Stratemeyer Edward
Nelson The Newsboy
CHAPTER IV.
DOWN AT THE FERRY
Len Snocks' eyes flashed dangerously when he confronted Nelson. For a long time he had had matters all his own way around the ferryhouse, and the only boys who were allowed to sell papers there besides himself were such as would toady to him and help him sell his over-supply when trade was dull with him. Often he made the lads pay him five or ten cents for selling papers there, when trade was extra lively.
Paul Randall had no father, and his mother being half blind and quite feeble, the lad felt that every cent he earned must be brought home. Consequently he refused to give Len anything, and this made the big newsboy come to the conclusion that Paul must be driven to seek sales elsewhere. In matters of business newsboys are often as scheming and unfair as are certain men in higher walks of life. Money is everything to them, and they will do almost anything to obtain it.
"Wot do yer mean by t'rowin' me down?" cried Len, as he doubled up his grimy fists, which had not seen soap or water for many a day.
"You know what I mean, Len Snocks," retorted Nelson. "Paul has as much right to sell papers here as you have."
"No, he haint!"
"I say he has, and he'll sell papers here, too, and you shan't stop him."
"Won't I?"
"If you try it, you'll run against me again, remember that."
"I've a good mind to give you a lickin' fer t'rowin' me down," blustered Len, but he made no effort to begin the chastisement.
"If you want to fight, I'm here now," answered Nelson calmly. He understood fully that Len was as much of a coward as he was of a bully.
Len looked around, to see if there was anybody at hand to give him assistance. But all the boys were small, and he felt they could not do much against Nelson, who was known to be strong.
"Yer want to make me lose me trade," he muttered. "I'll fight yer when de rush is over." And he moved toward the ferry entrance.
"All right, I'll be ready for you any time," called Nelson after him. "And, remember, leave Paul alone after this."
"Oh, Nelson, how good you are!" cried Paul impulsively. "I don't know what he wouldn't have done to me if you hadn't come up."
"If he tackles you again let me know, Paul."
"I will."
"How is your mother?"
"She isn't much better. She can just get around our rooms, and that's all."
"Can she see?"
"Not much. The landlord said she ought to go to the hospital and have her eyes operated on, but she doesn't want to go and leave me."
"But maybe it would be best for her, Paul."
"Well, I'm willing, Nelson. But how is it you aint selling papers to-day?" went on Paul curiously.
"I've sold out. What have you got left?" Our hero surveyed the stock. "Phew! Eighteen! That's a lot."
"Len kept chasing me, so I couldn't sell much," answered the little boy, with a look of concern on his pale face.
"Give me ten of them," said Nelson, and took that number. "Now you go over there and I'll stay around here. We ought to get rid of 'em between us."
"Good for you, Nelson!" cried Paul, and his face brightened.
Soon both were at it, crying their wares with the other boys. Len Snocks saw the move, and scowled more than ever, but did not dare to interfere. In half an hour the papers were all sold, and our hero turned the money over to Paul.
"You ought to have something for selling the ten," said the little fellow.
"Never mind; you keep the money, Paul. You'll need it, I know."
"Thank you."
"By the way, have you seen anything of Billy Darnley since yesterday noon?"
"I saw him about two hours ago."
"Here?"
"Yes, he came off the boat from Brooklyn."
"I'm sorry I missed him. Do you know where he went?"
"Went to get some papers, I think. He stopped to talk to Len Snocks for a few minutes."
"Humph! Did he give Len anything?"
"I think he gave him a quarter."
"I'm sorry I missed him. He stole five dollars from me yesterday—nearly all I had saved up."
"Oh, Nelson! He ought to be arrested."
"It wouldn't do any good. The police wouldn't believe me, and I haven't any witnesses, excepting a young lady I don't know."
Len Snocks was leaving the vicinity, and now Nelson hastened after him. Soon he ranged up beside the big newsboy.
"Len, I want to ask you a question."
"Wot do you want now?" growled Len.
"Where did Billy Darnley go after he came off the ferry?"
At this question a crafty look came into Len Snocks' eyes.
"Find out fer yerself—I haint answerin' questions," he growled.
"Billy stole some of my money yesterday."
"Dat aint none o' my affair, is it?"
"I suppose not. But he gave some of it to you?"
"Didn't give me a cent."
"He was seen to give you money."
