Munroe Kirk
Under Orders: The story of a young reporter

CHAPTER XIX.
REINSTATED AND ARRESTED

TOTALLY unconscious of the storm arising so rapidly on his horizon, and the evidence that was being accumulated to prove him a thief, Myles Manning journeyed homeward that Saturday night in a comparatively cheerful frame of mind. Although he could not believe that his friend’s promised interview with Mr. Haxall would do the slightest good, or cause the city editor to take him back on the paper, still it was comforting to think that so powerful a friend was interesting himself in his cause.

Why he thought of the old gentleman as a powerful friend he could not have told, for in fact he knew almost nothing about him. They had only met two or three times, and the other had so evidently avoided any reference to himself or his own affairs, that Myles felt it would be impolite to ask any questions concerning them. He knew that his name was Saxon, that he was a graduate of X – College, and that he was a particularly pleasant old gentleman to meet, but this was about all. So it now happened that, as he speculated concerning his friend, he was surprised to find how little knowledge he had of him.

“He must be a man of influence, though, and connected with some extensive business, if he employs men by the thousand, and of course, if he wants to, he can give me work of some kind,” thought Myles.

In his present frame of mind he would gladly have accepted almost any position in any line of business. He would rather it would be newspaper work than any thing else. At the same time he hated the thought of working on any paper except the Phonograph.

“If they would only give me one more trial there!” he said to himself. “I shouldn’t care how or why they took me on again; I’d soon make them want to keep me for myself alone. Of course it would not be half so pleasant to have Mr. Haxall persuaded to try me again as to have him do so of his own free will; but I don’t suppose any thing except influence would get me back there again now. Well, Monday will soon be here, and then we’ll see what will happen.”

In the little cottage that was now the home of the Manning family Myles found his mother sitting up and waiting for him. She held the front-door open as he reached it, and, after kissing him, and warning him not to make any noise that would wake his father, she said: “God bless you, my boy! we are all just as proud of you as we can be. Now go to bed, dear, for it is very late, and to-morrow we will have some nice long talks.” There was not a suspicion of blame or of disappointment in her tone or manner, and Myles went to his room with a very tender feeling toward those who loved and trusted him so implicitly.

The next day they did have nice long talks, all of which ended in their taking the very brightest and most cheerful view of things. Kate pinned her faith to the “Oxygen gentleman.” “I don’t know why,” she said, “but somehow I feel sure he will do something splendid for you, Myles. Even if he shouldn’t, we have my plan of working together to fall back on; and the more I think of it the more I am inclined to believe we should make it succeed.”

Mr. Manning listened to the several conversations without taking a very active part in them; but once, when he and Myles were alone in the room, he said:

“You are learning one of the most difficult lessons of life, my son; but you seem to have set about it manfully, and I believe you will finally master it. When you do, you will have acquired a knowledge of infinite value. I mean a knowledge of self-control, self-reliance, and strict obedience to the orders of your own conscience.”

Thus, in spite of the fact that he was wellnigh penniless and out of work, with no certain prospect of obtaining any sort of a position, Myles returned to the city, that bright autumn Monday morning, full of hope and determination.

“I will have some sort of a place, as good if not better than the one I have lost before I come home again! See if I don’t!” was his mental exclamation.

He went first to his lodgings. There the landlady informed him that a gentleman had called only a few minutes before, who said he wished to see him on important business, and had seemed greatly disappointed when told that he was out. He had offered to wait, but she told him he would be more likely to catch Mr. Manning at the Phonograph office than anywhere else, and that he had better wait there.

“Didn’t he leave any message?” asked Myles.

“No; nor a card; and he wouldn’t even tell his name; for he said you would not know any better who he was if he did, but that he’d meet you somewhere during the day.”

“I only hope he may,” said Myles, as he started up-stairs, “but I don’t think it is very likely.”

“Oh, Mr. Manning,” called the landlady, “a letter came here for you by the mail this morning, and I laid it on your table.”

