Alger Horatio Jr.
The Erie Train Boy

CHAPTER XXV.
ROSE WAINWRIGHT'S PARTY

As Fred would make his debut in fashionable society at Rose Wainwright's party, he was naturally solicitous to make a favorable impression. He had for some time been intending to procure a new suit, but hesitated on account of the expense. Now with a new position in prospect, and a liberal salary he no longer delayed, but purchased a neat black suit – a misfit – for seventeen dollars, and a few small articles of which he stood in need.

The next thing required was to obtain some knowledge of dancing. Fortunately he was acquainted with a gentleman who gave private as well as class lessons, and was a very successful teacher. He called upon Professor Saville, and asked him if he could qualify him to make a creditable appearance at the party.

"How much time have you?" asked the professor.

"Ten days."

"Then come to me every evening, and I will guarantee to make you more than an average dancer in that time."

"And your terms?"

"To you will be half price. I know very well, Fred, that you are not a millionaire, and will adapt my terms to your circumstances."

Professor Saville kept his word, and when the eventful day arrived Fred felt a degree of confidence in his newly-acquired skill. When he was dressed for the party in his new suit, with a white silk tie and a pair of patent leather shoes, it would have been hard to recognize him as a poor train boy.

"You look nice, Fred," said Albert.

"Do I? I must give you a dime for that compliment. Now don't go and spend it for whisky."

"I never drink whisky," said Albert, indignantly.

"I was only joking, Bertie. Well, mother, I will bid you good-evening."

"I wish you a pleasant time, Fred. Shall you be out late?"

"I can't tell, mother. It is so long since I have been to a fashionable party that I have forgotten when they do close."

Some of the boys who attended Miss Wainwright's party engaged cabs, but Fred would have thought this a foolish expenditure. It was a dry crisp day, with no snow on the ground, and he felt that it would do him no harm to walk. He did not expect to meet any one he knew, but on turning into Madison Avenue, he nearly ran into Raymond Ferguson.

Raymond did not at first recognize him. When he did, he surveyed him in his party dress in unconcealed amazement.

"Where did you get that rig?" he inquired, with more abruptness than ceremony.

Fred was glad to meet Raymond, and enjoyed his surprise.

"I bought it," he answered briefly.

"But why did you buy it? I don't see where you found the money. You'd better have saved it for food and rent."

"I'll think over your advice, Cousin Raymond," said Fred with a twinkle of fun in his eyes.

"Were you going to call at our house?" asked Raymond.

"Not this evening."

"I don't care to have you call me Cousin Raymond."

"I won't, then. I am just as much ashamed of the relationship as you are."

"If that's a joke it's a very poor one," said Raymond, provoked.

"It's no joke, I assure you."

Fred seemed so cool and composed that his cousin was nonplussed. He started as if to go on, but curiosity got the better of him.

"You haven't told me where you were going in that absurd dress," he said.

"I don't see anything absurd in it. I am going to a party."

"To a party? what party?"

"Miss Rose Wainwright's."

"What, the daughter of Mr. Wainwright, the broker?" asked Raymond, incredulously.

"Yes."

Now it happened that Raymond had been particularly anxious to get an invitation to this party. Some of his friends at the Columbia Grammar School were going and he had intrigued, but unsuccessfully, to get a card of invitation. The idea that his cousin – an obscure train boy – had succeeded where he had failed seemed absurd and preposterous. It intensified his disappointment, and made him foolishly jealous of Fred.

"There must be some mistake about this," he said harshly. "You only imagine that you are invited."

"I am not quite a fool, Cousin Raymond – excuse me, Mr. Ferguson. What do you say to this?"

He drew from his pocket a note of invitation requesting the favor of Mr. Fred Fenton's company at Miss Rose Wainwright's New Year's party.

"How did she happen to send you this card?" asked Raymond, his surprise increasing. "You don't mean to say you know Rose Wainwright?"

"Yes, I know her. I spent an evening at the house nearly two weeks ago, and played backgammon with her."

"I never heard the like. Have any bootblacks been invited?"