"Ha! has dat Paul Randall been a-blabbin'?" cried Len savagely. "I'll fix him, if he has!"
"You let Paul alone, or it will be the worse for you. Then you won't tell me where Billy went?"
"I don't know. He didn't tell me nuthin'."
Len Snocks would say no more, and satisfied that it would be time lost to question him further. Nelson hurried on and made his way back to the lunch-room.
He was somewhat late, and as soon as he entered Sam Pepper began to storm at him. The man was in a worse humor than ever, and lashed our hero with his tongue every time he entered the kitchen.
"Here I am a-breaking my back to make a living, and everything going wrong!" he muttered. "You ought to have been here an hour ago. I wanted some more meat from the butcher shop and two dozen more of pies. I think I'll shut up the place at the end of the week. An honest man can't git along, no matter how hard he tries. Now look out, or you'll smash those plates and glasses, and that'll be more money out of my pocket. Hang the lunch business, anyway!"
But his troubles were not yet at an end. In his ill humor he served a customer with a steak that was both tough and half burnt. The customer refused to pay for the meat, and a quarrel ensued which ended in a fight. Two tables were overturned and the crockery smashed before the troublesome customer was ejected, and, in the meantime, several other customers slipped out without paying.
"It's no use, Nelson; I'm going to give it up," growled Sam Pepper, when it was after two o'clock, and the run of midday trade had come to an end. "There are easier ways to make a living than by running a lunch-room."
"Last night you spoke about a good game to make you rich," answered Nelson curiously, "What did you mean by that?"
"When did I say that?"
"When you came in and went to bed."
"I don't remember it."
"Well, you said it, and you said something about getting me to help you."
"Did I say anything else?" asked Pepper in some alarm.
"No."
The man drew a breath of relief.
"I must have been a bit off in my head, Nelson. You see I met some old friends, and they treated to champagne—and I'm not used to that any more. They make an easy living, they do."
"Perhaps they can help you to something better."
"They won't have to help me—if I've a mind to work as they work."
"What do they do?"
"Oh, they work on the principle that the world owes them a living, and they are bound to have it."
"Of course they don't beg?"
At this Sam Pepper burst into a loud laugh.
"You're not so green as all that, Nelson."
"Well, what do they do then?" persisted the boy.
"Oh, a number of things! One runs a mail-order business. He is advertising two things just now. One is a steel engraving of Washington, indorsed by the government as a true picture of the first President, mounted on cardboard, all ready for framing, for fifty cents, and the other is a complete sewing machine for one dollar."
"How can he sell a sewing machine for a dollar?"
"When some fool sends on a dollar for the machine he sends him a needle, and when another fool sends fifty cents for the steel engraving he sends him a postage stamp picture of Washington stuck on a bit of cardboard."
"Oh!"
"He's smart, and the law can't get hold of him," went on Sam Pepper. "Another of the men is selling tips on the races. If his customer wins he gets a percentage. He gets one fool to bet one way and another fool to bet the other way, and no matter which wins he gets his share of the prize."
"I should think he would have a job, looking for fools," said the newsboy. "Folks ought to know better."
"The world is full of people who want to get something for nothing, and these men know it. But they don't make much of a pile. That's got to be made in another way."
"What way?"
"There are lots of ways, Nelson; some good and some bad. Ever been down in Wall Street?"
"Yes, but I don't know anything of the business there."
"Folks down there gamble in stocks and bonds, and such like. Sometimes they squeeze a poor man out of everything he's got, but they do it so as the law can't touch 'em—and there's where they have the advantage over an East Side gambler, who runs the risk of being arrested if his victim squeals. But Wall Street aint any better than the East Side, for all that."
"Some nice gentlemen in Wall Street, though," said Nelson reflectively.
"A high hat don't make an honest man, Nelson; you ought to know that by this time. They are all thieves and swindlers, and an honest man has no show against 'em. If you want to be rich, you've got to be like 'em!" went on Sam Pepper, bringing his fist down on the table at which he sat. "You can't make anything bein' honest."
To this the newsboy remained silent. He had heard such talk before, so he was not as much shocked as he might otherwise have been.
"I guess I'll go out and sell some evening papers," he said, after a pause, during which Sam Pepper seemed to sink into deep thought.
"No, I don't want you to go out; I want to have a talk with you," answered Pepper. "There won't be no business for an hour or two, and I'll lock the door, so nobody can interrupt us. It's got to come sooner or later, and it might as well come now."