“My prospects are certainly looking up,” thought Myles, who was not in the habit of receiving letters at any other place than the office – “a man on important business and a letter both in one morning. I wonder who the one could have been; and who the other is from? Perhaps it is from Mr. Saxon.”

It was not from his old gentleman friend, however, but was from Mr. Haxall, and was written in the Phonograph office on Saturday evening. It was of such an astounding nature to Myles that he could hardly believe he was reading it aright when he first glanced over its contents. Again he read it through, and again, to make sure that there could be no mistake as to its meaning. Then he uttered such a shout of joy as startled his landlady in the distant, lowermost depths of the house. The letter was as follows:

My Dear Mr. Manning:

I want you to come back to the Phonograph and report for duty as usual on Monday morning. If, during our interview of to-day, I seemed unnecessarily harsh or unjust, you will please lay the blame to my position rather than to myself. I cannot go beyond the rules of the office, which oblige me to take such action as I did in your case. You were undoubtedly guilty of a neglect of duty; but I am well satisfied that such a thing will not happen again in your case. Although you failed us in that single instance, your subsequent course was such as reflects great credit upon this paper, and I am convinced that you are one of the staff with whom we cannot afford to part. Therefore, if you will return at a salary of $25 per week, or, if you prefer it, on space, you will be cordially welcomed by

Yours very truly,

Joseph Haxall,

City editor, the Phonograph.

“Glory hallelujah!” shouted Myles. “Go back? Of course I will! As a space man too. Well, if Joe Haxall isn’t a trump then I’m no judge. He certainly is the most just and honorable man I know. I’d just like to hear anybody say a word against him in my presence.

“Mr. Brown, I’ll thank you for that key again if you please, sir.

“Yes, Myles Manning, your fortune is made, and you have come out of what looked like a pretty ugly fix with flying colors.

“My, but I’m glad that letter was written on Saturday, before there was a chance for any influence being used to get me back. How cheap a fellow must feel who, after once losing a job, only gets taken back through influence.”

So thinking, and hardly able to contain himself for joy, Myles gathered together the papers he had brought away from the Phonograph office and prepared to carry them back to it. In his own happiness he did not forget the anxiety of those at home, and his first care upon leaving the house was to hunt up a telegraph station. From it he sent a message containing the joyful news to his mother. Then he hurried down town.

When he entered the city-room of the Phonograph Mr. Brown handed him the key to his desk as a matter of course. Mr. Haxall looked up from the reading of his morning papers long enough to shake hands with him and welcome him back. Nobody else knew that only two days before he had been dismissed in disgrace. The other reporters, most of whom supposed he had just returned from Mountain Junction, crowded about to congratulate him upon the manner in which he had saved the train with the 50th Regiment on board, and to ply him with questions as to the details of that affair. To those who considered that he had snubbed them on Saturday he made ample apologies, and explained that his apparent rudeness was caused by a piece of bad news of which he had then just heard.

The first to learn of and congratulate him upon his new prospects was his stanch friend Rolfe, who had that morning returned from Chicago, and who, while shaking hands with him, said:

“Now, old fellow, you will have a chance to show what you are made of. As a space man you will reap an instant pecuniary reward from every successful effort you make, exactly as any man does who is in business for himself. You also occupy the curious position that I do not believe exists except among newspaper reporters on space, of being under orders and at the same time able to render yourself absolutely independent of them.”

Myles was so happy, and the future seemed so bright and secure to him, surrounded as he was by friendly faces, that he read Billings’ telegram with only a vague wonder as to what it could mean, and without a trace of anxiety. Ben Watkins seemed so very far away, and to belong so entirely to some remote period of his life, that Myles could only think of him with pity and contempt. He had it in his power to inflict a serious injury upon Ben Watkins, if he chose, by simply telling of that scene before the safe in the superintendent’s office; but what harm could Ben Watkins do him? None. Absolutely none. He had been guilty of but one wrong that Ben knew of, and that had already been amply atoned for and forgiven.

As he reached this conclusion Myles lifted his eyes to those of a stranger who stood beside him, and who asked:

“Is this Mr. Manning?”

“Yes,” replied Myles, “it is.”

“Mr. Myles Manning?”