"I don't know. The young lady didn't tell me who were coming."

"Take my advice and don't go."

"Why not?"

"You will be about as much at home at a fashionable party as a cat would be at the opera."

"But I have accepted the invitation."

"That won't matter. You can write a note tomorrow saying that you thought it wiser to stay away."

"Besides there is another objection."

"What is that?"

"Rose expects me to dance with her."

"You dance!"

"Certainly, why not?"

"I begin to think you are crazy, Fred Fenton."

"I don't see why."

"Of course you can't dance."

"Of course I can. I am a pupil of Professor Saville. But I must bid you good evening, as it is time I was at the party."

Raymond gazed after Fred as he walked toward the scene of the evening's enjoyment with corrugated brows.

"I never heard of anything more ridiculous," he muttered. "It's like a beggar on horseback. Think of a poor boy like Fred figuring at Rose Wainwright's party. It is disgusting."

Fred would not have had his share of human nature if he had not enjoyed the discomfiture of his haughty cousin.

"He thinks this world was made for him," he said to himself. "There would be no place for me in it if he had his will."

The broker's house was blazing with light, and already many of the young guests had arrived. Plants and flowers were to be seen in profusion, and the mansion wore a holiday look. Fred was dazzled, but did not allow himself to appear ill at ease.

"Second floor back," said the servant who admitted him.

Fred went up-stairs and arranged his toilet in the room appropriated to gentlemen. Three or four other boys were present, but he knew no one. With one of these, an attractive boy of his own age, Fred stumbled into acquaintance, and they went downstairs together.

"Come with me." said the other boy, "we will pay our respects to Rose together."

Fred was glad to have some one take him in tow, and said so, adding, "Won't you tell me your name?"

"My name is George Swain. I am a Columbia schoolboy."

"And mine, Fred Fenton. I am in Mr. Wainwright's office."

Rose greeted both boys cordially. She glanced approvingly at Fred's dress. She had been a little uncertain whether he would be able to appear in suitable costume.

"You won't forget our dance?" she said, smiling.

"Oh, no; I am counting upon it."

"Then put down your name here," and she presented a card containing the order of dances.

"May I put down my name, too?" asked George "Certainly. I shall be pleased to dance with you."

When his turn came Fred acquitted himself very creditably, thanks to his skilful instructor, Professor Saville.

At ten o'clock a series of tableaux was announced. At one end of the dining-room a miniature stage had been erected, and there was a circular row of footlights. In the third tableau, Rose took part. She incautiously drew too near the footlights, and in an instant her dress caught fire.

There was a wild scene of excitement. All seemed to have lost their presence of mind except Fred. Occupying a front seat, he jumped to his feet in an instant, stripped off his coat, and jumping on the stage wrapped it round the terrified Rose.

CHAPTER XXVI.
FRED BECOMES A NEWSPAPER HERO

"Lie down instantly! Don't be alarmed! I will save you," said Fred rapidly, as he reached the girl.

He spoke in a tone of authority required by the emergency, and Rose obeyed without question. Her terror gave place to confidence in Fred. Her prompt obedience saved her life. A minute's delay, and it would have been too late.

There was a wild rush to the stage. First among those to reach Fred and the little girl was Mr. Wainwright. He had seen his daughter's peril, and for a moment he had been spellbound, his limbs refusing to act. Had Fred been affected in the same way, the life of Rose would have been sacrificed.

"Are you much hurt, my darling?" he asked, sick with apprehension.

"Just a little, papa," answered Rose, cheerfully. "If it hadn't been for Fred, I don't know what would have happened."

The coat was carefully removed, and it was found that the chief damage had been to the white dress. The little girl's injuries were of small account.

Fortunately there was a physician present, who took Rose in hand, and did what was needed to relieve her.

"It is a miracle that she was saved, Mr. Wainwright," he said. "But for this brave boy – "

"Hush, doctor, I cannot bear to think of it," said Mr. Wainwright with a shudder. "I can never forget what you have done for me and mine," he added, turning to Fred, and wringing his hand. "I won't speak of it now, but I shall always remember it."