CHAPTER V.
NELSON SPEAKS HIS MIND
Locking the front door to the lunch-room, Pepper came to the rear of the place, poured himself a glass of liquor and tossed it off, and then sank in a chair by the last table.
"Sit down, Nelson," he said.
The boy sat down and gazed curiously at the man before him. Instinctively he realized that a crisis in his life was approaching. He felt that the old life was speedily to become a thing of the past.
"Nelson, aint you often wondered who you was?" went on Pepper.
"To be sure I have!" cried the boy. "But you will never tell me anything," he added bitterly.
"Well, I kept the secret for your own good, my boy."
"How?"
"When I came to New York and settled on the East Side I made up my mind to lead an honest life and bring you up honestly. I did it, too; didn't I?"
"So far as I know, yes."
"I did it, but it was hard scratching, and you know it. Many were the times I didn't know how to turn myself, and if it hadn't been for some friends helping me, I would have gone under. Those friends were the only ones I ever knew. They weren't honest, but—well, we'll let that pass. They helped me, and I aint going back on 'em."
"But what about me?"
"I'm coming to that, Nelson. As I said before, I wanted to bring you up honestly; for your mother was honest, even if your father wasn't."
"My father!" ejaculated the newsboy. "What was he?"
"He was a good-hearted man, Nelson—a fine-hearted man, who did lots of good."
"But you said he wasn't honest."
"No, he wasn't, if you must know. He was a burglar, and made his living by taking from the rich what they didn't deserve to have. He was my friend, and he was one of the men who helped me when I lost all I had at the yacht races."
"But—but I don't understand," faltered Nelson. "What was his name?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Is he dead?"
"Yes; he died when you was a little kid not more than three years old. We both lived in another city then—I won't tell you where. Your father was shot while entering a house to rob a man who had once robbed him when he was in business. Your father died in a hospital, and I was with him. Your mother was dead, and he didn't know what to do with you. I said I'd take you, and he made me promise to go to sea first and then to another city and bring you up the best I could. He didn't want you to know your name, and so I got to calling you Nelson after the English admiral, and you can sign yourself Nelson Pepper after this, if you want to."
"Then you won't tell me where I came from?"
"No; excepting that it was a good many miles from here. It wouldn't do any good to rake up old scores. If your father hadn't died of the shot, he would have been sent to prison for ten or fifteen years."
"What was the name of the man who shot him?"
"It won't do you any good to know that, either—he's dead and gone, too."
There was a pause, and the newsboy gave something like an inward groan. The revelation that Pepper had made was truly a shocking one, and the boy was so dazed and bewildered he could scarcely think. His father a burglar, and shot down while in the act of committing a robbery! What a degradation!
"I've told you all this for a purpose," went on the man. "Now I've got some more to tell you, if you'll promise to keep your mouth shut."
"What else is there?"
"Will you keep silent if I tell you?"
"Yes."
"And do you promise not to say a word of what I have just told you?"
"Why should I—it wouldn't be anything to my credit," answered Nelson.
"But I want you to promise."
"All right; I promise."
"That's good. I know if you give your word you'll keep it. Now, I've got a plan in my head to square accounts, so to speak, and git rich at the same time."
"What plan?"
"Well, you see, it's like this: There's a rich gent lives up near Central Park. I won't give you his name, but I don't mind telling you that he's a distant relative of the fellow who shot your father, and he used to help that other man in his dealings against your father. I don't know as he remembers your father now, but he's a man you ought to get square on, anyway."
"How?"
"I'm coming to that, my boy. This man is old and feeble and has something of an office in his library at home. There is a safe in the library, but it's old-fashioned and can easily be opened. In that safe the old man keeps thousands of dollars all the time, for it's too much for him to go back and forth to the bank, and he aint the one to trust anybody else."
Sam Pepper paused suggestively and looked Nelson full in the eyes. Then he began to whistle softly to himself.
"Do you mean that you think I ought to rob that safe?" questioned our hero.
"You won't have to do the job alone, lad; I'll be on hand to help you."
"But I—I never stole anything in my life."
"It won't be stealing, exactly. That man owes you something. If it hadn't been for him and his relative your father might have been rich and never got into any burglary. I have looked the ground over, and the job will be dead easy. There is a back alley and an iron fence that both of us can climb over without half trying. Then I can git a diamond cutter for the window glass, and the rest will be just as easy as wink."
