As the carriage rolled away Al and the cabman stood and stared at each other. Then the latter burst into a loud laugh.
"Well, sir," he said, "this is the funniest job I have had for many a long day."
Al failed to appreciate the humor of the situation.
"It does not strike me as being particularly funny," he said.
"It doesn't?"
"Decidedly not. Why did you lose sight of the other cab?"
"Why, you explained that yourself just now. The two carriages looked just alike; I believe they were the same."
"No, they were not. The man I saw looking from the window of the carriage that passed the Grand Central Depot was not the man we have just been talking to."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. You followed the wrong carriage; that is all there is to it."
"Well," admitted the cabby, "I think you are right. Where shall I take you now?"
"Nowhere; I'll walk. How much do I owe you?"
"Ten dollars," was the calm reply.
"Ten what?" demanded Al.
"Dollars."
"Ten dollars for driving me that short distance?"
"Do you call that a short distance?"
"Yes; I could have walked it in a good deal less than half an hour."
"Why didn't you, then?"
"I——"
"Now, see here," interrupted the cabman, with a threatening air, as he put his face in very close proximity to Al's, "I don't want no muss with you. See? But I get that ten dollars. Do you think I'm driving this here thing for fun? Not on your life!"
This was Al's first experience with one of the class known in New York as "night-hawks," and for a moment he hesitated. Imagining that he had gained an advantage, the man added:
"Now, look lively! I've got something else to do besides standing here chinning with you."
"Yes," said the boy, quietly, "you have. On second thoughts, I'll keep your cab a little longer. Drive me to the nearest police station."
The man stared at him, then asked, rather uneasily:
"What for?"
"So that I can find out just what I ought to pay you. It won't take either of us long to get the information."
The night-hawk saw that he had, for once, met his match.
"See here, young gent," he said, "I don't want no trouble with you."
"If there is any trouble, you will bring it on yourself," responded the boy.
"I've got no time to waste. Give me a V and I'll call it square."
"I'll give you nothing of the sort."
"What will you pay, then?"
"Two dollars is quite enough."
"Make it three, boss."
"I can't do it," said Al, who saw that he had by luck hit upon about the right price. "Will you take two, or will you go with me to the nearest police station and let them settle the matter there?"
"Give me the two," said the man, sullenly. "I'll take it, but I'm losing money on the job. If I'd stayed up at the station I might have picked up——"
"You might have picked up a bigger greenhorn than you did," added Al. "Well, I'll wish you good-morning."
He was about to turn away when a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice exclaimed:
"Well, this is luck. I didn't expect to find you as easy as all this."
"Oh, it's you, is it?" cried Al, recognizing the friendly brakeman who had loaned him the money. "I'm mighty glad I ran across you."
"You are, eh?" sneered the man.
Al looked at him in surprise.
"Yes, I was going to hunt you up."
"Oh, you were?"
"Of course I was. I wanted to explain to you why I left you so suddenly. You must have thought——"
"I thought the truth—that I had been made the victim of a swindler. I made up my mind that I would hunt you up, but I didn't expect to find you quite so soon; that was blind luck."
"See here," said Al, his anger rising, "you are going a little too far. I was, and am, much obliged to you for lending me that money, but I——"
"Lending nothing," interrupted the cabman, who had been a silent listener to the conversation. "Why, the young villain has just been telling me how he euchered a brakeman up at the Grand Central out of a wad."
"It is a lie!" burst from the lips of the indignant boy, and he advanced toward the treacherous fellow with clinched fists.
But the cabman retreated and leaped upon his box.
"If I didn't have my cab here," he said, as he gathered up the reins, "I'd teach you to call me a liar. Boss"—to the brakeman—"you're in luck to find the young rascal so easy. Don't let him off; I know him well, and, in spite of his innocent looks, he is one of the toughest youngsters in the city."
With these words the rascal whipped up his horses and started up the avenue at as rapid a pace as his steeds were capable of.
"Do you believe that fellow's story?" demanded Al, looking his companion squarely in the eyes.
"You can bet I do," was the prompt reply.
"You think I am a thief?"
"Haven't I pretty good proof of it?"