Fred blushed and tried to escape notice, but the guests surrounded him and overwhelmed him with congratulations. One little girl, the intimate friend of Rose, even threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, which caused Fred to blush more furiously then ever. But upon the whole he bore himself so modestly that he won golden opinions from all.

The incident put an end to the party. As soon as it was understood that Rose was in no danger, the guests began to take their leave.

George Swain and Fred went out together.

"Fred, you have shown yourself a hero," said his friend warmly.

"You would have done the same thing," said Fred.

"Perhaps I should, but I should not have acted so promptly. That was the important point. You had your wits about you. I was sitting beside you, but before I had time to collect my thoughts you had saved Rose."

"I acted on the impulse of the moment."

"How did you know just what to do – making her lie down, you know?"

"I read an account of a similar case some months since. It came to me in a moment, and I acted upon it."

"If I ever catch fire, I hope you'll be on hand to put me out."

"Oh, yes," laughed Fred. "I'll stand you on your head directly."

"Thank you! It's a good thing to have a considerate friend."

"Did you have a pleasant evening, Fred?" asked Mrs. Fenton. "Are you not home earlier than you expected?"

"Yes, mother. There was as an accident that broke up the party."

He described the affair, but said nothing of his own part in it.

The next morning, after Fred had taken breakfast and gone to business, a neighbor came in.

"I congratulate you, Mrs. Fenton," she said. "You have a right to be proud of Fred."

"Thank you," said the widow, puzzled. "I'm glad you think well of him."

"There's few boys that would have done what he did."

"What has he done?" asked Mrs. Fenton, stopping short on her way to the pantry.

"You don't mean to say you don't know? Why, it's in all the papers."

"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about."

"Didn't I tell you how he saved the little girl from burning to death?"

"Was it Fred who saved her? He didn't tell me that."

"Of course it was. Read that, now!"

She put in the hand of the widow a copy of the Sun in which the whole scene was vividly described.

"What do you say now, Mrs. Fenton?"

"That I am all the more proud of Fred because he did not boast of what he did," and a look of pride shone in the widow's eyes.

That morning, when Raymond Ferguson entered the breakfast-room rather later than usual, he found his father reading a paragraph in the Sun with every appearance of surprise.

"What is it, papa?" asked Raymond.

"Read that!"

Raymond took the paper, and his eye was drawn to some conspicuous headlines.

A NARROW ESCAPE FROM A TERRIBLE DEATH!

A BROKER'S DAUGHTER IN FLAMES!

SAVED BY A BOY'S HEROISM!

A TRAGIC SCENE AT A NEW YEAR'S PARTY!

"Why, it's Rose Wainwright!" said Raymond excitedly. "Whom do you think I saw on his way to the party last evening?"

"Fred Fenton."

"How did you hear it?" asked Raymond in surprise.

"Read the account and you will understand."

This is what Raymond read:

Last evening a terrible tragedy came near being enacted at the house of the well-known broker, John Wainwright. The occasion was a juvenile party given by his little daughter Rose, eleven years of age. One part of the entertainment provided was a series of tableaux upon a miniature stage at one end of the dining-room. All went well till the third tableau, in which the young hostess took part, She incautiously approached too near the footlights, when her white dress caught fire and instantly blazed up. All present were spellbound, and it seemed as if the little girl's fate was sealed. Luckily one of the young guests, Fred Fenton, retained his coolness and presence of mind. Without an instant's delay he sprang upon the stage, directed the little girl to lie down, and wrapped his coat around her. Thanks to his promptitude, she escaped with slight injuries. By the time the rest of those present recovered from the spell of terror, Rose was saved.

We understand that the brave boy who displayed such heroic qualities was formerly a train boy on the Erie Railroad, but is now employed in the office of Mr. Wainwright.

