CHAPTER XXIOUT OF THE FRYING-PAN
Arrived at the opening, Ernest found that there was a trap-door, which through carelessness had been left open. It was, however, a serious problem to draw himself up so as to profit by what he had already done.
Twice he failed and nearly lost his grip on the rope. Then he caught hold of the projection from which the rope depended, and by a supreme effort he succeeded, helping himself by means of the trap-door in emerging from his subterranean prison.
Stretching himself he took a deep breath and realized joyfully not only that he was free, but that he had recovered the valuable bonds of which he had been placed in charge.
He began to look around him and tried to conjecture in what direction he must go to reach Lee’s Falls. He was quite at a loss, as he had been carried into the cave blindfolded. But help seemed to be at hand. He saw at a little distance, rapidly approaching him, a man of middleheight whom he concluded to be a resident of some place in the vicinity.
“Can you tell me in what direction I must go to reach Lee’s Falls?” he asked.
The stranger paused and examined him.
“So you want to go to Lee’s Falls?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Emmonsville.”
“Direct?”
“No.”
“I saw you just now coming out of some opening in the earth.”
This alarmed Ernest. He felt that he might be called upon to explain where he had been.
“Who is this man?” he asked himself. “Is he one who is likely to be in the confidence of the outlaws? If so I have only got out of one scrape to fall into another.”
He studied the face of the man with whom he was speaking and to his dismay noted a resemblance to James Fox. He began to suspect that this was his brother.
Whether it was or not Ernest deemed it politic to say as little as possible of his experiences and of what he knew about the cave and its occupants.
“Yes,” he answered quietly; “there seems to be a cave underneath. I found the trap-door open and went down, but I regretted it, for I found it difficult to get out again.”
His new acquaintance eyed him scrutinizingly, as if to see whether he knew more than he was willing to reveal.
“So there is a cave underneath?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Have you any idea what it is used for?”
“I don’t think it is used at all. The room below seems empty.”
The man regarded him fixedly.
“When did you leave Emmonsville?” he asked abruptly.
“Yesterday,” answered Ernest in some confusion.
“How does it happen that you have got no farther on your way to Lee’s Falls?”
“I stopped at the cabin of an Indian,” answered Ernest, making the only explanation he could think of.
The man smiled.
“Young man,” he said, “didn’t you pass last night in this cave?”
Ernest saw that there was no further chance for subterfuge.
“Yes,” he answered.
“I thought so.”
“You were captured?” the other went on.
“Yes.”
“Have you any suspicion by whom this cave is occupied?”
“I presume by the Fox brothers.”
“Correct. I am one of them.”
“I began to think so.”
“How were you able to escape?”
“I was left with the little boy. He fell asleep and then I began to explore.”
“Where is my brother?”
“He went out quite early, I presume in search of you.”
“Exactly. I suppose my brother heard that I was in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“By the way, the Quaker detective through whom I got into difficulty you doubtless know?”
“I do.”
“I was put into jail at Crampton, but I managed to effect my escape. Are you connected in any way with the Emmonsville bank?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“As bank messenger.”
“Did my brother take anything from you?”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“No, bonds.”
“You are a sensible boy. You answer my questions freely. You are a smart boy, too. It isn’t every lad of your age who would have managed to effect an escape from the cave. Do you remember the entrance?”
“No; I was carried into it blindfolded.”
“I thought my brother would be prudent. So you couldn’t find it again.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Still I cannot run any risk. You will have to come with me.”
“Where do you want to carry me?” asked Ernest, much disturbed.
“I will carry you back to the cave.”
“Let me go free. I will promise not to reveal anything that I have discovered.”
“I am sorry, boy, but you were made prisoner by my brother, and I owe it to him to prevent your escape.”
It was intolerable to Ernest to think of having his captivity renewed. He determined that he would at least make an effort for freedom.
Accordingly he did not hesitate, but started to run, hoping that in this way he might save himself. He had always the reputation among his boy companions as a sprinter, and resolved to see whether this was a lost art.
“So that’s your game, is it?” exclaimed the outlaw. “It will go hard with me if I don’t catch you. Stop, or it will be the worse for you!”
But Ernest had no intention of giving up so soon. He only exerted himself the more.
The contest was not so unequal as might have been supposed. Ernest was tall for his age, and the outlaw was rather below the average height. So there was in reality only about an inch difference in their height.
On the other hand, John Fox had, as might be supposed, more strength and endurance. He was not over weight and therefore not scant of breath. Ernest got the start and this was an advantage. One ran about as fast as the other, so it settled down into a contest of endurance.