"And if you are caught, what then?"
"We won't git caught, Nelson. The old man has only a niece living with him, a girl of seventeen or eighteen, and an old housekeeper who is half deaf. The rest of the help comes in the morning and leaves after supper."
There was another pause. Nelson sank beside the table, with his face in his hands. Suddenly he looked at Sam Pepper again.
"Did you say that man had robbed my father—I mean the man who shot him?"
"Sure he did, Nelson."
"Then perhaps my father wasn't a burglar, after all. Perhaps he was entering the house to get evidence against the man."
"No, he went in to—er—well, to steal, if you must have it straight."
"Sam Pepper, I don't believe you!"
"Nelson!"
"I don't believe you, so there! You won't tell me my name, or where I came from, or anything, and you are only trying to make out my father was a thief so as to get me to turn thief, too."
"I've told you the truth, lad."
"And I repeat I don't believe you. What is more, I won't help you in your plans of robbery. I've been honest so far, and I mean to remain honest. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for trying to make me a thief."
The newsboy had risen to his feet and, as he spoke, his face glowed with earnestness. Now Sam Pepper sprang up, his features full of baffled passion.
"How dare you talk to me, you miserable pup?" he roared. "I've a good mind to thrash you well for this! Haven't I clothed and fed you for years? And this is what I git for it! I've told you the truth about yourself, only I didn't paint your father as black as I might, not wishing to hurt your feelings. He was a burglar, and before he was shot he served two sentences in prison."
"I don't believe it—and I never will," retorted Nelson, but with quivering lips. "Where was this? Tell me, and I'll soon find out if it is true."
"I won't tell you a thing more—unless you promise to help me as you should."
"I won't help you—and that's the end of it."
"You owe me something for keeping you all these years."
"I don't believe you would have kept me if you weren't paid for it."
"I never received a cent—not a penny. You've got to pay me back somehow."
"Well, I am not going to do it by stealing," answered Nelson doggedly.
"Then how are you going to do it?"
"I don't know yet."
"I'm going to give this place up soon, and of course the living rooms will go, too."
"I can find another place to live."
"You want to git out of paying me that five dollars a week, don't you?" sneered Pepper.
"I can't pay five dollars. But I'll pay what I can. How much do you think I owe you?"
"A good deal—seeing that I've kept you ten years or longer."
"Didn't my father leave anything?"
"About forty dollars—not enough to keep you three months."
"He hadn't any property?"
"Nothing."
"Well, as I said before, I'll do what I can—when I am able."
"And you won't help me to–" Pepper paused.
"I won't steal—I'll starve first," returned Nelson, and taking up his hat, he unlocked the door, and walked away from the lunch-room.
CHAPTER VI.
A BOOK AGENT'S TRIALS
When Nelson left the lunch-room he scarcely knew what he was doing. The conversation which had occurred had been an important one, but his head was in such a whirl that just now he could make little or nothing out of it.
He had no desire to sell papers,—indeed, he had no desire to do anything,—and all he did was to walk up the street and keep on walking until he was well uptown. Then he began to cross the city in the direction of Broadway.
At last he began to "cool off" a bit, and then he went over all that had been said with care. As he did this he became more and more convinced that Sam Pepper had not told him the truth concerning his parent.
"He is holding something back," he told himself. "And he has some object in doing it. He shall never make me a thief, and some day I'll force him to tell his secret."
"Hullo, Nelson! what brings you up here?"
The question was asked by a young man who carried a flat bag in his hand. The man was an agent for books, and the boy had met him many times before.
"Oh, I just came up for a walk," answered our hero. "How is business, Van Pelt?"
"Poor," answered George Van Pelt, as he set down his bag, which was heavy. "Haven't made but half a dollar so far to-day."
"That's no better than selling newspapers."
"I don't suppose it is, and you don't have to carry around such a bag as this, either. But I would have made more to-day if a customer hadn't tripped me up."
"How was that?"
"There was a young gent living near Central Park named Homer Bulson, wanted me to get certain French books for him. I got the books, but when I went to deliver them he refused to take them, saying they were not what he had ordered."
"Were they?"
"They were. I could make him take them, according to law, but to sue a man is expensive. But now I've got the books on my hands, and they cost me over three dollars."
"Can't you sell them to somebody else?"
"I hardly think so. You see, they are books on poisons, and there isn't much call for that sort of thing."