Raymond read this account with lowering brow. He felt sick with jealousy. Why had he not been lucky enough to receive an invitation to the party, and enact the part of a deliverer? He did not ask himself whether, if the opportunity had been afforded, he would have availed himself of it. It is fortunate for Rose that she had Fred to depend upon in her terrible emergency, and not Raymond Ferguson. There was little that was heroic about him. A hero must be unselfish, and Raymond was the incarnation of selfishness.

"Your cousin seems to have become quite a hero," said Mr. Ferguson, as Raymond looked up from the paper.

"Don't call him my cousin! I don't care to own him."

"I don't know," said his father, who was quite as selfish, but not as malicious as Raymond. "I am not sure but it will be considered a credit to us to have such a relative."

"Anybody could have done as much as he did," said Raymond in a tone of discontent. "Here's some news of your train-boy, Luella," he continued, as his sister entered the room.

"Has he been arrested?" asked Luella listlessly.

"Not at all! He turns out to be a hero," said her father.

"I suppose that is a joke."

"Read the paper and see."

The young lady read the account with as little pleasure as Raymond.

"How on earth came a boy like that at the Wainwrights' house?" she said with a curl of the lip. "Really, society is getting very much mixed."

"Perhaps," said her father, "it was his relationship to the future Countess Cattelli."

Luella smiled complacently. She had fallen in with an Italian count, an insignificant looking man, very dark and with jet black hair and mustache, of whom she knew very little except that he claimed to be a count. She felt that he would propose soon, and she had decided to accept him. She did not pretend to love him, but it would be such a triumph to be addressed as the Countess Cattelli. She would let Alfred Lindsay see that she could do without him.

CHAPTER XXVII.
A CONFIDENTIAL MISSION

When Fred met Mr. Wainwright at the office the next morning his employer greeted him with a pleasant smile, but did not stop to speak. Fred felt relieved, for it embarrassed him to be thanked, and since the evening previous no one had met him without speaking of his heroism. Now Fred was inclined to be modest, and he could not possibly feel that he had done anything heroic, though he was quite aware that he had saved the life of Rose Wainwright. He looked upon it rather as a fortunate opportunity for rendering his employer a valuable service.

At one o'clock Fred took his hat, intending to go to lunch. He lunched at a quiet place in Nassau Street, and never spent over twenty-five cents for this meal, feeling that he must give the bulk of his salary to his mother.

He was just going out when he heard his name called.

Looking back, he saw that it was the broker himself who was speaking to him. Mr. Wainwright had his hat on, and seemed about going out, too.

"You must go to lunch with me to-day, Fred."

"Thank you, sir," answered Fred respectfully.

They walked through Wall Street together, the broker chatting pleasantly. On the way Fred met Raymond, who stared in surprise and disgust as he saw the intimate terms on which Fred appeared to be with his wealthy employer. Mr. Wainwright led the way into an expensive restaurant of a very select character, and motioned Fred to sit down at a table with him.

After the orders were given, he said: "I have invited you to lunch with me, as I could not speak at the office without being overheard. Of course the great service which you rendered me and mine last evening, I can never forget. I do not propose to pay you for it."

"I am glad of that, sir," said Fred earnestly.

"I feel that money is entirely inadequate to express my gratitude, but I shall lose no opportunity of advancing your interests and pushing you on in business."

"Thank you, sir."

"Indeed, it so happens that I have an opportunity even now of showing my confidence in you."

Fred listened with increased attention.

"Some months since," continued the broker, "a confidential clerk who had been employed in my office for years suddenly disappeared, and with him about fifteen thousand dollars in money and securities. As they were my property, and no one else was involved, I did not make the loss public, thinking that I might stand a better chance of getting them back."

"But, sir, I should think the securities would be sold, and the amount realized spent."

"Well thought of, but there was one hindrance. They were not negotiable without the indorsement of the owner in whose name they stood."

"Yes, sir, I see."

"Sooner or later, I expected to hear from them, and I have done so.

Yesterday this letter came to me from my defaulting clerk."

He placed a letter, with a Canadian postmark in Fred's hand.

"Shall I read it?'" asked Fred.

"Yes, do so."