“Yes, that is my name. What can I do for you?”

“You can come with me quietly and without any fuss. I am an officer, and have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of robbing a safe in the office of the A. & B. Railroad Company at Mountain Junction.”

“I – charged with robbing a safe!” repeated Myles, slowly, and with a face so colorless that he looked as though about to faint. “Who dares bring such a charge against me?”

“The charge is made, I believe, by Mr. Ben Watkins, assistant division superintendent at Mountain Junction. My instructions and the warrant for your arrest were forwarded by his uncle, the division superintendent at that place,” answered the detective.

“Where do you want me to go with you?” asked Myles, with a wild look in his eyes and his face still deathly pale.

“To the office of the president of the road first,” answered the officer, evasively. He thought it as well not to say just yet that he was instructed to deliver his prisoner to the authorities at Mountain Junction, where he would probably be locked up to await trial.

“May I speak to the city editor for a moment?” asked poor Myles, whose brain was in such a whirl at this terrible accusation that he hardly knew what to say or do.

“Certainly you may. I’m never hard on my prisoners so long as they act decently and behave themselves.”

This conversation had been carried on in such low tones that none of the other reporters had caught a word of it. They saw, however, by Myles’ face that something very serious had happened to him, and they watched him curiously as he almost staggered toward the city editor’s desk.

“Mr. Haxall,” he said abruptly, “that man over there is a detective, and has a warrant for my arrest on the charge of robbing a safe. What shall I do?”

“Eh! what’s that?” exclaimed the city editor, startled for a moment from his ordinary self-possession.

Myles repeated what he had said.

“But of course it is all a mistake?”

“Of course it is, sir.”

Mr. Haxall beckoned to the officer, who at once stepped to the desk.

“Don’t you think you have made some mistake, officer, and arrested the wrong person?” asked the former.

“No, sir, not if this is Myles Manning, the Phonograph reporter who was in Mountain Junction last week.”

“Will you let me see your warrant?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the officer, producing it.

“Um; this seems to be straight enough,” said Mr. Haxall, glancing over it.

“It was issued in Mountain Junction, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will the case be tried there?”

“I believe so.”

“Then I suppose you want to take Mr. Manning there?”

“Yes, sir, those are my orders; but first I am to take him to the office of the president of the road.”

“Well, Manning, my poor fellow, this seems to be a very serious business,” said Mr. Haxall, turning to Myles, who stood like one in a dream. “I don’t see that there is any thing for it but for you to go with this officer. You may rest assured, though, that you sha’n’t want for friends in this time of trouble. I will telegraph Billings to remain at Mountain Junction until the matter is settled. Furthermore, as this charge reflects upon the good name of the Phonograph, as well as upon yours, I think I can safely say that no money will be spared to clear you of it.”

With a voice that trembled in spite of his efforts to control it Myles thanked the city editor and turned away. He mechanically locked his desk and handed the key to Mr. Brown, from whom he had so proudly received it but a few minutes before; then, accompanied by the officer, he walked from the room without a word to any of his fellows, who gazed curiously and in silence after him.

A few moments later, when the story spread among them, there was a general burst of indignation that they had permitted such an outrage as the arrest of one of their number to take place in that room. Had the detective reappeared just then he would in all probability have encountered an angry crowd of stout young fellows who would have promptly hustled him downstairs and out of the building.

As it was, he and his prisoner were walking rapidly in the direction of Wall Street; he with a watchful eye on Myles, and Myles so full of bewildered wretchedness as to be totally unconscious of whither he was being led.

The clerks in the office of the great railroad company winked at each other as he passed them, for they all knew the detective by sight, and suspected that his companion must also be his prisoner. Myles however, never noticed them. He neither seemed to see nor notice any thing until the door of an inner office was closed behind him, and he found himself in the presence of his old gentleman friend, with whom he had dined two evenings before at the Oxygen Club.

He uttered a cry of amazement. “Are you Mr. Walker B. Saxon, President of the A. & B. road?” he exclaimed.

