years, probably the boy had drifted out of his knowledge. Doubtless he could furnish a clue, but for obvious reasons, it would not do to apply to him.
"I am very much obliged to you for your information," said Mark, as he rose to go.
"You are heartily welcome, sir. Would you mind writing me, if you find out anything about poor Jack?"
"I will certainly do so, Mrs. Finn. I shall lose no time in going to St. Louis."
"Heaven speed you, and bring you success," said Mrs. Finn, fervently.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE LITTLE MATCH BOY
"Matches! Matches! Here's your nice matches!" was heard in a shrill treble, proceeding from a little boy on Clark Street, in Chicago.
He looked thin and pale, and it was easy to see the poor little fellow was poorly fed, as well as ill-clad.
"Only five cents a package!" the little fellow continued to cry; and he looked wistfully in the faces of those who passed him, hoping for a possible purchaser.
"Clear out of my way there, you brat!" said a rough voice. "Do you want to take up the whole sidewalk?"
The boy shrank timidly, as the man who had addressed him swaggered by. He would not have dared to resent the rudeness, but another did. It was a stout, and healthy-looking woman, with a large basket on her arm, whose heart warmed towards the poor little match boy, sent out so early to earn his livelihood.
"You ought to be ashamed to speak to the poor boy that way!" she said, warmly.
"Mind your business, woman!" retorted Lyman Taylor, for it was he whose rough speech had been quoted.
"I always do," said the woman. "It's my business to speak my mind to such brutes as you!"
Lyman vented his wrath in a volley of oaths, for his language was by no means choice, when his anger was excited. He might have been more prudent, if he had known that a policeman was just behind.
"Stop that, my man, unless you want me to take you in!" said the burly officer.
Lyman Taylor turned sharply round, but quailed when he saw the officer.
"This woman has insulted me," he said, sullenly.
"I just spoke to him for abusin' that poor match boy," said the good woman.
"I heard it all," said the officer. "Move on, my man, and behave yourself, if you don't want to get into trouble."
Such a scene was sure to attract a small crowd. One kind-hearted man drew out a dime from his pocket and handed it to the match boy.
"Here, my lad," he said; "take this, and I hope it'll do you good."
"Here are two boxes of matches for you, sir."
"No, keep them. I give you the money."
"Here's another dime," said a young man, of literary aspect. He was a reporter on one of the Chicago daily papers, who, in spite of the cases of poverty and privation that came under his notice every day, still preserved a warm and sympathetic heart.
Then a lady followed his example, and in the end, the match boy had received a sum much larger than the value of his small stock-in-trade.
Lyman Taylor's rudeness had proved to him a piece of good luck, in opening the hearts of those who would otherwise have passed him by without notice.
Smiling with pleasure at the child's good fortune, the good woman who had resented Lyman's rudeness so warmly, went on her way. If all had hearts as warm, there would be little misery or suffering in the world. It is often those who have little, that are most ready to help others poorer than themselves. I must not omit to add, that among the contributors to the little match boy's fund was the policeman, who placed a nickel in his hands, with the admonition to "brace up and be a good boy!" This was true charity, for out of his salary the officer had to support a large family of his own, and therefore had very few nickels to spare. He was bluff of aspect, but kind of heart.
"It's a shame to send out such a child on the streets," he said to himself. "Think of my Rob having to lead such a life!"
The policeman looked sober, for, should anything happen to him, as in his exposed life might very well happen, he knew not what would be the fate of his little ones. They might be as badly off as the poor match boy.
The little match boy's thin face showed signs of satisfaction as he looked at the collection of small coins which had been given him by the pitying crowd. He turned into an alleyway and counted it. It amounted to seventy-six cents. This was a phenomenal sum for the small merchant. And the best of it was, he had his stock of merchandise left.
A thought entered the little boy's mind, prompted by his craving for food.
"Would it be wrong for me to take a little of this money and buy me some dinner?" he said to himself. "I am so hungry. Aunt Peggy only gave me a slice of bread for breakfast, and it's most two o'clock now."
Only a slice of bread, and he had been walking about for hours, trying to sell matches. The fruit of all his labor was the sale of two boxes at five cents each. But he had seventy-six cents besides, and they were his. They had not been given to Aunt Peggy, but to him. So, at least, he reasoned. Not that he meant to keep it all himself. He intended to give the greater part to the woman who was the only guardian he knew, but he thought he had a right to use fifteen cents for himself. It wasn't much, but he knew a place—a cheap place—where for this sum he could get a cup of coffee and a plate of beefsteak. At the thought of this delicious repast the match boy's mouth watered. When had he eaten meat? Three days ago Peggy had given him a bone to pick. There was not much on it, but when he had got through with it there was none at all.
Johnny could not resist the temptation. He suspended sales, and made his way to a cheap restaurant on a side street. With eager steps he entered, and sat down at a wooden table from which nearly all the paint had been worn off, and scanned the bill of fare.
It seemed to him that there was nothing better than the dish he had already mentally selected.
A greasy looking waiter approached, and said sharply, "What'll you have, kid?"
"Cup o' coffee an' plate of beefsteak!" answered Johnny.
"Sure yer got money enough to pay for it?"
"I wouldn't have asked for it if I hadn't," said Johnny, emboldened by his unusual wealth.
"All right, then! Sometimes chaps come in and order their dinner, and skip off before it comes time to pay."
The greasy looking waiter went to the back of the room, and soon returned with the banquet Johnny ordered.
He set it down with a jerk.