This was the letter:

MR. WAINWRIGHT,

DEAR SIR – I am ashamed to address you after the manner in which I have betrayed your confidence and robbed you, but I do it in the hope of repairing to some extent the wrong I have committed, and of restoring to you a large part of the stolen bonds. If it depended on myself alone I should have little difficulty, but I had a partner in my crime. I may say indeed that I never should have robbed you had I not been instigated to it by another, This man, who calls himself Paul Bowman, I made acquaintance with at a billiard saloon in New York. He insinuated himself into my confidence, inquired my salary, denounced it as inadequate, and finally induced me to take advantage of the confidence reposed in me to abstract the securities which you lost. He had made all arrangements for my safe flight, accompanying me, of course. We went to Montreal first, but this is so apt to be the refuge of defaulters that we finally came to the small village from which I address these lines.

There was a considerable sum of money which we spent, also five hundred dollars in government bonds on which we realized. The other securities we have not as yet been able to negotiate. I have proposed to Bowman to restore them to you by express, and trust to your kindness to spare us a criminal prosecution, and enable us to return to the States, for which I have a homesick longing. But he laughs the idea to scorn, and has managed to spirit away the bonds and conceal them in some place unknown to me. Of course this makes me entirely dependent upon him. To make matters worse, I have fallen sick with rheumatism, and am physically helpless.

If you could send here a confidential messenger who could ascertain the hiding-place of the bonds, I would thankfully consent to his taking them back to you, and I would make no conditions with you. If you felt that you could repose confidence in me once more. I would willingly return to your employment, and make arrangements to pay you by degrees the value of the money thus far expended by Bowman and myself. There are still thirteen thousand five hundred dollars' worth of securities left untouched in their original packages.

We are living in a small village called St. Victor, thirty miles from the American line. We occupy a small cottage rather out of the village, and go by our own names. Do not write to me, for the letter would be seen by Paul Bowman, and defeat my plans, but instruct your messenger to seek a private interview with me. I am detained at home by sickness at present, but Bowman is away most of the day. He is fond of hunting, and spends considerable of the day in the woods, while his evenings are spent at the inn, where there is a pool table. I have managed to send this to the post office by a small girl who comes here in the morning to make the bed and sweep. Hoping earnestly that this communication may reach you, I sign myself

Your repentant clerk,

JAMES SINCLAIR.

Fred read this letter with great interest. "He seems to write in good faith," he said, as he handed it back.

"Yes; Sinclair is not so wicked as weak. I quite believe him when he says that it was Bowman who instigated him to the deed."

"Do you think there is any chance of recovering the securities?" asked Fred.

"That depends upon whether I can secure a discreet and trustworthy messenger."

"Yes, sir; I suppose that is important."

"Perhaps you can suggest some one?" said the broker, eying Fred attentively.

Fred shook his head.

"I have too few acquaintances to think of anyone who would be fit," he answered.

"Would you undertake it yourself?" asked Mr. Wainwright.

"I?" stammered Fred in genuine surprise.

"Yes."

"But don't you think I am too young?"

"Perhaps your youth may be a recommendation."

"I don't see how, sir."

"By drawing away suspicion from you. Should I send a man, the appearance of a stranger in a small place like St. Victor – I think it has little more than a thousand inhabitants – would very likely excite the suspicions of this Bowman, and so defeat the chances of success."

"Yes, sir, I see that."

"Of course your youth presents this objection – that you may not have the requisite judgment and knowledge of the world for so delicate a mission."

"That is what I am afraid of, sir."

"Still, I have observed you closely, and have found you prompt, self-reliant, and possessed of unusual good sense. So, upon the whole, having no other person in my mind, I have decided to send you to St. Victor if you will consent to go."

"I will certainly go, sir, if you desire it, and will do my best to succeed."

"That is all that any one could do, whatever might be his age and experience. When will you be ready?"

"To-morrow, if you wish it, sir."

"The sooner the better. I shall provide you with ample funds to defray your expenses. As to instructions, I have none to give. You must be guided by circumstances, and fall back in times of perplexity upon your natural shrewdness. Now let us address ourselves to the dinner."