“I am,” was the reply; “and you may rest assured, my dear boy, that if I had known of this thing in time you should not have been subjected to the mortification of an arrest. I only heard of it an hour ago, and then I did not know but what the officer had already found you. I could only send orders to have you brought here before being taken to Mountain Junction. Now sit down and tell me your side of the story, and then we will see what can be done.”

“But I don’t even know why I am arrested,” said Myles. “It is absurd to say that I robbed a safe. What am I supposed to have taken from it?”

“An express package sent from this office and containing one thousand dollars.”

“There wasn’t a sign of any such package in the safe,” exclaimed Myles, impetuously. “It only contained books and papers.”

An anxious look flitted across Mr. Saxon’s face at this admission.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

The full import of what he had said flashed into Myles’ mind. The blood rushed to his face, and he hesitated a moment before asking in turn:

“Does Ben Watkins accuse me of this crime?”

“Not directly; but he intimates that you stole the key of the safe from his room, which amounts to about the same thing.”

“Then I am released from my promise to him,” said Myles, “and am at liberty to tell you all I know of this miserable business.”

Mr. Saxon listened with absorbed interest to the young reporter’s story of his visit to the superintendent’s office on that eventful night, of what took place there between him and Ben, of his taking possession of the key for safe-keeping, and of the manner in which he sent it back. It was a long story, and when it was finished the president’s face expressed a decided feeling of relief. He said:

“My dear boy, I have studied your character carefully, much more so than you are aware of, during the past four months, and I am thankful to be able to tell you honestly that I believe every word you say. What a very foolish thing you did, though, in taking possession of that key! It undoubtedly saved property of great value to this company, but at the same time it placed you in the power of your enemy as no other act could have done.”

“Yes,” assented Myles, “I see that only too plainly now.”

“But you were short of money that night?” continued Mr. Saxon.

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“And had fifty dollars the next morning? Where did it come from?”

Myles told him.

“Have you that note signed ‘A friend in need’ now?”

“No, sir; I lost both it and what money I had left after paying my hotel bill, on the night that I was trying to get back to town in time to warn the train.”

“That’s bad. In fact, the whole combination of circumstances is the most unfortunate I ever knew. It will be very difficult to prove your innocence, though, of course, it will be done sooner or later. I would have the charge withdrawn and the whole matter hushed up even now, but for your sake. The accusation against you is already so widely known that nothing short of a public trial and triumphant acquittal can for a moment be considered. I will use my influence to have the trial come off at the earliest possible date, probably next week, and in the meantime I can think of nothing better for you to do than go quietly to Mountain Junction with the detective, procure bail, which I will see that you have no difficulty in doing, and spend the next few days in hunting up evidence for your own defence.”

Thus, at four o’clock that afternoon, Myles found himself once more on his way to Mountain Junction. This time it was as a prisoner charged with robbing a safe and on his way to trial.

CHAPTER XX.
COLLECTING EVIDENCE FOR THE DEFENCE

AS MAY well be imagined that westward journey was a sad one to Myles. The detective, who never for a moment lost sight of him, was not a talkative man at best, and made it a rule not to hold unnecessary conversation with his prisoners. Thus Myles was left to his own thoughts, and the more he pondered upon his situation the more complicated and hopeless it seemed to him. Who had sent him that money? Could it have been Ben Watkins? He hated to think that his old classmate could do so mean a thing as that, and even if he were sure of it how could it be proved? He no longer had the note that came with the money, and he did not believe its sender could be traced if he could produce it; for it was probably written in a disguised hand. Still, it would help prove that the $50 had been sent to him, and its post-mark would give the date. Yes, it would be a most important bit of evidence in his favor if it could only be found. But he had not the slightest idea what had become of it; he had not even discovered its loss until he was starting away from Mountain Junction, and had felt for money with which to purchase his ticket to New York. Billings had bought that for him without exactly understanding how his friend happened to be without money, and had loaned him a few dollars besides. No, it was not likely the note ever would be found.