"I——"
"Now, see here, young fellow," interrupted the indignant brakeman, "I am not going to sit up till daylight to discuss this matter with you. You can talk it over with the judge later. You buncoed me in a very neat manner; I admit you did the job well, but luck happened to be on my side, and the game is lost for you. But see here; just to avoid trouble, if you hand me back my ten dollars, I'll let you off."
"I'll give you all I have left of it," said Al; "and some day I'll prove to you that I am not——"
"That's all right," interrupted the uncompromising brakeman. "I don't care what you are; all I want is my ten dollars, not what you have left, but just what I gave you."
"I have just paid that cabman two dollars," said Al, "and all I can give you is eight. I am very sorry I accepted the loan at all."
"You ain't as sorry as I am," sneered the brakeman. "But, see here, I'm not going to fool any more time away with you. I've had a hard day, and I've got to start in again at eleven o'clock. To save myself trouble, I have offered to let you off if you would give me my money back. If you won't, you will go with me to the station house, where I shall make a formal complaint against you. Now, what do you say?"
Before Al could reply a man suddenly turned the corner of Eleventh Street.
As he approached, the boy grasped his companion's arm.
"Now," he said, "I'll prove to you that you have made a mistake."
"How?"
"Do you see this man coming?"
The brakeman looked, then started.
"It's your pal!" he exclaimed, recognizing the individual who had been introduced to the reader as the "Rev. David Ferguson."
"He's no more my pal than you are," said Al. "Just keep your eyes and ears open, and I'll convince you on that point, at any rate."
The alleged reverend gentleman was approaching rather slowly. His eyes were on the pavement. He was smiling; evidently his thoughts were of an agreeable nature.
He did not observe Al and his companion until he was within a few feet of them; then the boy suddenly stepped forward, saying:
"Good-morning, Mr. Ferguson."
The reverend gentleman started; a decidedly uneasy expression appeared upon his face.
"I don't know you, young gentleman," he said.
"Oh, you can't have forgotten me, Mr. Ferguson," said Al. "My name is Allston; don't you remember the interesting conversation we had on the train this morning?"
"Ahem! I think I do recognize you now."
"I thought you would. Isn't this rather early for you to be out, Mr. Ferguson?"
"I have not yet returned to my home; I have been on an errand of mercy. And now I must ask you to excuse me, for I am greatly fatigued."
"Wait a minute."
"Well, what is it?"
"I suppose you have often heard it said that justice and mercy ought to go hand in hand."
"It is a very true saying, my lad."
"Well, you say you have just been on an errand of mercy; suppose you now perform an act of justice."
"What do you mean?" demanded Mr. Ferguson, uneasily.
"I guess you know. I mean that I want you to hand back the money and jewelry that you stole from me."
"Do you mean to insult me, or are you mad?" almostshouted the alleged clergyman. "Do you dare accuse me, me, David Ferguson, of theft?"
"That's about the size of it," replied Al, coolly. "And, remember, I know now that your name is no more David Ferguson than mine is."
"Do you dare——" began the fellow.
"That'll do," interrupted Al. "Bluff will not work with me. Are you going to return my property?"
He had not uttered the last word when "Mr. Ferguson" abruptly turned on his heel and started to run.
He did not go far, however. Out went Al's foot, and the next moment the adventurer lay sprawling on the pavement. He was helped to his feet by Al and the brakeman, who both kept a tight hold on him.
The sanctimonious expression had entirely vanished from the fellow's face, which now wore a look of rage and fear.
The transformation was wonderful; he did not seem the same man.
"Well," he said, "what are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to hand you over to the police in short order if you don't return my property."
"If I give it all back," demanded the man, "will you agree not to make any charge against me?"
"Don't agree to anything of the sort," interrupted the belligerent brakeman.
But Al said:
"I ought not to do it, but I have no time to attendto the case, so, if you hand back what you took from me you can go."
"Mr. Ferguson" fished the roll of bills from his pocket and handed it to Al, who carefully counted it.
"Now, the watch and ring," he said.
The "crook" produced the timepiece and gave it to its owner.
"I can't return the ring," he whined.
"Why can't you?"
"I've pawned it."
"Give me the ticket, then."
"I can't do that, either."
"How is that?"
"I've lost it."