The outlaw, however, was irritated at the unexpected difficulty of his undertaking. He had thought that Ernest would surrender.
“I wish I had my revolver,” he muttered.
Had the outlaw been aware that Ernest had in his possession the packet of bonds which had impelled his brother to make him a captive his zeal would have been increased. He knew, of course, that the bonds would be taken from him and he could conceive of no chance of the boy’s recovering them.
They flew over the ground, maintaining the same relative distance. But there was an unexpected contingency that worked to the disadvantage of Ernest.
Directly in his path was a projecting root which in his haste escaped his notice. He tripped over it, and as a natural consequence he measured his length on the ground.
The outlaw’s face lighted up with exultation. Now the issue was no longer doubtful.
Before Ernest could recover himself and rise to his feet John Fox was upon him.
He flung himself on the prostrate boy and clutched him in a firm grasp.
“Now I have you,” he said. “You were a fool to run. You might have known that you could not escape.”
“I came near it, though,” gasped Ernest, quite out of breath. “Let me up.”
“Will you promise to go with me without giving me any more trouble?”
“I will make no promises,” said Ernest.
“Then it will be the worse for you,” said the outlaw vindictively.
What he proposed to do must remain unknown, for as he spoke a hand was thrust into his neckcloth and he was jerked violently to his feet.
CHAPTER XXIICASTRO TO THE RESCUE
Bewildered and angry, John Fox looked to see who was his assailant. He found himself confronted by a tall, muscular Indian, whom Ernest also recognized as the man whose child he had saved from a watery grave.
“What do you mean by this outrage?” demanded the outlaw angrily.
“Why are you hurting him?” said the Indian, pointing to Ernest.
“Because I choose to.”
“Me stop you,” said the Indian calmly.
“I have a great mind to shoot you.”
This was an empty threat, for his weapon had been taken by the Quaker detective.
The only answer made by the Indian was to produce a revolver, which he pointed at the breast of the outlaw.
“Two play at that game,” he answered.
John Fox shrank back, for it takes a man of nerve to face a revolver. He began to remonstrate.
“What interest have you in that boy?” he asked.
“He save my little boy from drowning,” answered the Indian. “Will you go or shall me shoot?”
There was but one answer to make to this question. John Fox turned about and walked quietly away without a word.
Ernest grasped the Indian’s hand gratefully.
“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “You have perhaps saved my life.”
“You save my little boy.”
“Do you know that man?”
“No.”
“It was John Fox, one of the Fox brothers, the famous outlaws.”
“Humph! I have heard of him. How did he catch you?”
Ernest told the story. He also told of the commission he had from the Emmonsville bank.
“I am going to ask you a favor,” he asked.
“What is it?”
“I want you to go with me to the bank at Lee’s Falls. I have a package of bonds to carry there and I don’t think it safe to go alone. I will see that you are paid for your time and trouble.”
“I will go.”
Under the guidance of his Indian friend Ernest reached Lee’s Falls. The bank was closed, but the cashier was still in the bank building, having been detained after hours. Seeing him through the window, Ernest knocked and obtained admission.
“The bank is closed, young man,” said the bank officer.
“I know it, but I have a package of bonds from the bank in Emmonsville. I hope you will take them from me, for I don’t want the responsibility of them any longer.”
“Oh, you are the young messenger. We had advice that you would be here yesterday.”
“So I should have been, but for my capture by one of the Fox brothers.”
“And how did you escape?” asked the wondering cashier.
“Please take the bonds and I will tell you. I spent two nights in the outlaws’ cave. This afternoon I managed to get away.”
“But were not the bonds taken from you?”
“Yes, but I recovered them.”
Ernest, without waiting for further questions, told the story as briefly as possible.
“So, after all,” he concluded, “I should have been taken again but for my friend here,” laying his hand upon the Indian’s shoulder. “I told him you would pay him for his trouble in accompanying me.”
“So I will,” said the cashier, and he took a five-dollar bill and tendered it to the Indian.
The latter objected to taking it, alleging that Ernest had saved his boy’s life, but the cashier overruled his objections and he accepted it.
They were going out of the bank when the familiar figure of Luke Robbins came up the street. His face was clouded by an expression of anxiety and he seemed troubled. He had searched everywhere for Ernest, and thus far had failed to find him.
When he saw the boy emerging from the bank his face changed at once.
“So you are safe, Ernest? I thought I had lost you,” he exclaimed. “Did you see anything of the outlaws?”