How, then, could he prove his innocence? To be sure, he had powerful friends who stood ready to help him, but all the friends in the world could not clear his name from disgrace unless this horrible charge against him could be disproved. Supposing it should not be? Why, his whole life would be ruined, that was all. Who would care to associate with a thief, or even one suspected of being such? Who would give him employment? Yes, his career was blasted. He might as well, or better, be dead. What would they say at home? Would it kill his mother? As yet they had no suspicion of this overwhelming disgrace. How could he dash their fond hopes by letting them know of it? He could not. And yet, suppose they should hear of it through some other channel!

Thus the poor boy thought and puzzled and despaired over his situation until it seemed as though there was no hope nor happiness left in the world. He felt like one already tried, found guilty, and sentenced to a lifetime of disgrace. At last, about midnight, he fell into a troubled sleep. When he next awoke the detective was bending over him and saying that Mountain Junction was in sight.

The train had hardly stopped at the well-remembered station before there was a commotion at the car-door, and a little man, whose presence seemed in a moment to pervade the whole car, rushed in, elbowing his way with remarkable dexterity through the crowd of passengers who were leaving it. They growled at him, but they gave way and made room for him to pass, as all crowds will before any one who has the self-assurance to push himself forward. In a moment he caught sight of Myles, and called out:

“Good enough, old man! You’re a trump to come back and face the music. Now we will have some fun.”

Here the detective stepped in front of Myles, and said sternly:

“That will do, sir. I can’t allow any communication with my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner!” cried Billings – for of course it was he. “Well, that’s a go! What is he your prisoner for, I’d like to know? And what’s the matter with my interviewing him? Is he an anarchist or a horse-thief? Whatever he is you can’t stop me from talking to him unless you muzzle me, and you can’t muzzle me, for I represent the press, and it’s against the law to muzzle the press in this country. Oh, no, my friend, if you think you are in Russia you are mightily mistaken. You are in a country of freeborn American reporters, and when one of them sets out to interview your prisoner, or even yourself, you’ve got to submit quietly to the process, or else you’ll find yourself up a pretty tall tree in less than no time. So step to one side, if you please, and let me speak to this gentleman.”

Bewildered and overwhelmed by this torrent of words the detective actually did step aside, muttering if the gentleman was a reporter of course that made a difference.

“And I am his lawyer,” said another voice behind them. “Of course you cannot object to an interview between your prisoner and his counsel.”

As the officer looked around to see who would be the next to claim the privilege of speaking with his prisoner, the gentleman who said he was a lawyer, but who wore the uniform of a soldier, stepped past him and held out his hand to Myles.

It was Captain Ellis, of the 50th Regiment, the one who had been with him when he sent back that key.

“Yes,” he said, laughing at Myles’ bewilderment, “I am your lawyer, or, rather, I am four lawyers all in one, for I have already received four retainers to act as your counsel. I retained myself as soon as I heard of your little difficulty, and was glad enough of the chance to offer my services to one who had offered his so freely to me. Then I was retained by the boys of the 50th, for the regiment has taken up your case as its own, and is determined to see you through regardless of expense. They are also glad of an opportunity to be of service to you, and their only regret is that they were compelled to return to New York last night without waiting to give you another reception. Next I was retained by our friend Billings here, on behalf of the Phonograph. Last of all I received a retainer just now by telegraph from a New York friend who does not wish his name mentioned, but who evidently takes a deep interest in your case.”

“And now, Mr. Detective,” said Billings, who seemed to have taken the entire management of affairs into his own hands, “if you will join our little party of four lawyers, one captain, one prisoner, and one reporter, and come up to the hotel for breakfast our happiness will be complete.”

The detective went, of course, for nobody ever refused Billings any thing, and, though the little fellow worried and puzzled and made fun of him from the time they sat down to table until they rose from it, he completely won his heart. The officer said afterwards that, when it came time for Mr. Billings to be arrested, he hoped some one besides himself would be sent to do it, for the little chap would laugh the chief himself out of the job before it was begun.

Amid all this merriment in company with these friends poor Myles’ mountain of trouble rapidly decreased in size until its difficulties did not appear so very insurmountable after all.