"Well," said Al, "that's unlucky—for you. Now, see here, my reverend friend, I have no more time to waste. If your story is true, you'll come along with me to the police station. If it is a lie, which I believe, you had better hand over that ring in quick time."
"I——"
"I advise you to hurry, for here comes a policeman, and if the ring is not on my finger by the time he gets here, I shall hand you over to him as sure as I am standing here."
The "crook" hesitated no longer.
"Here you are, then," he said.
As he spoke, he thrust the ring into Al's hand.
"Now," he asked, in a voice that trembled with nervousness, "may I get out?"
"Skip," responded Al, laconically.
In less than ten seconds the fellow had disappeared from view.
The brakeman extended his hand to his companion.
"I have wronged you," he said.
"That's what I told you," replied Al, quietly, "but you wouldn't take my word for it."
"I hope you'll accept my apology."
"Of course I will; and you must accept your money back."
And the boy handed his companion a ten-dollar bill.
"I hope you don't feel hard toward me?" persisted the man.
"Not at all," Al responded, readily. "You were very kind to offer me the money at the depot. I was a perfect stranger to you."
"But I sized you up as a square lad."
"It didn't take you long to change your mind, though."
"You must admit that I had some reason to change it."
"I do admit it. Appearances were very much against me, and if I had been in your place I should, very likely, have thought just what you did."
"Nevertheless, I'm sorry I was so hasty. Now, see here, young fellow, I've taken a liking to you—honest, I have. I'd like to help you. Now, I have an idea that you are in some sort of trouble."
"You are not far out of the way there," admitted the boy.
"Of course, it's none of my business, and I'm not oneof the sort that cares much about other people's affairs; but—but what is your trouble? I only ask, thinking that I may be able to help you in some way."
Al hesitated, then said:
"I need help badly enough, but I don't see what you could do. However, I will tell you why I am in New York."
In a few words he told the story of his sister's abduction. When he explained why he had left the depot so suddenly his companion interrupted him.
"Why," he cried, excitedly, "I saw the cab that you wanted to follow! I can tell you just where you can find its driver, too."
"You can?"
"Yes. As it happens, he is an old friend of mine, and there isn't much that he won't do for me. He drives for a stable up on Fifth Avenue, but he ought to be home by this time. I can get a good deal more information out of him than they would give you if you went up to the stables. Do you want to go round to his house with me now and see if he is in?"
"Is it far from here?"
"Not ten minutes' walk."
"Let us go, then. But, perhaps, we ought to go to a police station first."
"We shall pass one on our way there. Come on; I'll bet that you won't be sorry you met me."
Within five minutes Al had given a description of hissister to the police, and an alarm was about to be sent out when he left the station.
"Now, to see my friend, Tim Story," said the brakeman, "who, if I am not mistaken, will be able to give us as much information in five minutes as the police will gain in twenty-four hours."
Tim Story's home proved to be a floor in a West-Side tenement. The cabman had just returned home, and did not seem to be in a very communicative mood. But in a few minutes Al's new friend had obtained information from him that gave the boy a new hope.
"We have found her!" he exclaimed. "How can I thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet," was the reply. "Remember the old saying, 'There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' You have a dangerous job ahead of you, my boy."
Among the passengers that arrived at the Grand Central Depot by a train which reached the city about three hours before Al Allston's arrival, were a trio who attracted some attention from their fellow passengers; attention that was evidently unwelcome and annoying to at least two of the three.
There were two women and a man. One of the women, slight and heavily veiled, was supported, almost carried, by her companions. She seemed to be very ill.
As she was lifted from the car, one of the passengers, an elderly gentleman, overheard her say:
"Where am I? Where are you taking me?"
The gentleman stepped forward and asked:
"Can I be of any assistance? The lady seems to be sick."
His voice and manner showed very plainly that he suspected there was something wrong, but the two persons he addressed either did not notice this, or willfully ignored it.
"You are very kind, sir," responded the male member of the party of which the apparent invalid was one. "The lady is ill, and we are anxious to get her to her home as soon as possible. Would you be kind enough to calla carriage for us? I would not ask this of a stranger had you not so kindly proffered your assistance."
"I will do so with pleasure," replied the gentleman, evidently a little surprised at the manner in which his offer was received. "But may I ask what is the matter with the lady?"
The man he addressed tapped his forehead significantly.
"Brain disease?" questioned the gentleman.
"Yes. Brought on by overwork at school. Poor girl! But we have hope that in a few weeks she will be herself again."
"It is very sad."
"Very; and now, sir, if you will kindly call the carriage for me, I shall be greatly indebted to you."
"Certainly, sir."
As the gentleman hurried away, the woman whom we have mentioned as the third member of the party, a tall, showy-looking brunette, said:
"What's your game, Jack? Why did you send that old fellow for a carriage?"
"It was the easiest way to get rid of him," was the reply. "Didn't you see that he was very suspicious?"
"Of course."
"The way in which I accepted his offer took him off his guard, and, perhaps, saved us some trouble."
"Hush! here he comes."
"I see him. Don't say a word. Leave all to me."
"I have found a very good coach for you," announcedthe old gentleman, hurrying toward them. "Come this way, please."
Murmuring his thanks, Jack Farley, whom the reader has, perhaps, ere this, recognized, hurried toward the entrance, supporting the alleged invalid, who was now moaning piteously.
A few moments later the three were ensconced in the carriage.
"Where shall I tell the driver to go?" asked the gentleman.
Farley gave an address.
As the carriage started, Miss Hollingsworth asked:
"Why did you give that address?"
"You didn't suppose I was going to give the right one, did you?" said Farley, petulantly. "When we are out of sight of the depot I'll tell the driver where to go."
As soon as the coach had turned a corner he leaned out of the window and called out:
"Driver, I've changed my mind."
"Well, sir?"
"Take us to this address."
And he handed the man a card.
"You think of everything," said Miss Hollingsworth.
"I have to."
"I was afraid that we were going to have some trouble with that old man."
"So was I at first, but it turned out all right. I tell you, Olga, it takes a smart one to get the better of Jack Farley."
Miss Hollingsworth gave a peculiar laugh.
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Farley. "What have you got in your head now?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Yes, you have. What is the matter with you, anyway? Your whole manner to-night has been unnatural and peculiar."
"That is only your imagination."
"It is not. Olga, you are not thinking of rounding on me, are you?"
"Of course not. What an idea!"
"Because if you are, I warn you not to try it; if you do, I'll make you wish you had never been born."
"Why should I round on you, as you put it? Are not our interests one? Am I not helping you in this affair? Am I not unquestioningly obeying you in everything? Jack, you are nervous and excited."
"Well, I guess that's so. What I need is a bottle of fizz; and, as soon as I get the girl to your flat, I'll go down to Billy's and get it."
"Don't do that," said Miss Hollingsworth, uneasily.
"Why not?"
"It is too late."
"It's only a little after twelve o'clock."
"But you will stay there gambling and drinking until morning, and I do not want to be left alone with this girl."
"I shan't stay more than an hour or so; as for the girl,give her another dose of the stuff, and she'll be quiet enough."
At this moment the carriage halted in front of a tall apartment house on a fashionable thoroughfare within a stone's throw of Fifth Avenue.
Farley alighted first, carrying the unconscious girl, and was followed by Miss Hollingsworth.
"Wait for me, driver," he ordered. "I shall need you again in a few minutes."
"All right, sir."
Ten minutes later Farley emerged from the house.
"Do you know Billy Rawlins' place?" he asked the cabman.
It was a notorious gambling house, and the man knew it well, as did most of his fraternity.
"Take me there, and wait for me."
Twenty minutes later the resort of vice was reached. Farley entered, and did not emerge for more than an hour. When, at last, he did come out, his face was flushed with wine, and wore a look of disgust and anger.
"That's the last time I'll ever set foot in that place," he said, addressing the sleepy driver. "I believe I've been hoodooed by some one. I never have any luck in Billy's nowadays, anyway."
"Luck against you to-night, sir?" asked the cabman, sympathetically.
"I should say luck was against me. I went in there with two hundred dollars, and all I have got left now is only a little more than enough to pay you."
"Hard luck," commented the man, evidently relieved by the latter part of the sentence.
"Home," ordered Farley, leaping into the carriage.
As the vehicle passed the Grand Central Depot he happened to look out; it was at the precise moment when Al Alston handed the brakeman the pencil.
"That boy here!" muttered Farley. "Well, he hasn't lost any time. I believe he is my evil genius. Somehow or other the sight of him sends a cold chill over me. I wonder if he saw me? I hope not. Pshaw! Why should I bother my head about the kid? I'll try to dismiss him from my mind for to-night."
The task did not prove an easy one, however, though Farley stopped at two saloons on the way; when the carriage reached its destination his mind was still busy with the boy he hated.
Having paid the driver with almost the last cent he possessed, he entered the house and ascended to the second story.
Unlocking a door at the head of the stairs, he entered a plainly furnished flat.
Miss Hollingsworth met him at the door. There was something in her face that he did not like, as she said:
"Back at last, are you?"
Farley stared at her, scowling savagely, as he said:
"What's the matter? Got one of your cranky fits? If so, you had best not worry me, for I'm in no mood for nonsense."
"Neither am I," was the quiet reply. "But I am going to talk a little solid sense to you."
"I won't listen to you. I'm tired, and want to sleep."
"You will sleep soon, and soundly. Come into the drawing room."
Farley followed her, asking:
"How is the girl?"
"Asleep, under the influence of another dose of the drug."
"Good! Well, what have you to say?"
And he threw himself into a chair.
"I shall not detain you long. I see by your manner that you have lost again to-night."
"Nearly every cent I had with me."
"As usual."
"I shall never enter Billy's place again."
"No, I don't think you will."
"What do you mean?" demanded Farley, uneasily. "I don't understand you to-night, Olga."
"Don't you? Well, I will try to make myself understood."
"Go on, then, and be quick about it. I'm dead tired."
"I have stood by you for five years, have I not, Jack Farley?" demanded the woman, fixing her large, dark eyes firmly on those of her companion.
"Well, what of that?" growled the man. "It has been to your interest to do so, hasn't it? Have you ever had a decent engagement that I have not obtained for you? And haven't I stuck to you, too? See here, Olga, I am in no mood for recriminations this morning, and you may as well quit just where you are. I see you are going to have one of your tantrums; well, you can have it all by yourself."
Farley rose to leave the room, but his companion placed herself between him and the door.
"Wait," she said, in a strange, hard tone.
"What's the matter with you to-night?" demanded Farley. "Have you gone crazy?"
"Perhaps. At any rate, I will compel you to listen to me."
"You will compel me?" sneered the man. "And how do you propose to do that?"
"Do you see this?"
And Miss Hollingsworth opened her hand, revealing a small cylindrical object.
"What is it?" asked Farley, curiously.
"Dynamite."
The man recoiled.
"You're joking, Olga."
"I am not. There is enough of the explosive here to tear this house to pieces."
"Where did you get it? What are you going to do with it?"
"Never mind where I got it. As for what I am going to do with it, that you will learn very soon. Now, Jack Farley, will you listen to me?"
"Yes, yes; but give me that stuff, Olga."
"Sit down."
Farley obeyed, with a very pale face.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
"We are going to have a settlement at last. You no longer love me, Jack Farley."
"Nonsense, Olga. You know——"
"I know that I am speaking the truth. You have thought me merely the creature of your will; I have let you think so, I have borne your indignities patiently——"
"What indignities?" interrupted Farley. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Was it not an indignity to almost force me to assist you in abducting my rival?"
"Your rival! Nonsense!"
"This girl has supplanted me in your affections."
"This is folly. I only did what I have to revenge myself on that kid, Allston, the girl's brother."
"It is a lie, and I know it. But all will soon be over now."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say, Jack Farley."
"What are you going to do?"
"Explode this dynamite, and end all at once. Jack, in two minutes you, she and I will be in eternity!"
"Are you stark, staring mad? Give me that stuff!"
The woman laughed wildly.
"No, the hour has come!" she cried.
She lifted the cylinder above her head, with the evident intention of hurling it to the hard wood floor.
But at that instant her arm was seized and the dynamite forced from her hand.
"You have saved at least twenty lives!" gasped Farley, sinking, pale and trembling, into a chair.
"Where is my sister?" demanded Al Allston—for the newcomer was he—paying no attention to his enemy's words.