“I should say that I did. I was captured by James Fox and confined two nights in the underground haunts of the robbers. When I escaped this afternoon I fell into the clutches of the other brother.”
“What! John Fox?”
“Yes.”
“This cannot be, Ernest. I lodged him myself in Crampton jail.”
“All I can tell you is that he is at liberty now. He must have escaped.”
“Then I am afraid I shan’t receive the reward offered for his capture.”
“You ought to get it. You delivered him over to the authorities. If they could not keep him that was their own lookout.”
“You ought to be right, lad. I hope you are. Who is this man?”
“My Indian friend, who proved to be a friend in need. It was he who saved me from John Fox.”
“I am proud to know you,” said Luke, grasping the hand of the red warrior. “If you have helped Ernest you are my friend.”
“He save my little boy; I will always be his friend.”
“You have saved my boy, my Indian friend, and you will always be my friend,” returned Luke.
“Well, Luke, what shall we do? I have done my errand and delivered the bonds.”
“We will go back. I have found you and have no more to do here.”
“Shall we walk?”
“No, it is too far. There is a stable a little way from here; I will hire a conveyance and our Indian friend will perhaps be willing to drive us over.”
The Indian expressed his willingness, and the three were soon on their way through the woods. They met with no adventure, nor did they fear any, for it would have required a brave man to attack two such stalwart men as the Indian and the Quaker detective.
Leaving them for the present, we will go back to the cave from which Ernest had made so unceremonious a departure.
Frank slept for two hours, but at length opened his eyes, expecting to see Ernest sitting at his bedside.
He looked in vain. There was no one in the room. This did not surprise him much, however. He thought Ernest might have gone into the next apartment.
“Ernest!” he cried, but his call received no response.
The little boy got out of bed and looked about, but his search was vain.
So he went into the kitchen, where he found Juba engaged in some domestic work.
“Juba,” he said, “where is Ernest?”
“I don’t know, chile. Isn’t he in the big room?”
“No, Juba. I went to sleep and when I woke up he was gone.”
“You look round and maybe you find him.”
But Frank was doomed to disappointment. He sat down ready to cry. He felt very lonely. He had not realized how much he enjoyed Ernest’s company.
“I don’t know where he can have gone, Juba. Do you think he’s gone and left me?”
“I can’t tell, chile. Wait till your papa comes home. He will find him.”
Frank had to wait an hour and a half before his father’sreturn. All this time he was buoyed up by the hope that Ernest would come back. He was continually watching the portal to see if the runaway would not come.
James Fox entered the room with grave face and heavy step. He had not heard of his brother’s escape and thought him still an inmate of Crampton jail.
He looked about for his young captive.
“Where is Ernest, Frank?” he asked.
“I don’t know, papa. I miss him ever so much,” said the little boy tearfully.
“But he must be somewhere about. When did you miss him?”
“He went away when I was asleep.”
The outlaw’s suspicions were aroused.
“I will look for him,” he said.
But Ernest was in none of the rooms.
“Did you walk with him into the interior of the cave, Frank?” he asked.
“Yes, papa.”
“Ha, that explains it. Go with me and tell me just where you went.”
The little boy led the way through the vacant apartments till he reached the one through which the light came from above.
The rope was still hanging from the projection, and this explained Ernest’s escape.
“He must have got out this way,” said the outlaw.
“Won’t he come back, papa?” said Frank.
“Yes,” said his father resolutely. “I will bring him back.”
CHAPTER XXIIIGIVEN IN TRUST
“Well, lad, have you had enough of Emmonsville?”
The speaker was Luke Robbins and the time was two days after the series of exciting incidents recorded in the last few chapters.
“Why do you ask, Luke?” replied Ernest. “Are you tired of it?”
“Yes, lad, I want to move on.”
“But what about the reward you are entitled to for the capture of John Fox?”
“The cashier thinks I will only receive a part of it, as Fox has escaped.”
“That is unlucky. You will have to wait until the matter is decided, won’t you?”
“No. He has offered me an advance of a hundred dollars, and is authorized to collect whatever prize money may be awarded to me. You have some money left?”
“Yes, about seventy-five dollars.”
“Then we both have enough to start on. I propose to go to California by train, getting there as soon as possible. When we reach there we will see what we can do to increase our pile.”
“I like that plan. When shall we go?”
“We will start on Monday.”
Before they departed there was some sensational news. Peter Longman, one of the Fox band, taking offense at some slight put upon him by James Fox, went to the authorities and revealed the existence and location of the cave, with other information of a like nature. The result was that a strong force was sent to surprise and capture the notorious outlaws.
The visit was made at night and under guidance of Peter himself. Wholly unsuspicious of treachery, the outlaws were captured in their beds and the valuable articles in the storeroom were confiscated.
James Fox was reclining on the sofa when the officers entered.
“Is your name Fox?” asked the leader of the invading party.
“Yes,” answered the outlaw proudly.
“Then you are my prisoner.”
“Who has betrayed me?” demanded Fox quickly.
There was no answer, but just behind the invadingparty the outlaw caught sight of Peter Longman, apparently trying to screen himself from observation.
“I need not ask,” he said. “There is the treacherous hound. He shall not live to profit by his baseness.”
Before anyone could interfere James Fox leveled his revolver at Longman, and a sharp scream showed that his aim was true. His treacherous follower fell to the ground, mortally wounded.
James Fox looked at him disdainfully, then threw the revolver upon the floor of the cave and held out his hands. “Now bind me if you will,” he said; “I am your captive.”
Little Frank was a terrified witness of this scene.
“What are they doing to you, papa?” he asked. “They are bad men.”
In spite of his fortitude the outlaw showed traces of emotion. “That is my little son,” he said to the lieutenant commanding.
“He shall be taken care of. Do not be anxious about him.”
“There is an old colored woman here—Juba,” went on the outlaw. “The boy is used to her. If possible let them be together.”
Under a strong guard the famous robbers were carried to jail, and the cave which had been for years their meeting place was dismantled and was never again used for a criminal resort.
When Ernest read the story his feelings were mixed. He rejoiced that the outlaws were taken, but he felt a sympathy for little Frank, and understood what a shock it must be to the father and son to be separated.
He learned where Frank was and called upon him. He had been taken to his own home by the leader of the raiding force.
When he entered the room where Frank sat disconsolately at the window the little fellow uttered a cry of joy.
“Is it you, Ernest?” he said, running forward. “I thought I should never see you again.”
Ernest stooped over and kissed him.
“You see I am here,” he said.
“What made you go away? Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”
“I will tell you some time, Frank.”
“Why did those bad men take papa away?”
“I do not think you would understand. Where is Juba?”
“She is in the kitchen. I will call her.”
Juba came in and seemed pleased to see Ernest.
“I have got a letter for you, honey,” she said, fumbling in her pocket.
She brought out a yellow envelope. It was directed to Ernest.
The contents ran thus:
Now that misfortune has come upon me my chief thought is for my boy. Whatever befalls me I want him cared for. You are scarcely more than a stranger to me, but when you were in the cave you seemed to love Frank. Poor boy, he will stand in need of some friend who loves him. So far as you can, will you be his friend and guardian? He has some property—a few thousand dollars—which you will hold in trust for him. It is not stolen property. It was left him by his mother.Call upon Mr. Samuel Hardy, a lawyer in Lee’s Falls, and he will make over to you the custody of the money, and look upon you as the authorized guardian of Frank. You know my wish that he should be sent to a good school and properly educated. Will you carry out my wishes in that respect? I do not wish to tie you down, but wherever you may go keep up an active interest in my boy, and from time to time write to him.I do not know what my fate may be. I am not a coward, and shall not complain or beg for mercy. When you speak of me to Frank in after years, always paint me at my best, and let him understand that at least I loved him.James Fox.P.S.—Should Frank die before maturity I desire that his property should go to you.
Now that misfortune has come upon me my chief thought is for my boy. Whatever befalls me I want him cared for. You are scarcely more than a stranger to me, but when you were in the cave you seemed to love Frank. Poor boy, he will stand in need of some friend who loves him. So far as you can, will you be his friend and guardian? He has some property—a few thousand dollars—which you will hold in trust for him. It is not stolen property. It was left him by his mother.
Call upon Mr. Samuel Hardy, a lawyer in Lee’s Falls, and he will make over to you the custody of the money, and look upon you as the authorized guardian of Frank. You know my wish that he should be sent to a good school and properly educated. Will you carry out my wishes in that respect? I do not wish to tie you down, but wherever you may go keep up an active interest in my boy, and from time to time write to him.
I do not know what my fate may be. I am not a coward, and shall not complain or beg for mercy. When you speak of me to Frank in after years, always paint me at my best, and let him understand that at least I loved him.
James Fox.
James Fox.
P.S.—Should Frank die before maturity I desire that his property should go to you.
Ernest read the foregoing with mingled feelings. He knew that the writer was an outlaw, deeply stained with crime; but this letter showed him at his best. Paternal love softened the harsh outlines of his character, andspoke of a nature that might have made him a blessing instead of a curse to his kind.
Ernest lost no time in communicating with Mr. Hardy.
The lawyer read the letter in some surprise.
“Mr. Fox seems to have appointed a young guardian for his son,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir; but he appeared to have no choice.”
“I am ready to assist you, however.”
“I will depend upon you, then, for I shall start for California as soon as possible. Can you recommend a satisfactory boarding school?”
“I have a son at school in Lincoln. The school is under the charge of a clergyman, who is an efficient teacher.”
“Can you arrange to enter Frank at his school?”
“I will do so, if you authorize me.”
“I don’t think we can do any better. Were you aware that Mr. Fox was the notorious outlaw?” asked Ernest, after a pause.
“I did not know, but latterly I have suspected it. You may be surprised that under the circumstances I should have consented to serve him. But I felt that I might be of assistance to the boy, and that my refusal would occasion him embarrassment. Your letter is satisfactory, as showing that the fortune of your ward is not made up of ill-gotten gains. Were it otherwise, he would hardly be allowed to keep it. Does Frank know his father’s character and reputation?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It had best be kept from him. I will see that it does not become known at school. It would wound the boy to be twitted with it by his schoolmates.”
Thanks to Mr. Hardy, Ernest found that the new charge imposed upon him would not materially interfere with his plans. A week later than he had originally intended he and Luke Robbins left Emmonsville.
As they rushed rapidly over the prairies, Luke Robbins turned to his young companion and said: “Our journey thus far has been adventurous. I wonder what lies before us.”
“We won’t trouble ourselves on that score, Luke. I feel hopeful.”
“So do I, and yet we have less than two hundred dollars between us.”
“That’s true.”
“Still, I have captured an outlaw, and you at the age of sixteen are the guardian of an outlaw’s son.”
“I don’t think we shall meet with anything stranger than that.”
Two days later, in a newspaper bought at an important station, there was an article that deeply interested both travelers. It related to the Fox brothers, recounting their daring attempt to escape from the jail where they were confined. John Fox got away, but James was shot dead by one of the prison guards.
So Frank was an orphan, and Ernest now felt that his responsibility was increased.
CHAPTER XXIVSTEPHEN RAY AND HIS SON
Leaving Ernest and Luke Robbins on their way to California, our attention is called to other characters who must play a part in the drama of the boy from Oak Forks.
A few miles from Elmira, upon an eminence from which there was a fine view of the surrounding country, stood the handsome country mansion of Stephen Ray, already referred to as the cousin of Ernest’s father. It passed into his possession by inheritance from poor Ernest’s grandfather, the will under which the bequest was made cutting off his son for no worse a crime than marrying a girl thoroughly respectable, but of humble birth.
Stephen Ray, since he came into possession of his uncle’s estate, had improved it considerably. He had torn down the old stable and built an imposing new one. The plaincarriage which had satisfied his uncle had been succeeded by an elegant coach, and the slow horse by a pair of spirited steeds.
Mr. Ray had become pompous, and by his manner made it clear that he considered himself a man of great consequence. He was a local magistrate, and had for years endeavored to obtain a nomination for Congress.
Had he been of popular manners, he would probably have succeeded, but he was not a favorite among the poorer classes, and their vote must be considered.
There is an old saying, “Like father, like son,” and Clarence, now turned sixteen, the only child of the country magnate, was like his father in all objectionable qualities. He was quite as much impressed with ideas of his own consequence.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon. Mr. Ray sat on the piazza, the day being unusually warm, reading a newspaper. In the street near by, his son Clarence was moving swiftly on a new velocipede which his father had just purchased for him.
“Out of the way, there!” he called out, as a shabbily dressed stranger with a weary step plodded along the pathway.
Whether because he was hard of hearing or because his mind was preoccupied, the stranger did not heed the warning, and Clarence, who might easily have avoided the collision, ran into him recklessly. Had the wheel been moving at a greater rate of speed, he might have been seriously hurt. As it was, he was nearly thrown down.
But he rallied, and seizing the offending rider with no gentle grasp, dragged him from the wheel, and shook him vigorously.
“Let me alone, you tramp!” exclaimed Clarence furiously.
But the stranger did not release his hold.
“Not till you apologize for running into me,” he answered sternly.
“Apologize to a man like you!” ejaculated Clarence, struggling furiously for his freedom.
“Will you apologize?”
“There is no need of an apology. You got in my way.”
“You have no business on the sidewalk with your wheel. It is meant for foot passengers.”
“Do you know who I am?” demanded Clarence haughtily.
“No, I don’t, nor do I care.”
“I am Clarence Ray, son of Squire Stephen Ray. He is a magistrate, and he can send you to jail.”
These words of Clarence had the effect he desired. The stranger released him, and eyed him with close scrutiny.
“So you are the son of Stephen Ray?” he said.
“Yes. What have you to say now?”
“That you had no right to run into me, whoever your father may be.”
“I shall report your insolence to my father. I shall charge you with violently assaulting me.”
“I might have known you were Stephen Ray’s son,” said the stranger thoughtfully.
“Do you know my father?” asked Clarence.
“I am on my way to call upon him.”
“I don’t think it will do any good. He never gives money to tramps.”
“I have a great mind to give you another shaking up,” said the man, and in some fear Clarence edged away from him.
It was evident that this shabby-looking stranger had not a proper respect for those who were in a higher station.
“I will tell him not to give you anything,” continued Clarence.
“Like father, like son,” said the stranger thoughtfully, apparently not disturbed by the boy’s threats.
Evidently he was no common tramp, or he would have been more respectful to the son of the man from whom he was probably about to ask a favor.
“You just wait till you see my father. He’ll give you a lecture that you won’t soon forget.”
“You’d better get on your wheel, boy, and go right along,” said the stranger calmly.
“Do you know where my father lives?”
“Yes, at yonder fine house. I see him sitting out on the piazza. Shall we go along together?”
“No, I don’t keep such company as you.”
“And yet some day you may be as poor and friendless as myself.”
“That isn’t very likely. My father is a very rich man.”
“I knew him when he was poor.”
More and more puzzled by the independent manner of this shabby stranger, Clarence made a spurt, and soon found himself in the grounds of his father’s house.
“With whom were you talking, Clarence?” asked Stephen Ray as his son joined him on the piazza.
“One of the most impudent tramps I ever came across,” answered Clarence. “He made an attack upon me, and pulled me from my bicycle.”
Stephen Ray’s cheek flamed with anger. An insult to his son was an insult to him.
“Why did he do this? How dared he?”
“Because I happened to touch him as I passed,” answered Clarence.
“He actually pulled you from your bicycle?” asked Stephen Ray, almost incredulous.
“Yes.”
“I should like to meet him. I should feel justified in ordering his arrest.”
“You will have a chance to meet him. He told me he was going to call upon you—there he is now, entering the gate.”
Stephen was glad to hear it. He wanted to empty the vails of his wrath on the audacious offender.
He was accustomed to seeing men of the stamp of this stranger quail before him and show nervous alarm at his rebukes. He had no doubt that his majestic wrath would overwhelm the shabby outcast who had audaciously assaulted his son and heir.
He rose to his feet, and stood the personification ofhaughty displeasure, as the poor man who dared his anger walked composedly up the path. He now stood by the piazza steps.
“It is well you have come here,” began the squire in a dignified tone. “My son tells me that you have committed an unprovoked outrage upon him in dragging him from his wheel. I can only conclude that you are under the influence of liquor.”
Stephen Ray waited curiously to hear what the man would say. He was prepared for humble apologies.
“I am no more drunk than yourself, if that is what you mean, Stephen Ray.”
Squire Ray was outraged and scandalized.
“You must be drunk or you would not dare to talk in this way. Who authorized you to address me in this familiar way?”
“You are only a man, I believe, Stephen Ray. I have addressed you as respectfully as you have spoken to me.”
“Respect—to you?” repeated Mr. Ray disdainfully. “Has the time come when we must be respectful to tramps?”
“A poor tramp is quite as deserving of respect as a rich rascal.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded the squire suspiciously.
“It was a general remark.”
“It is well that it was. But it has no application in the present instance. If you are poor I will give you a quarter, but only on condition that you apologize to my son.”
The stranger laughed.
“Why should I apologize to your son?” he asked.
“You pulled him off his wheel. Do you deny it?”
“No, I do not. Do you know what he did?”
“He brushed against you with his wheel, he tells me, accidentally.”
“So that is his version of it? He deliberately ran into me.”
“I gave you warning. I said ‘Out of the way, there!’” interrupted Clarence.
“Yes, but you had no right on the sidewalk.”
“It seems to me, sir, that you are remarkably independent for a man of your rank. Even if it had been as you say, you had no right to assault my son. I might have you arrested on your own confession, but I will forbear doing so on condition that you leave town at once.”
“I have a little business with you first.”
“If you expect alms, you have come to the wrong man.”
“I know very well that you are not charitable. I used to be acquainted with you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Benjamin Bolton.”
Stephen Ray looked startled.
“Benjamin Bolton!” he repeated, half incredulous. “I can’t believe it.”
CHAPTER XXVA STARTLING DISCLOSURE
“Look at me closely, Stephen Ray,” said the strange visitor. “I think you will see some traces of the Bolton you used to know.”
Stephen Ray did examine his visitor closely. Against his will he was obliged to acknowledge the resemblance of the man before him to one who in past times had had an intimate acquaintance with his affairs.
“You may be Benjamin Bolton,” he said after a pause, “but if so, you have fallen off greatly in your appearance. When I first knew you, you were well dressed and——”
“Respectable, I suppose you mean to say?”
“Well, respectable, if you will have it so. Now you look more like a tramp than a lawyer.”
“True as gospel, every word of it. But it isn’t too late to mend. That’s an old proverb and a true one. It is quite in the line of possibility that I should get back to the position from which I fell.”
“Perhaps so, but I’m not very sanguine of it.”
“With your help nothing is impossible.”
“You must not count upon that,” said Stephen Ray stiffly. “It is a good while since we parted company. I don’t myself care to renew the acquaintance.”
“But I do,” rejoined Bolton with emphasis.
“I have very little time at my disposal,” said Ray, pulling out an elegant gold watch and consulting it.
“I think it may be well for you to spare me a little time,” went on Bolton quietly.
There was something in his tone that sounded like a threat, and Stephen Ray could not wholly conceal his uneasiness.
“Well,” he said, “I will give you ten minutes. Get through your business, whatever it is, as soon as possible.”
“Hadn’t you better send your son away?” suggested Bolton significantly.
“Why should I?”
But on second thoughts Mr. Ray concluded to act on the hint, and turning to Clarence he said: “Clarence, you might take another spin on your wheel.”
This did not suit Clarence at all. His curiosity had been excited by his father’s change of front toward the objectionable stranger, and he counted on finding out the reason for it.
“Why can’t I stay?” he grumbled.
“This man and I have a little private business together.”
He spoke firmly, and Clarence knew by his tone that further remonstrance would be unavailing, so with a dissatisfied look he left the room.
“Now, sir,” said Stephen Ray sharply, when his son had taken his departure. “I gave you ten minutes. You will need to be expeditious.”
“It will take more than ten minutes—what I have to say,” returned Bolton coolly. “I am rather tired of standing, so you will excuse me if I sit down.”
As he spoke he dropped into a comfortable chair three feet from his host.
“Confound his impudence!” thought Ray, much annoyed.
“I think we had better go indoors,” he said.
He did not care to be seen in an apparently friendly conversation with a man like Bolton.
“I think myself it may be better.”
He followed Ray into a room which the latter used as a library and office, and took care to select a comfortable seat.
“Really, Stephen Ray,” he remarked, glancing around him at the well-filled bookcases, the handsome pictures, and the luxurious furniture, “you are very nicely fixed here.”
“I suppose you didn’t come to tell me that,” responded Stephen Ray with a sneer.
“Well, not altogether, but it is as well to refer to it. I have known you a good many years. I remember when you first came here to visit your uncle in the character of a poor relation. I don’t believe you had a hundred dollars to your name.”
Such references grated upon the purse-proud aristocrat, who tried to persuade himself that he had always been as prosperous as at present.
“There is no occasion for your reminiscences,” he said stiffly.
“No, I suppose you don’t care to think of those days now. Your cousin, Dudley, a fine young man, was a year or two older. Who would have thought that the time would come when you—the poor cousin—would be reigning in his place?”
“If that is all you have to say, our interview may as well close.”
“It isn’t all I have to say. I must indulge in a few more reminiscences, though you dislike them. A few years passed. Dudley married against his father’s wishes; that is, his father did not approve of his selection, and he fell out of favor. As he lost favor you gained it.”
“That is true enough, but it is an old story.”
“Does it seem just that an own son should be disinherited and a stranger——”
“A near relative,” corrected Stephen Ray.
“Well, a near relative, but less near than an only son. Does it seem right that Dudley should have been disinherited and you put in his place?”
“Certainly. My cousin disobeyed his father.”
“So he was left in poverty.”
“I don’t see how that concerns you, Benjamin Bolton. My uncle had the right to dispose of his property as he pleased.”
“Probably Dudley Ray is living in poverty now.”
“You are mistaken. He is dead.”
“Indeed! Poor fellow! He was a generous and high-minded man.”
“Whatever he may have been, he offended his father, and suffered the consequences.”
“Too true!”
“But I fail to understand why you should have come to discuss this matter with me.”
“When did Dudley die?”
“I can’t be sure as to the year. I think it was about a year after his father’s death.”
“I presume that his father’s injustice helped to hasten his end.”
“I won’t permit any reflections upon my dear uncle and benefactor. He did what he liked with his own. He felt that the estate would be better in my hands than in Dudley’s.”
“Admitting for a moment that this was so, did your heart prompt you to bestow a part of the estate on your unfortunate cousin?”
“No; for I am sure my uncle would have disapproved of such action on my part.”
“Do you know if he suffered much from poverty?”
“No; I did not concern myself with that, nor need you.”
“I would like to comment on one of your statements. You say that your uncle had a right to dispose of his estate as he pleased.”
“Do you dispute it?”
“No; I agree with you. Stephen Ray, was his estate disposed of according to his wishes?”
Mr. Ray started, and his face became flushed.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean that he bequeathed the estate to his son, and you took possession of it.”
Bolton spoke slowly, and eyed Stephen Ray keenly.
“Are you mad?” gasped Stephen. “How could I do that? His will, devising the estate to me, was duly probated, and I entered upon my inheritance by due process of law.”
“I know such a will was probated.”
“Then what have you to say?” demanded Stephen Ray defiantly. “Do you mean to deny that the will was genuine?”
“No.”
“Because if you do, you can go to the probate office, and submit the will to any judge of my uncle’s handwriting.”
“There will be no occasion. I admit that the will was written by him.”
“What do you mean, then?” asked Stephen Ray, showing relief.
“I mean this—that it was not his last will and testament.”
“Where is a later one? Produce it if you can?” said Stephen Ray triumphantly.
“You say this fearlessly because you found a later will—and destroyed it.”
“It is a vile slander!”
“No; I will swear that such a will was made.”
“If it was destroyed, he destroyed it himself.”
“No, he did not. I am willing to swear that when he died that will was in existence.”
“I don’t think your swearing will do much good,” sneered Stephen Ray.
“Perhaps so, but one thing has not occurred to you.”
“What is that?”
“A duplicate of the last will was placed in my hands. That will exists to-day!”
Stephen Ray started violently.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Seeing is believing.”
“Then bring it here, and let me see it. However, there is one material circumstance that would make it of no value.”
“What is it?”
“My cousin Dudley is dead, and so is his son Ernest. There would be no one to profit by the production of the alleged will.”
Bolton was quite taken aback by this statement, as Stephen Ray perceived, and he plumed himself on the success of his falsehood.
“When did the boy die?” asked Bolton.
“About five years ago.”
“And where?”
“At Savannah,” answered Ray glibly.
“What should have taken him down there?”
“I am not positive, but I believe after his father’s death a Southern gentleman became interested in him and took him to Georgia, where the poor boy died.”
Bolton looked keenly at the face of his companion, and detected an expression of triumph about the eyes which led him to doubt the truth of his story. But he decided not to intimate his disbelief.
“That was sad,” he said.
“Yes, and as you will see, even had your story about the will been true, it would have made no difference in the disposal of the property.”
“Still the revelation of your complicity in the suppression of the last will would injure your reputation, Mr. Ray.”
“I can stand it,” answered Ray with assumed indifference. “You see, my dear fellow, you have brought your wares to the wrong market. Of course you are disappointed.”
“Yes, especially as I am dead broke.”
“No doubt.”
“And it prompts me to take my chances with the will in spite of the death of the rightful heirs.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“Lay the matter before a shrewd lawyer of my acquaintance.”
Stephen Ray looked uneasy. The lawyer might suggest doubts as to the truth of his story concerning Ernest’s decease.
“That would be very foolish,” he said.
“Would it? Then perhaps you can suggest a better course.”
“You are a man of education and have been a lawyer yourself. Get a place in the office of some attorney and earn an honest living.”
“You see how I am dressed. Who would employ me in this garb?”
“There is something in what you say. I feel for you, Bolton. Changed as you are, you were once a friend. I certainly haven’t any reason to feel friendly to you, especially as you came here with the intention of extorting money from me. But I can make allowance for you in your unfortunate plight, and am willing to do something for you. Bring me the document you say you possess, and I will give you fifty—no, a hundred dollars.”
Bolton eyed his prosperous companion with a cunning smile.
“No, Stephen Ray, I prefer to keep the will,” he replied, “though I can do nothing with it. Give me the money unconditionally, and if I get on my feet you will have nothing to fear from me.”