"Poisons! What did he want to do with them?"
"He said when he ordered them, that he was studying to be a doctor, and was going to make poisons a specialty."
"It's a shame you can't make him take the books."
"So it is. I suppose I could make him take them, if I wanted to create a row. But I can't do that. I haven't the cheek."
"I'd make him take them, if I was in your place. Anyway, I'd tell him I was going to sue him if he didn't pay up. Perhaps that might scare him."
"I was thinking something of doing so. Do you really think it might make him come down?"
"I know some folks hate to think they are going to be sued. And if he lives in a fine house he must be pretty high-toned."
"Oh, he is! He's a young bachelor, and lives in fine style, directly opposite the home of his rich uncle."
"Then I'd try him again, before I'd give up."
"I will. Do you want to come along?" went on George Van Pelt, who hated a quarrel.
"I might as well. I'm not doing much just now," answered Nelson.
"Of course you haven't given up selling papers?" went on George Van Pelt, as the two walked along.
"No. But I wish I could get something better to do."
"That's hard these times, Nelson. How much a day can you make at it?"
"From seventy-five cents to a dollar and a quarter. Sometimes I make a dollar and a half, but that's not often."
"The books used to bring me in from three to five dollars a day. But the department stores cut the prices now, and soon the whole book-agent business will be ruined."
"What will you go into then?"
"I don't know. If I had the money I'd start a newsstand—for papers and books, too."
"That would pay, if you could get hold of the right corner," said our hero, with interest.
"I know of a good corner on Third Avenue. The man who keeps it now is old and wants to sell out."
"What does he want for the stand?"
"A hundred dollars. Of course the stock isn't worth it, but the business is."
"That depends on what he takes in a day."
"He averages seventy-five dollars a week. But it would be more, if he was able to get around and attend to it."
"A hundred dollars a week would mean about thirty dollars profit," said Nelson, who was quick at figures. "How much is the rent?"
"Five dollars a week."
"That would leave twenty-five dollars for the stand-keeper. Does he have a boy?"
"Yes, and pays him three dollars a week."
"Maybe we could buy the stand together, Van Pelt. You know all about books, and I know about the newspapers. We ought to make a go of it."
"That's so, but–" The book agent looked rather dubiously at our hero's clothes. "How about the cash?"
"We might save it somehow. I'm saving up for a suit now."
"You need the suit."
"I expected to get it in a few days. But Billy Darnley robbed me of five dollars, so I've got to wait a bit."
"Well, if we could raise that money we might buy out the stand and try our luck," continued George Van Pelt, after a thoughtful pause. "I think we'd get along. How much have you."
"Only a dollar or two now."
"I've got fifteen dollars, and about ten dollars' worth of books."
"Couldn't we get the man to trust us for the stand?"
"He said he might trust me for half the amount he asks, but fifty dollars would have to be a cash payment."
"We'll raise it somehow!" cried Nelson enthusiastically. The idea of owning a half interest in a regular stand appealed to him strongly. In his eyes the proprietor of such a stand was a regular man of business.
The pair hurried on, and at length reached the vicinity of Central Park, and Van Pelt pointed out the house in which the rich young man who had refused to take the books lived.
"Perhaps he won't let me in," he said.
"Wait—somebody is coming out of the house," returned our hero.
"It's Mr. Bulson himself," said George Van Pelt.
He hurried forward, followed by Nelson, and the pair met the young man on the steps of his bachelor abode.
Homer Bulson was a tall, slim young fellow, with light hair and blue eyes. His face was somewhat weak, but in his eyes was a look full of scheming cunning. He was faultlessly dressed in the latest fashion, wore a silk hat, and carried a gold-headed cane.
"Mr. Bulson, I must see you about these books," said George Van Pelt, coming to a halt on the steps of the stone porch.
"I told you before that I did not wish to be bothered," answered the young man coldly.
"But you ordered the books, sir."
"I will not discuss the matter with you. Go away, and if you bother me again I shall call a policeman."
"My friend hasn't done anything wrong," put in Nelson boldly. "You ordered some books from him, and you ought to pay for 'em."
"What have you to do with this matter?" demanded the rich young man, staring harshly at our hero.
"This man is my friend, and I don't want to see him swindled," said our hero.
"Swindled!"