"She shall be restored to you," said Farley, who was thoroughly sobered by the shock.
"She shall not," cried the woman. "She shall not leave this house alive!"
It was plain to Al that Miss Hollingsworth was mentally deranged, and not wholly responsible for her conduct and words.
"Where is she?" he repeated.
"She is asleep in yonder room," said Farley, pointing to a door at the farther end of the drawing room. "Take her with you and go."
The plotter seemed entirely unnerved; he was ready tosurrender at once and without protest all that for which he had schemed so long.
The boy advanced toward the apartment designated. Miss Hollingsworth made no attempt to detain him as he passed her; but there was a strange, meaning smile on her face, the significance of which our hero did not comprehend.
He entered the adjoining room. His sister lay upon the bed, fully dressed and apparently asleep. He was about to lift her in his arms when there came from the other room a strange, wild peal of laughter. It was immediately followed by a terrific explosion.
Al was thrown to the floor, half stunned by the shock.
In a few moments he had risen. The wall separating the two rooms was partially destroyed; the drawing room was in flames, there was no possibility of escape in that direction.
The boy rushed to the window and threw it open.
An exclamation burst from his lips; there was a fire escape outside.
He lifted the still unconscious girl in his arms, and a moment later he had begun the perilous descent of the frail iron ladder.
It was made in safety; in a few moments Al had deposited the girl in a carriage which had been in waiting for him.
By this time, early as was the hour, the street was thronged with people, attracted by the terrific explosion.
The upper part of the house was in flames, the fireescape was now crowded, and the half-dressed tenants of the building were rushing out, panic-stricken, from the various exits.
Al was fortunate enough to attract but little attention; five minutes later he and his sister were in a place of safety.
His sudden appearance on the scene may be briefly explained.
The hack driver, Tim Story, had given him the card which he had received from Farley, and Al had lost no time in going to the address given.
In their excitement Farley and his companion had left the outer door of their flat unfastened, and the boy had been able to effect an entrance without difficulty. As had happened more than once before in his life, his natural energy and push had been supplemented by good luck.
A physician, whom Al at once summoned, gave it as his opinion that Gladys was under the influence of an opiate, but that in all probability there was no danger of serious results from the adventure.
It was nearly ten o'clock that morning when the girl awoke from her stupor; and, to Al's intense relief, she seemed none the worse for her experience.
All she could remember of the events of the previous night was that she had been forced to enter the carriage at the stage door of the Rockton Theater, and that as soon as she was inside the vehicle a handkerchief saturated with some drug—chloroform, she believed—had been pressed to her nostrils. Then she lost all consciousness of her surroundings.
She had no recollection whatever of the journey to New York, or of any of the subsequent events.
The afternoon papers contained exciting accounts of the explosion. Al had unreservedly given the police all the facts in the case; and in the hands of the reporters the story lost nothing.
The building had been saved from total destruction by the efforts of the firemen, and it was known that no lives had been lost, except those of Miss Hollingsworth and Jack Farley; it seemed certain that they must have perished. It was found that the former had premeditated her horrible crime, and had prepared for emergencies; she had, on the previous day, supplied herself with no less than half a dozen of the dynamite cylinders, so that theloss of the one which Al had taken from her was no obstacle to the accomplishment of her plan.
Once more Al was the hero of the hour. When he rejoined Mr. Wattles, two days after the events we have just related, he was met at the station by a crowd of citizens, who unhitched the horses from the carriage that was in waiting for him and his sister, and insisted upon dragging the vehicle to the hotel, much to the embarrassment of the two young people.
Al suspected Mr. Wattles to be the instigator of this proceeding, and accused him of having incited the populace to behave as they had.
"What is the matter with you?" the old gentleman asked. "Such a tribute of admiration would turn the head of almost anyone, but you kick about it."
"Didn't you work up the demonstration?" persisted Al.
"Suppose I did?"
"Well, don't do it again."
"I shan't have to. I've set the ball rolling, and the chances are that something of the sort will happen at every town we visit during the next two weeks."
Al groaned.
"I believe I'll throw up the job," he said, half in jest, and half in earnest.
"Well, I believe you won't," said the manager, very much in earnest. "You're just the sort of agent I want. Why, you can't help having adventures and getting into the papers."
