Stratemeyer Edward
Out For Business or Robert Frost's Strange Career
CHAPTER XXII.
A CLEVER CAPTURE
As Robert was approaching his boarding house he ran into Livingston Palmer, valise in hand, bound for the theater.
"I'm off," said Palmer. "Our company leaves town to-day."
"Well, I wish you every success."
"Have you struck anything yet?" asked Palmer curiously.
"I have and I haven't. I've got a letter from Mr. Marden requesting me to come to Timberville in Michigan."
"It wouldn't suit me to bury myself in such a hole."
"I don't know that I will stay there any great length of time. I am to go up on a little private business."
"I see. Well, I must hurry. What time have you?"
"No time at all. My watch is gone."
"Hullo! Do you mean to say you've had to pawn it already. I thought you were one of the saving kind, to look out for a rainy day."
"The watch was stolen from me."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and some of my money went with it."
"That's too bad, Robert," and Palmer's face was full of real sympathy.
"It is bad."
"I would loan you some money if I had it. But the truth is, I'm broke excepting for a couple of dollars that Jack Dixon advanced me on my salary."
"Thank you, Livingston, but I am not quite broke, even if I have been robbed."
"I'm glad to hear it. Now I am off, or I will be left behind."
And with a hearty grasp of Robert's hand the would-be actor hurried down the street. Robert gazed after him meditatingly.
"I hope his engagement proves all he wishes," he thought. "But I am afraid he is running up against a tremendous disappointment."
Retiring to his room, Robert wrote a long letter to Dick Marden, telling of the receipt of the money orders and of his interview with Herman Wenrich. He also mentioned Le Fevre and Hammerditch and asked for the order from Felix Amberton for the map. At first he thought to put in about the stolen money and the watch, but then reconsidered the matter.
"I'll wait, since the map is not to be paid for," he said to himself. "Perhaps the police will catch the sharpers. If the worst comes to the worst I guess I can scrape up enough money to take me to Timberville without applying to Mr. Marden for more."
The letter finished, Robert went down to the post-office to post it. There now seemed nothing to do but to wait, and he returned to his boarding house worn out with the exertions of the day.
A good sleep made the youth feel much better, and while he was eating his breakfast he began to deliberate upon what to do during the time in which he would have to wait for an answer from his miner friend.
The front door bell rang, and presently he heard somebody ask to see the landlady of the house.
"Please, mum, a gentleman to see you," said Mary, coming into the dining room.
Mrs. Gibbs, the landlady, went into the parlor at once, thinking the newcomer might be somebody for board.
"This is the landlady?" asked the man, bowing.
"Yes, I am Mrs. Gibbs."
"I am looking for a nice, quiet boarding place," went on the newcomer. "Have you any vacant rooms?"
"I have one room vacant, but it is on the third floor."
"Is it a nice, quiet room?"
"It is in the rear and looks out on a small private garden. I think you will find it quiet enough."
"I cannot stand a noise. I used to board on the other side of the city, but there was a factory in the neighborhood and the rumble set me wild."
"We have no noises of that kind here."
"And what do you ask for board and room?"
"With one person in the room my charges are ten dollars per week. If two gentlemen take the room together the rate is eight dollars each."
"I prefer to be alone, madam."
"I will show you the room," said Mrs. Gibbs, moving toward the door. "I am sure you will find it as nice as any for the price."
"I think so myself—for the house shows it," replied the man, with a glance around at the well-kept parlor.
Mrs. Gibbs led the way into the hall. As she did so Robert came out of the dining room.
The man glanced carelessly at our hero and then fell back as if he had received a shock.
Then Robert uttered a cry of amazement.
"You!" he gasped, and rushing forward caught the man by the arm.
"Let go of me, young man!" cried the man savagely.
"I will not," answered Robert firmly. "I know you, and I am going to hand you over to the police."
At these words Mrs. Gibbs uttered a little shriek.
"Oh, Mr. Frost, what can this mean?" she demanded.
"It means that this man is a thief," declared Robert. "I met him in the post-office yesterday, where he saw me cash several money orders. After that he and a confederate robbed me of both money and my watch."
At these words the face of Andy Cross—for it was really he—became a study.
The sharper had not dared to go back to his former boarding house. He had calculated to find some new victim and to keep "shady" by pretending to be too ill to leave his room for several days. Now his little game was knocked completely in the head.
"He is a thief?" ejaculated the landlady. "Oh, my! and to think I was going to take him in to board!"
And the good old lady appeared ready to faint.
"There is some strange mistake here," said Andy Cross. "Young man, how dare you call me a thief!"
"I dare to because it is the truth."
"Do you know who I am?"
"You are what I just called you."
"I have a strong inclination to knock you down, but I will try to curb my temper, as all Christian people should. I am Ralph Goodwill, the son of the Reverend Amos Goodwill, of Denver. I have come to Chicago to complete my studies for the ministry."
"You'll have to turn over a new leaf before you become a minister," answered Robert.
"Evidently you do not believe me."
"Why should I? You are a thief, and you cannot humbug me into believing otherwise."
"Mr. Frost, there may be some mistake," put in the landlady timidly.
"There is no mistake, Mrs. Gibbs. Did you ever see a seminary student sporting such a suit of clothing."
"Well—er—I don't know as to that."
"The suit is one I picked up in the slums," said Andy Cross glibly. "I have been doing some work there, assisted by some Salvation Army people. You can work better among the poor, lost ones if you are dressed like them," he added softly.
"Yes, yes, I presume that is so," said Mrs. Gibbs, who was somewhat interested in slum work herself.
"He is an out and out fraud," said Robert, as firmly as ever. "Mrs. Gibbs, will you send Mary to call a policeman? I will be responsible for the arrest."
"But if there is a mistake–"
"Haven't I said that I will be responsible? I am not going to let him escape if I can help it."
At that moment the front door opened, to admit one of the lady boarders. Robert stepped back to let her pass, and as he did so Andy Cross wrenched himself free and leaped for the door.
"Stop!" cried Robert. "Stop!"
"Go to blazes!" snarled the sharper, and pulling the door back, he leaped out on the piazza.
Our hero's blood was up and he was determined that Cross should not escape him again.
He, too, leaped for the doorway, and as the sharper gained the piazza Robert put out his foot to trip him up.
The movement was far more successful than anticipated.
Down went Andy Cross on his knees, and before he could recover he went down the steps, bump! bump! bump! to the sidewalk.
The wind was knocked completely out of him, and he was sadly bruised about the head, while the blood spurted from his nose in a stream.
"Oh! oh! I'm killed!" he moaned, as he sat up.
"If you were, you wouldn't be able to groan over it," answered Robert. "Stay where you are, if you know when you are well off."
"Don't have me arrested," pleaded the sharper. The unexpected fall had taken all his self-possession from him.
At that moment a policeman showed himself at the corner, and Robert called to him to come up.
"What's the trouble?" demanded the officer of the law.
Seeing to it that Andy Cross did not get away, Robert told his story.
"Yes, I have the report of the robbery," said the policeman. "You were lucky to fall in with him."
In vain the sharper protested that he was innocent. The policeman marched him off to the nearest station house.
Here he was examined and searched, and fifty dollars of Robert's money was found in the envelope which our hero had obtained at the post-office.
"What of the rest of the money and the watch?" asked Robert.
Seeing there was no help for it, Andy Cross made a confession. He stated that Jim Huskin had kept both the timepiece and the rest of the money, and left Chicago the night before.
"And where did he go?" asked Robert.
"He took a steamer for Muskegon, Michigan," answered Andy Cross.
"Muskegon!" cried our hero. And then he said no more. But he was filled with interest, for he had thought to journey to Timberville by way of a steamer to the town named and then by railroad for the balance of the journey.
"We will look this matter up and telegraph to the authorities at Muskegon," said the officer who was examining Cross. "If we learn anything we will let you know."
This ended the matter for the time being, and Andy Cross was locked up. Robert returned to his boarding house, feeling lighter in both heart and mind than he had a couple of hours before.
CHAPTER XXIII.
PALMER'S UNFORTUNATE DEBUT
It had made James Talbot feel very bitter to think that should his wife die the Frost fortune would go entirely to his step-son.
"He doesn't deserve a cent of it—with his impudence to me and his running away from home," he said to himself. "The money ought to come to me."
The more he thought over the matter the more bitter did he become. He tried to think of some way by which he could alter the conditions of Mr. Frost's will, but nothing came to his mind that was satisfactory.
Of course he did not dare show his wife his real feelings. She was still angry over the lost letter, and he was afraid of causing an open rupture.
He concluded to do everything he could to win her good graces, and then question her again about the will and the property. Perhaps he might be able, he thought, to get control of the money lying in the bank, which amounted to about thirty thousand dollars.
"Once I get control of that," he told himself, "Robert can whistle for his share. I'll run away to Europe before I'll give it up."
The first thing he did was to buy Mrs. Talbot a new bonnet, since he had heard that a woman will be pleased over a new bonnet, if over nothing else. The lady, however, received the gift rather coldly.
"It is very nice," she said. "But I do not need it, James."
"Never mind, my love, I want my wife to look as good as or better than any lady in Granville."
"Thank you, but I never tried to set the fashion."
"I know that. But you should—with so much money behind you."
"The money is for Robert, not for me." And Mrs. Talbot sighed as she thought of her son, and wondered how he was faring.
"Always the boy," thought James Talbot savagely. "Will she never forget him?"
"There is going to be a play at the opera house to-night," he said sweetly. "I would like you to go. You can wear the new bonnet, if you will."
"Thank you. What is the play, James?"
"'All for Love,' a romance of high life in New York. The newspaper says it is a good play."
"The newspapers cannot always be depended upon. Do you know anything of the company?"
"It is the Dixon Combination Comedy Company of Chicago."
"I never heard of it."
"I am afraid, my love, that you do not keep very good track of theatrical affairs."
"I like to read about the good ones in the papers."
"This company has some very good advertising. One of the bills says they carry ten star actors and actresses. I am sure you will like the play."
"I will go if you wish me to," answered Mrs. Talbot, although she was doubtful if she would enjoy the performance. During the time Mr. Frost had been living, husband and wife had gone to both the theater and to the concert, but only to the very best. But Mr. Talbot had no taste for such things, and an ordinary performance pleased him about as well as one which was far superior.
There had been no show in Granville for over two weeks. Consequently when the doors of the opera house were opened that night, the fair-sized hall became crowded in short order.
The Dixon Combination Comedy Company was entirely unknown, and for good reason—it had never existed until two weeks previous to the opening at Granville.
Jack Dixon, the manager, had been a "hanger-on" among theatrical people for several years, and having received several hundred dollars through the death of a rich aunt, had at once set to work to put a company of his own on the road.
The man meant well, but he knew very little about the business, as was proved by his hiring Livingston Palmer and several others who were no better actors.
Rehearsals had been backward and unsatisfactory from the start, and the combination would have done much better had it held back for another week for practice before appearing in public.
But everyone was anxious to make a hit, and nobody thought failure possible.
"We will carry the town by storm," said the leading man, a fellow by the name of Caster. He had been on the boards for several years, but had never before risen to a position higher than that of being a member of a stock company attached to a dime museum.
"Yes, we will show them what real acting is," answered Livingston Palmer. "To-morrow the newspapers will be full of complimentary notices."
At quarter to eight the orchestra, consisting of a piano player, a violinist, a flutist, and a cornetist, struck up on the overture, and at eight o'clock sharp the curtain went up on the first act of "All for Love."
The scene represented Fifth avenue, in New York—at least, so the programme said,—although it is doubtful if anybody living on that fashionable thoroughfare would have recognized the locality. People were coming and going, and doing this as if their lives depended upon it, the same person appearing and disappearing every half minute or so.
In the crowd was a girl who was supposed to be a companion to a rich old lady. As she stood waiting for something, the villain of the play, a fashionably-dressed man, came up and tried to tempt her into stealing the rich lady's jewels. While this was going on the butler of the lady's mansion appeared and overheard the plot.
The acting was crude from the start, but at the opening of a play few people pay much attention, and it was not until Livingston Palmer appeared as the spying butler that the audience began to grow attentive.
"Ha, what is this I hear!" cried Palmer, as he peered forth from behind a dry goods box set up against a building marked Hotel. "She is plotting to rob my mistress. Base woman that she is, I will—will—will–"
Palmer should have said, "I will expose her to Mrs. Ulmer and have her arrested," but the words would not come, for he had caught sight of the hundreds of faces in the audience and become stage-frightened in consequence.
"I will—will—I will–" he stammered, trying again.
"Will you?" came a voice from the gallery. "All right, Willie!"
There was a laugh and then a hiss.
"I will expose her," whispered the prompter, who stood in the prompter's box with the book of the play in his hand.
"I will—will expose her!" burst out Livingston Palmer. "I will expose her, base—I mean—I will expose her to be arrested—to—by—I mean—Mrs. Ulmer shall arrest her!" and then he fell back out of sight, and all but overcome.
At once the prompter ran up to him.
"You fool!" he whispered wildly. "That wasn't right. You've ruined the scene."
"Have I?" asked Palmer, in awe-stricken tones. "Oh, I—I—something slipped my mind. But—but I'll be all right in the next scene."
"I hope so. Better study your lines before you go on."
"I will," answered the would-be actor, and began to study as never before.
In the meantime the scene went on, the actors reciting their lines without a break, but with so little dramatic action that scarcely anyone in the audience was interested.
"Do you like it, my love?" asked James Talbot, who sat beside his wife in one of the orchestra rows.
"No, it is very stupid so far," answered Mrs. Talbot.
"The next act may be better, Sarah. The best plays rarely start well."
"That young man missed his part entirely," was Mrs. Talbot's comment.
The second act of the play represented the drawing room of Mrs. Ulmer's mansion. There was at first a love scene which promised very well. But the lover in the play was as nervous as he might have been in real life, and when he started to kiss his lady-love good-by, he smacked her so warmly that his false mustache fell off into her lap.
"Oh!" she cried, and there was a roar of laughter from the audience.
The lover snatched the mustache up in a trice and hurried off as if he was leaving an enemy, instead of her whose heart he was supposed to have won.
The rich old lady came in, supported on the arm of her nephew, a captain of the regular army. The captain was wearing his sword, but he was not used to the weapon, and it got tangled up between his legs more than once, and came near to upsetting him.
"Take it off!" cried a voice from the gallery. Of course a laugh followed the bit of advice.
The captain was about to conclude an important interview with his rich aunt, when the butler walked in with a tray, on which were a bottle supposed to contain wine, and two glasses.
"Be careful there, Willie, or you'll drop the tray!" cried the voice from the gallery.
"Will—he?" said another voice, with an attempt at a pun.
"Ah, so this is honest John!" exclaimed the captain, turning to the butler. "John, what have you to say to the captain who used to go horseback riding on your foot?"
"I'm glad to see you, sir," said Livingston Palmer. "Very glad, sir." Then he took a deep breath, and started again, so that his next lines might not escape him. "Mrs. Ulmer, Ihavea secret to tell." He meant, "I have a secret to tell," but some of his words ran one into another.
"A secret, John. What can it be?"
"You'retoberobb'd, yes, madam, youretobe robb'd."
"Robbed!"
"Yes, madam, robb'd. Oneyou have fondly robbed intendsto loveyou."
A shout went up at this, a shout that speedily became a roar. Of course Palmer meant to say, "One you have fondly loved intends to rob you," but he was hopelessly bewildered, and hardly knew what he was doing. For once his self-confidence had entirely left him.
"Go! I will not believe it!" cried the rich lady. "Leave my sight!"
"Yes, madam, Iwillgo, but—but–" Livingston Palmer stared around wildly. He wanted to add, "I can prove what I have to say," but the words became mixed as before. "Icansay—whatIcanprove—I mean, I provetosay what I can—I can say what Icansay–"
"Then go and say it!" yelled somebody from the gallery. "Say it, and give somebody else a chance to talk."
"Say, but this is a bum company," added somebody else.
"Worst I ever saw!" came from a third party. And then followed a storm of hisses. In the midst of this Palmer hurried from the stage. At once Dixon collared him.
"Palmer, what do you mean by this?" demanded the manager. "Have you lost your wits?"
"No, but—but—it's awful to have so many folks staring at you, and cat-calling, too."
"You spoiled both acts."
"I did my best," pleaded Livingston Palmer.
"Then you'll never make an actor if you live to be a hundred years," responded Jack Dixon, and with this cold cut he walked off, leaving Palmer the picture of misery and despair.
But the scene was not yet ended, and scarcely had Dixon turned away when there came another roar and a hiss. The unfortunate captain had fallen down with his sword between his feet. In trying to pick himself up he had upset a small table, scattering the books thereon in every direction. His wig came off, and when he managed to gain his feet once more it was found that his coat was split up the back for a foot and over.
"They are a disgrace to the opera house!" came the cry.
"They are no good!"
"Let us give 'em something to remember us by!"
The last suggestion was greeted with a wild assent, and soon half a dozen different articles landed on the stage, including the core of an apple and a half-decayed orange. In the midst of the uproar a number of the audience started to leave and the drop curtain came down with a bang.