"That's it. You ordered some books on poisons from him, and now you don't want to pay for 'em. It's a swindle and an outrage. He's a poor man, and you haven't any right to treat him so."
"Boy, if you speak like that to me, I'll have you put under arrest," stormed Homer Bulson in a rage.
"You must take the books," put in George Van Pelt, growing braver through what Nelson was saying. "If you won't take them, I'll sue you for the amount."
"Sue me?"
"Yes, sue you."
"And I'll put the reporters on the game," added the newsboy. "They like to get hold of society notes." And he grinned suggestively.
At this Homer Bulson's face became filled with horror. For more reasons than one he did not wish this affair to become public property.
"To sue me will do no good," he said lamely.
"Yes, it will," said the book agent. "You have money and will have to pay up."
"Or else your rich uncle will pay for you," said Nelson, never dreaming of how the shot would tell. Bulson grew very pale.
"I—I will take the books and pay for them," he stammered. "Not because I think I ought to take them, mind you," he added, "but because I wish no trouble in public. Where are the books?"
"Here." And George Van Pelt brought two volumes from his satchel.
"How much?"
"Just what I told you before, Mr. Bulson—five dollars."
"It's a very high price for such small books."
"They are imported from France, remember, and besides, books on poisons–"
"Give them to me."
The books were passed over, and Homer Bulson drew from his vest pocket a small roll of bills. He handed over a five to George Van Pelt.
"Now begone with you," he said sourly. "And don't ever come near me again for another order."
"Don't worry, I won't come," answered the book agent. "You are too hard a customer to suit."
He pocketed the money and rejoined Nelson on the sidewalk. Then both started to walk away.
As they did so our hero glanced across the way and saw, in a window of the house opposite, the young lady who had offered her assistance after Billy Darnley had robbed him.
She recognized him and smiled, and he promptly touched his hat respectfully.
Homer Bulson saw the act and so did George Van Pelt, and both stared at Nelson.
"Whom did you see?" asked Van Pelt, as they walked down the street.
"A lady who once offered to help me," said Nelson. "She was in that house. She has left the window now."
"Why, that is where that man's rich uncle lives!" exclaimed the book agent.
"Is it?" cried our hero. "Then perhaps the lady is a relative to him."
"Perhaps."
"What is the uncle's name?"
"Mark Horton. I understood that he was once a rich merchant of Philadelphia. But he's a sickly old man now. I wanted to sell him some books, but they wouldn't let me see him."
"I hope that young lady isn't a relative to that Homer Bulson," mused Nelson. "If he is, he can't be very nice company for her."
"That's true, Nelson."
"You said you tried to sell books there but they wouldn't let you in."
"No, the gentleman was too sick to see me—at least that is what they said. But perhaps it was only a dodge to keep me out."
"I suppose they play all sorts of tricks on you—to keep you out of folks' houses," went on the newsboy thoughtfully.
"Sometimes they do. Some folks won't be bothered with a book agent."
"And yet you've got to live," laughed Nelson.
"Yes, all of us have got to live. But lots of folks, especially those with money, won't reason that way. They'll set a dog on you, or do worse, just to get rid of you. Why, once I had a man in Paterson accuse me of stealing."
"How was that?"
"It was the first week I went out selling books. I was down on my luck and didn't have any clothes worth mentioning."
"Like myself, for instance," interrupted the newsboy, with a laugh.
"If anything my clothes were worse. Well, I was traveling around Paterson when I struck a clothing shop on a side street. I went in and found the proprietor busy with a customer, and while I waited for him I picked up a cheap suit of clothes to examine it. All of a sudden the proprietor's clerk came rushing out of a back room and caught me by the arm.
"'You vos goin' to steal dot coat!' he roared.
"'No, I wasn't,' I said. 'I was just looking at it.'
"'I know petter,' he went on, and then he called the proprietor and both of them held me."
"I reckon you were scared."
"I was, for I didn't know a soul in the town. I said I wasn't a thief, and had come in to sell books, and I showed them my samples. At first they wouldn't believe a word, and they talked a whole lot of German that I couldn't understand. Then one went out for a policeman."
"And what did you do then?"
"I didn't know what to do, and was studying the situation when the other man suddenly said I could go—that he didn't want any bother with going to court, and all that. Then I dusted away, and I never stopped until I was safe on the train and on my way back to New York."
"Did you ever go to Paterson after that?"
"No, I never wanted to see that town again," concluded George Van Pelt.