As soon as breakfast was over the whole party went to court, where, after a very brief preliminary examination, Myles was admitted to bail and the date of his trial was fixed for the following Monday. He was amazed at the ease with which the whole business was transacted. There seemed to be a dozen men ready and anxious to sign his bail-bond, though only two were needed.

When this formality had been disposed of, Myles and his friends, bidding the detective good-bye, returned to the hotel, where, in Billings’ room, they held a consultation as to what was to be done next.

After listening attentively to his client’s story, and asking him many questions, the soldier-lawyer became convinced that the real thief was Ben Watkins, but that, under the circumstances, this was going to be very difficult to prove.

“If ever there was a guilty-looking chap in this world,” said Billings, “it was that same Watkins when he found, or rather pretended to find, that envelope under the carpet in this very room. He watched me all the time he was making believe look in other places, and when he saw that his companions were about to leave the room he walked right to the place where the envelope was and stopped there as readily as though it were lying out in plain sight. If he didn’t put it there himself then I’m a billy goat, that’s all.”

“What we have got to do,” said Captain Ellis, thoughtfully, “is to get hold of Jacob Allen, if possible, for I fancy that his testimony would be very important. Then if we could by some happy chance discover the note signed by ‘A Friend in Need,’ it would be a great piece of luck. We must also find out every thing we can about Ben Watkins and his mode of life since he came to this place. This last I will make my especial business, while I want you two to use every possible effort you can think of to find Allen and that note.”

To Myles a search for either of these seemed hopeless, and even the sanguine Billings acknowledged that the assignment was a tough one.

“Still, it’s your first job of space work, old man,” he said cheerfully to Myles, “and it won’t do to give it up without a big try.”

Myles first duty was to write home a full account of his present trouble, for he had decided that this was, after all, the best thing to do. He made as light of it as he could, and took the most hopeful view possible of the situation; but he did not conceal any thing. He was afterwards thankful enough that he did this, for, by some means or other, a very exaggerated report of the case got into one of the New York papers the next day, and somebody took pains to send a marked copy of it to Mrs. Manning.

Myles also wrote a letter, of which he said nothing to either of his companions, to Mr. Saxon. It contained a request which was so promptly granted that two days later he received an answer which apparently gave him great satisfaction as he read it.

He saw but little of Ben Watkins during this week, for Ben was out of town most of the time, and even when he was not, both he and Myles carefully avoided meeting each other.

In the meantime Myles and Billings made two trips out to the lonely little cabin in which the former had found shelter on the night that he lost the “Friend-in-Need” note they were now anxious to discover. Both times they found the cabin closed and deserted, and, though they lingered in its vicinity for several hours, they saw nothing of the man named Bill who lived there. Still, the place did not have the air of being abandoned. They even felt almost certain from what they saw that it was occupied between the times of their visits, and once Myles was confident that he heard Tige barking at a distance up on the mountain-side. The locality seemed to have a peculiar fascination for Billings, and Myles found it difficult to get him away each time that they visited it.

“There’s something here, old man,” said the little reporter; “something that I want. I feel it in my bones, but I can’t tell where or what it is.”

The study of Billings’ character interested Myles greatly, and served largely to divert his thoughts from the unpleasant contemplation of his approaching trial. The little man had sent to New York for a trunkful of clothes, and was no longer obliged to borrow shirts and collars many sizes too large for him. On the contrary, he now dressed with the same attention to detail that Myles had noticed when they first met. When about the hotel he was the same languid, tired-appearing individual, apparently indifferent to all that was going on about him, that he appeared in New York. When, however, he was on duty and engaged in some difficult undertaking, like the present search for the lost note, he was another being. He became wide-awake, alert, sharp-witted, and so brimful of cheerfulness that it continually bubbled over in laughter and bright sayings. To Myles he was a true friend, a charming companion, and a constant puzzle.

On the day that Myles received the letter from Mr. Saxon he inclosed it in an envelope with one written by himself, and took them to Jacob Allen’s cottage, in which the striker’s wife and little Bob still remained. The child was playing outside, and its mother sat in the door-way sewing. Myles lifted his hat as he asked: