Stratemeyer Edward
Out For Business or Robert Frost's Strange Career
CHAPTER XIII.
ROBERT RECEIVES A LETTER
As Palmer looked at the stalwart black-bearded man facing him a terrible fear sent a tremor through his slender frame. Suppose the fellow had come to inflict punishment upon him? Suppose he had a cowhide somewhere concealed about his clothes? He felt ready to sink through the floor.
"I hope," he said tremulously, "you found my letter satisfactory. I—I didn't know Alameda—I mean Mrs. Churchill—was married."
"Oh, that's all right. So you supposed her single?"
"I assure you I do."
"Well, at any rate she got even with you. She told me of the pitcher of water she threw on you out of the window. How did it feel?"
"Very wet," responded Palmer with a faint smile.
"Good joke!" said Churchill, laughing boisterously. "I wish I had been there."
Somehow Palmer did not enjoy having the scene which had been so harrowing to him recalled. Yet this man must be propitiated.
"I was there," he said with a feeble attempt at a joke.
"So you were, so you were. When Alameda told me about it I nearly laughed myself to death."
Palmer began to recover from his alarm. Evidently the injured husband was not disposed to take things seriously, for he seemed in a good humor.
"I hope you don't object to my admiring your wife?" he said.
"No, it does credit to your taste, but I can't have you flirting with her."
"I assure you my intentions were and are strictly honorable."
"Oh, Alameda will take care of that. I'll tell you what I came about."
"As long as it isn't about a duel, I don't mind," thought Palmer.
"My wife is to have a benefit next Thursday evening. Tickets are a dollar each. How many will you take?"
"I'll take one."
"Better take two. You can scare up some young lady to take with you."
"I don't know many young ladies."
"Don't tell me that. You were not so very bashful with Alameda."
"I—I believe I'll take two."
"All right! Here they are."
"I'm afraid I haven't got two dollars with me," said Palmer embarrassed. In fact, he lived so closely up to his income that he seldom had that amount about him.
Peter Churchill frowned a little.
"I can't leave the tickets without the money," he said.
"I'll lend you the money, Mr. Palmer," said Robert.
"Thank you," said the senior clerk gratefully.
"Won't you take a couple of tickets, young fellow?" asked Churchill.
"No, sir. I will use one of Mr. Palmer's tickets."
The tickets were paid for and transferred to Palmer's vest-pocket. Then Alameda's husband left the office.
"I'm glad he's gone," said Livingston Palmer feebly. "I—I really thought he'd come in to horsewhip me."
"I guess he could do it," said Robert, with a smile.
"Isn't he a terrible looking ruffian? To think the divine Alameda should be married to such a man!"
"It's a pity she didn't meet you first. But I say, Mr. Palmer, you'd better give up paying attentions to her. It wouldn't be safe."
"I shall never dare to speak to her again."
"And you won't try to alienate her affections from him."
"No," answered Palmer fervently. "I—I feel that I have had a narrow escape."
Two weeks passed without any event of importance. Robert had no difficulty in "getting the run" of the business in the office, and it is not too much to say that he became in that short time quite as efficient as Livingston Palmer, though the latter had been in the office for several years. Robert was on the whole satisfied with his position, but it must be confessed that he was looking around for something better.
"I am sure Mr. Marden wouldn't want me to remain here if I could improve myself," he thought. "In fact, I think he would like me the better for striking out for myself."
"It's a terribly dull life—this in a stuffy office," said Livingston Palmer one day. Since his upsetting with the variety singer the senior clerk had hardly known what to do with himself.
"That's true," answered Robert. "But it's much better than doing nothing."
"That's true."
"When I struck out from home I was at first afraid I would be left stranded."
"Humph! that wouldn't happen to me," said Palmer loftily. "I am certain I could strike something at once, if I tried."
Robert did not agree with his fellow clerk, since he had seen many a poor fellow on the streets begging for work of any kind. But he saw it would be useless to attempt to argue Palmer out of his high opinion of himself.
On the day following there came a long letter for Robert. It was postmarked Timberville, Michigan, and was from Dick Marden.
"My dear Robert," wrote the miner, "I've been wanting to drop you a few lines for some time, but could not get around to do it. When I arrived here I found my uncle, Felix Amberton, very ill, and I have had to take practically entire charge of his affairs. My uncle is a bachelor like myself, so he hadn't even a wife to depend upon in this emergency.
"My uncle owns a large lumber interest here, close to the upper end of the State, and several Canadians are trying to force him into a sale of his lands at a low price. They claim to have some hold upon the land.
"I must say I wish you were up here with me—to help run the lumber office. I have to be out on the lands a greater part of the time, and the office clerk is not to be trusted, since he is a great friend of the Canadians I mentioned. I am in hopes that my uncle will soon recover, to take charge for himself."
Dick Marden's letter interested Robert greatly. The confinement of city life was beginning to tell on the boy, who had heretofore lived more or less in the open at home.
"I'd like to go to Timberville," he said to Palmer, when he showed the communication. "The smell of pine and spruce would do a fellow a world of good."
"It wouldn't suit me," said Palmer, with a decided shake of his head. "Why, you have no amusements in a place like that—no theaters, no concerts, no billiard parlors, nothing."
"And yet people get along very well without them," smiled Robert.
"They can't have very elevated tastes."
"Perhaps more elevated than you think, Livingston. I've known some lumbermen who were very well educated."
"If I made a change do you know what I would do?" asked Palmer.
"No."
"I would go on the stage," said the senior clerk earnestly.
"What stage? Perhaps the variety stage the adorable Alameda is on, eh?"
"No! no! I am done with that forever. I would go in for tragedy."
"Tragedy doesn't pay, so I've heard said."
"Good, real talent will pay, I feel sure of it."
"And what would you play, Hamlet?"
"I would play all of Shakespeare's plays, but the part of Sparticus the Gladiator would suit me better."
"Did you ever act?"
"Twice—at the Twice-a-week Club. We gave Julius Cæsar, and I was Cæsar. The performance was a great success from an artistic standpoint."
"How about it financially?"
"Well, to tell the truth, we ran about thirty-three dollars behind."
"Which proves what I said, that tragedy doesn't pay," said Robert, with a short laugh.
"My support was very poor, and, besides, our performance was not advertised widely enough."
"I presume the newspapers gave you some favorable notices."
"No, they did nothing of the sort. We had not given them much advertising and so they ignored us. You know they won't do a thing without being paid for it."
"I didn't know it. I thought they gave the news. Why, sometimes they condemn a play even while they advertise it."
"Never mind, they ought to have praised our play, but they didn't." And here Palmer walked away and the subject was dropped.
CHAPTER XIV.
JAMES TALBOT LEARNS SOMETHING OF IMPORTANCE
A week passed and nothing of special interest happened. During that time Robert wrote to his mother, telling her where he was and what he was doing. He hoped to receive a letter in return, and was quite disappointed when no word came back.
The trouble was that the letter he had sent fell into James Talbot's hands.
"Here is a letter for Mrs. Talbot," said the postmaster, one day to Talbot, when the latter had called at the place for the mail.
"All right, I'll take it home to her," answered Robert's step-father.
"It's from Chicago," said the postmaster, whose name was Joel Blarcomb. "It looks like Robert's handwriting, too."
"Do you know Robert's writing?" questioned Mr. Talbot.
"Very well. He once did some writing for me in my books, when I had injured my finger on a nail in a sugar barrel," said the postmaster, who also kept the principal store in Granville.
"Well, give me the letter and I will take it home," said Mr. Talbot, and soon after left the store with the communication in his pocket.
As soon as he was out of sight of the store he began to inspect the letter and wondered what it contained.
"More than likely the young rascal has sent to his mother for money," he thought. "I've a good mind to open the letter and read it."
The communication was not sealed very well, and by breathing repeatedly upon the flap James Talbot soon had the envelope open. Then he drew out the letter and read it.
He was chagrined to learn that his step-son was doing so nicely and needed no assistance.
"He seems to have fallen upon his feet," he murmured. "Well, I'll wager it won't last. Sooner or later he'll be back home and wanting me and his mother to take care of him. When that time comes, I'll dictate pretty stiff terms to him, or my name isn't James Talbot."
One passage in the letter positively angered him.
"I trust Mr. Talbot treats you as you should be treated," wrote Robert. "If he does not, let me know, and I will compel him to do what is right. He must remember that the house and everything else belongs to you so long as you live."
"Belongs to you so long as you live," mused James Talbot. "Can it be possible that the estate goes to Robert after his mother's death? I must look into this."
At first he was of a mind to destroy the letter, but thought better of it and placed it again in the envelope.
When he reached the house he found his wife in the garden, sitting under a grape arbor. Mrs. Talbot's face showed that she had been weeping.
"Why, my love, what is the matter?" he asked softly. Of late he had been treating her well, having what is popularly called "an ax to grind."
"Nothing is the matter, James."
"But your face shows that you have been crying."
"It is nothing."
"Have you had any trouble with Jane?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"I was thinking of Robert. Isn't it terrible that I get no word from him?"
Mr. Talbot started, and his hand went into the pocket where the letter rested. Then he recovered and shrugged his shoulders.
"I have already told you what I think of the boy," he said. "My love, he is unworthy of your tears."
"Oh, James!"
"It is true. He has gone out into the world and has forgotten you."
"No, no! Robert would never be so heartless."
"I think I know him better than do you. You are blind to the truth because you are his mother."
"He may be penniless, or sick, so that he cannot write."
"Perhaps he is out on the ocean, or on the Great Lakes," said Mr. Talbot.
"Even so, I am sure he would have written before going."
"You must not think so much of him, my love. You are altogether too melancholy. I have just learned that we are to have a first-class theatrical company in Granville next week. I will get good seats and take you there."
"I do not care to go to any play. Life is too real to me for that."
"You are blue, Sarah. Forget the boy and you will feel better," said James Talbot, and receiving no answer to this, he walked away.
"Forget Robert! forget my only child!" thought Mrs. Talbot. "Never! Oh, if I only knew where I could write to him!"
On the day following Mrs. Talbot had occasion to call at Joel Blarcomb's store to order a number of groceries for the house.
"I hope you got good news from Robert," said the postmaster, after she had given her order.
"Good news?" she repeated, in bewilderment. "I haven't any news, Mr. Blarcomb."
"Oh, then that Chicago letter wasn't from him?"
"What Chicago letter?"
"The one I gave to Mr. Talbot yesterday. I felt certain it was your son's handwriting on the envelope."
"He gave me no letter," answered the lady, and then a sudden fear came into her heart that made her feel faint. Had her husband received a letter from her son and destroyed it?
"No, no, he would not be so cruel," she thought.
"Well, the letter was for you, whether you got it or not," said Joel Blarcomb bluntly. He did not like James Talbot any more than did many others in the little town. All who had had dealings with Robert's step-father had found him mean to the last degree.
"Perhaps he has forgotten to give it to me," said Mrs. Talbot, and abruptly left the store. Joel Blarcomb gazed after her pityingly.
"She didn't make no happy match an' I know it," he muttered. "That Talbot aint half the man Frost was."
Arriving at home, Mrs. Talbot at once sought out her husband.
"James, where is the letter Mr. Blarcomb gave you for me?" she demanded.
"The letter?" he said carelessly. "Why—er—that didn't amount to anything."
"Did you open it?"
"Yes—by mistake. It was only an advertisement from a Chicago investment company. The men who run it are little better than swindlers and I don't want you to have anything to do with them."
Mrs. Talbot's heart sank. The letter was not from Robert after all.
"Still, I would like to see the letter," she continued.
"I am sorry, my love, but I really believe I tore it up—in fact I am sure I did."
"You shouldn't have done that, since it was addressed to me."
"As your husband, I didn't do so very wrong to open the letter. When I saw what it was I thought best to destroy it—I didn't want you to place any of your money in the hands of such swindlers. If you did that you would never see a dollar of it again."
"Don't you think I am capable of looking out a little bit for myself, James?"
"Not in money matters, Sarah. Such things a woman should leave entirely to her husband."
"I feel I must differ with you. After Mr. Frost died I became the sole executrix of his will, and I do not know that anything has gone wrong."
"Oh, I do not say that." James Talbot paused for a moment. "Speaking of Mr. Frost," he continued. "May I ask, did he leave his estate entirely to you?"
"No, he left me my choice of one-half of all he possessed, the other half to go to Robert, or the use of everything so long as I lived, all to go to Robert after my death, providing he was living at that time."
"And which did you choose," asked Talbot, trying vainly to conceal his intense interest in the matter.
"I chose a life interest only, and signed the necessary papers for the surrogate."
"Then when you die, all will go to that good-for-nothing boy."
"All will go to Robert, yes; but he is not a good-for-nothing boy."
"That is where we differ, Mrs. Talbot. Once he gets the fortune he will run through it like wildfire, mark my words."
"Robert is far too sensible to do any such thing."
"Suppose he dies before you do, what then becomes of the estate?"
"It becomes mine absolutely."
"I see."
"But I do not anticipate Robert will die before I do," went on Mrs. Talbot. "He is a strong, healthy lad."
"True, but there is many an accident happens to a boy that is knocking around like him."
"Mr. Talbot, do you wish any harm to befall my son?" demanded the lady of the house, half angrily.
"Oh, no, of course not. But in knocking around he is taking a big risk, you must admit that."
At these words Mrs. Talbot's face became a study and she left her husband without another word.
"I really believe he wishes Robert out of the way," she thought. "Then the money would be mine, and he would try to get me to leave it to him."
Left to himself James Talbot walked up and down in moody contemplation.
"Here's a nice mess," he muttered. "I thought the whole estate belonged to her. If she died to-morrow I would be turned out without a cent and that boy or his guardian would take sole possession. I half wish I could get him out of my way for good, I really do." And then he began to speculate upon how such a dark deed could be accomplished.
CHAPTER XV.
THE RESULT OF A FIRE
On the following Sunday morning Robert attended one of the principal churches in Chicago and heard what he considered a very fine sermon on charity.
"I suppose we ought all to be more charitable," he thought, on coming out. "But I must say I find it very hard to have any charitable feelings for Mr. Talbot. I do hope he is treating mother as he should."
He was walking down State Street when he heard a commotion on the thoroughfare. A fire engine was coming along, followed by a long hook and ladder truck. He watched them and to his surprise saw them draw up almost in front of the tall office building in which Mr. Gray's cut-rate ticket establishment was located.
"Can it be possible that our place is on fire?" he cried, and ran to the office with all speed.
He soon discovered that the building was a mass of flames from top to bottom, the fire having started in the boiler room in the basement and found a natural outlet through the elevator shafts. He tried to get into the office, but the door was locked and he had no key.
"Back there, young man!" came from a policeman, as he rushed up to force the gathering crowd out of the firemen's way.
"I work in this office," answered Robert. "Hadn't I better try to save something?"
"Are your books in your safe?"
"I presume they are."
"Then you had better get back. Something may cave in soon, you know."
While Robert hesitated another officer came along, and then everybody was ordered back, and a rope was stretched across the street at either end of the block. Meanwhile the fire kept increasing until it was easy to see that the office building was doomed.
"It's too bad," thought Robert, as he watched the progress of the flames. "This will upset Mr. Gray's business completely."
Half an hour later, as the boy was moving around in the dense crowd, he ran across Livingston Palmer.
"This will throw us out of employment, Livingston," he said.
"It looks like it, Robert," answered the senior clerk. "Still, I can't say that I care so much."
"You do not?"
"No. You see, after we closed up Saturday night I met my friend Jack Dixon, of the Combination Comedy Company, and he has offered me a place to travel with the organization."
"And you are going to accept?"
"I certainly shall now. At first I was on the fence about it, for I wanted to get with a tragedy company. But I suppose this will do for a stepping stone to something better."
Robert had his doubts about this, for Palmer had recited several times for him, and he had thought the recitations very poor. But the senior clerk was thoroughly stage-struck, and Robert felt that it would do no good to argue the matter with him.
"Your leaving may throw Mr. Gray into a worse hole than ever," he ventured.
"Oh, I guess not. He will have you to fall back on. I doubt if he will be able to resume business immediately."
Livingston Palmer was right in the latter surmise. The next day Robert found his employer in an office on the opposite side of the street.
"I am all upset, Frost," said Mr. Gray. "The safe has dropped to the bottom of the ruins and it will be a week or two before they can dig it out."
"Shall you resume at once?"
"I hardly think so. The fact is, I have telegraphed to my brother in New York about business there. It may be that I shall open up in that city instead of here."
"Then I fancy I can consider myself disengaged for the present."
"Yes. I am sorry for you, but you can see it cannot be helped."
"I don't blame you in the least, Mr. Gray. I am sorry on your own account, as well as mine, that you have been burnt out. I hope you were fully insured."
"I was, in a way. Yet I have lost valuable records which no amount of money can replace."
When Robert left the office it was with a sober face. He was out of a position. What should he do next?
"It's too bad," he mused. "And just after writing to mother that I was doing so nicely."
All told he had saved up about twenty-five dollars, and he resolved to be very careful of this amount and not spend a cent more than was necessary, until another situation was secured.
Feeling that no time was to be lost, he procured two of the morning papers and carefully read the want columns. There were several advertisements which seemed to promise well, and he made a note of these and then started to visit the addresses given.
The first was at a restaurant where a cashier was wanted. Robert found the resort to be anything but high-styled. It was on a side street and looked far from clean.
"Well, a fellow can't be too particular," he thought, and marched inside without hesitation.
"This way," said the head waiter, thinking he had come in to get something to eat.
"I wish to see the proprietor," answered Robert. "He advertised for a cashier."
"He's got one."
"Oh, if that's so, excuse me for troubling you," and the boy turned on his heel to walk out.
"Hold on," said the head waiter. "I don't think the new man suits Mr. Hinks entirely. Perhaps he'll give you a show after all. You'll find Mr. Hinks over at the pie counter yonder," and the waiter jerked his thumb in the direction.
Robert walked to the counter and found a short, stout man in charge. The individual had a pair of crafty eyes that the boy did not at all admire.
"I came to see about that position which you advertised," he said.
"Yes? Have you had any experience?"
"I worked in a cut-rate ticket office—the one that was burned out on Sunday last. I think I could do the work of an ordinary cashier."
"No doubt you could, if you are used to handling money. Did you work for Gray?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I reckon he wouldn't have you unless you were all right," said Mr. Hinks. "I've got a new man on but he don't suit—he's too fussy and particular. Last night he left his desk and ran all the way to the sidewalk to give a man a dollar bill which he had forgotten."
"Well, that shows he is honest," said Robert, with a laugh.
"Yes, but my desk might have been robbed in the meantime."
"I suppose that is true."
"I don't want a man to be so honest as all that,—that is, with the customers,—although he must be honest with me. If a customer is foolish enough to leave his change behind, why let him lose it, that's my motto. What do you want a week?"
"I was getting twelve dollars."
"Phew! That's pretty stiff."
"I might start in for less."
"I never pay a man over five dollars."
"I cannot live on five dollars, I am afraid."
"Well, you pick up a good deal, you know," replied Mr. Hinks, and closed one eye suggestively.
"You mean in the way of tips?"
"Tips? Oh, no, they go to the waiters. But through making change and the like," and Mr. Hinks closed one eye again.
Robert's face flushed.
"Do you mean by giving people the wrong change?" he demanded indignantly.
"I didn't say so. But I know almost every cashier picks up lots of extra money in one way and another."
"Not if they are honest, sir. And I would not be dishonest—I would starve first. I am out for business, but not the kind of business you seem to expect of your employees."
At this plain talk Mr. Hinks scowled darkly at Robert.
"Here, here, I won't have you speak to me in this fashion," he blustered. "If you don't like the offer I've made you, you can get out."
"I don't like the offer, and I think it is an outrage that you are allowed to conduct business on such principles," replied Robert, and lost no time in quitting the place. The proprietor followed him to the door and shook his fist after him.
The next place was a map-maker's office. Here there was a large force of clerks, and the youth was received very politely.
"I am sorry to keep you waiting," said the clerk who advanced to see what the boy wanted. "But Mr. Ruggles is very busy at present. Will you sit down or call again?"
"I'll wait a little while," said Robert, who was favorably impressed by the surroundings. "That is, if the place that was advertised is still open."
"I can't say as to that. There have been several applicants, but the entire matter is in Mr. Ruggles' hands."
The clerk turned away and Robert dropped on a long bench running up one side of the waiting room. Hardly had he settled himself than two men came in. One looked like an Englishman while the other was evidently French.
The clerk greeted them as if they had been there before.
"Mr. Stanhope will see you directly," he said.
"We cannot wait too long," said the Englishman. "My friend—Jean Le Fevre, must get back to Michigan as soon as possible."
"I will tell Mr. Stanhope," said the clerk, and vanished into an inner office.
Left to themselves, the Englishman and the Frenchman began to converse rapidly, the subject of their talk being a certain tract of timber land in the upper section of Michigan. This interested Robert, who could not help but hear all that was said.
"Ze map—zat is what we want," he heard the French Canadian—for such Jean Le Fevre was—say. "Once we have zat, and the land will be ours."
"Right you are," answered the Englishman. "And then old Felix Amberton can whistle for his money. His claim won't be worth the paper it is written upon."
Robert was startled at these words. He remembered that Felix Amberton was the name of Dick Marden's uncle, the Michigan lumberman. Were these the fellows who wished to get the lumberman's lands away from him?