"That sort of thing won't last forever."
"I suppose not; but, when you cease to be a popular hero, I think I can trust to your good judgment and business ability to manage things. Throw up the job! I should say not! I couldn't get along without you. And, besides, if you left me, your sister would go, too."
"That need not necessarily follow."
"She would go; and I tell you I could not get along without her, either."
Mr. Wattles always spoke of Miss March with an awkward, embarrassed air that puzzled Al.
"But, of course," he continued, hastily, "you do not mean what you said. Remember, you promised me——"
"I never went back on my word yet," interrupted Al, "and I shall not now. But I wish these public demonstrations would cease. They seem to me ridiculous, and they annoy me a good deal more than you seem to think."
"Well, you are the queerest press agent I ever struck," said the manager. "However, I guess you won't be much bothered—after to-night."
"Eh?" cried Al. "After to-night? What do you mean by that? What is to be done to-night?"
"Oh, nothing in particular. I ought not to have mentioned it."
"Yes, you ought. Come, out with it!"
"Well, I suppose I may as well. The fact is, the citizens of this place have decided to——"
"Not another speech-making affair at the theater?" interrupted the boy, in horrified accents.
"Well," blurted out Mr. Wattles, "that's just it."
"I shan't be here. You know I've got to go ahead to the next town this afternoon."
"Oh, no, you haven't," smiled the old gentleman. "The fact is, the sale is so big that I have felt justified in canceling the next two towns, and we are to stay here the remainder of the week. There's no getting out of it, my boy; the thing has got to come off, and this time you will have to make a speech."
At first Al would not hear of this, and declared that he would start for home. But he at last allowed his companion's eloquence to overcome his objections, and agreed to remain.
How he dreaded the ordeal no one but he ever knew, but he made up his mind that, as he put it to himself, he would "see the thing through." He prepared a brief speech, which he memorized, and which he hoped to be able to deliver without breaking down.
Evening came only too soon, and Al, arrayed in a new dress suit, awaited the inevitable call for his appearance. Everything had been "cut and dried," and he knew that there was no escape.
At the end of the first act of the play there arose a shout, "Allston! Allston!"
"Go on, my boy," said Mr. Wattles, who, with his protégé stood upon the stage, just behind the curtain. "What are you trembling for? This ought to be the proudest moment of your life."
With these words he fairly pushed the boy before the audience.
Then arose a whirlwind of applause. When it had subsided, Al tried to begin his speech. But to his utter consternation, he found that he had forgotten every word of it.
But he was not, after all, obliged to deliver it. As he stood, trying to remember at least one word of the carefully prepared effort, a man suddenly advanced from the rear of one of the proscenium boxes, leveled a pistol at the boy's head and fired.
The bullet whistled past Al's ear, but did not graze it. The next moment the would-be assassin was struggling in the hands of the other occupants of the box. He managed to free himself; then came another report, and the next moment Jack Farley lay dead on the floor of the box, a suicide.
How he had escaped from the doom with which he had been threatened on the previous night, how he had succeeded in entering the theater without attracting attention, will never be known.
Al's speech was forgotten in the excitement, and he was not obliged to make it, after all.
In a few weeks Al ceased to be a popular idol, but he was daily learning new "points" and becoming more and more valuable to his employer; he was already recognized as one of the brightest advance agents on the road.
One morning, about two months after the tragedy that we have just recorded, his sister came to him and said:
"Al, I have a favor to ask of you. Will you grant it?"
"I promise in advance," was the prompt reply.
"Then congratulate me."
"On what?"
"I am going to be married."
"Married!" gasped the boy. "To whom?"
"To Mr. Wattles."
"You're joking."
"Indeed, I am not!"
"Why, he is forty years your senior."
"He is a good, true man, and I love him; that's enough for me."
"Then it is enough for me, too, sister," was Al's quick reply, "and I do heartily congratulate you."
We need add but a few words. The marriage proved a most happy one, and Mrs. Wattles—whose real name we should give, if we were permitted—is now one of the most popular actresses and most estimable ladies on the American stage.
Al is now no longer an advance agent, but a manager. He is rapidly making a fortune; and, what is better, has earned a reputation for integrity and uprightness second to that of none in his business.