Carl seated himself behind a stone wall on the opposite side of the street from the factory. The building was on the outskirts of the village, though not more than half a mile from the post office, and there was very little travel in that direction during the evening. This made it more favorable for thieves, though up to the present time no burglarious attempt had been made on it. Indeed, Milford had been exceptionally fortunate in that respect. Neighboring towns had been visited, some of them several times, but Milford had escaped.
The night was quite dark, but not what is called pitchy dark. As the eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, they were able to see a considerable distance. So it was with Carl. From his place of concealment he occasionally raised his head and looked across the way to the factory. An hour passed, and he grew tired. It didn’t look as if the attempt were to be made that night. Eleven o’clock pealed out from the spire of the Baptist Church, a quarter of a mile away. Carl counted the strokes, and when the last died into silence, he said to himself:
“I will stay here about ten minutes longer. Then, if no one comes, I will give it up for tonight.”
The time was nearly up when his quick ear caught a low murmur of voices. Instantly he was on the alert. Waiting till the sound came nearer, he ventured to raise his head for an instant above the top of the wall.
His heart beat with excitement when he saw two figures approaching. Though it was so dark, he recognized them by their size and outlines. They were Julius Gibbon, the bookkeeper, and Phil Stark, the stranger staying at the hotel.
Carl watched closely, raising his head for a few seconds at a time above the wall, ready to lower it should either glance in his direction. But neither of the men did so. Ignorant that they were suspected, it was the farthest possible from their thoughts that anyone would be on the watch.
Presently they came so near that Carl could hear their voices.
“I wish it was over,” murmured Gibbon, nervously.
“Don’t worry,” said his companion. “There is no occasion for haste. Everybody in Milford is in bed and asleep, and we have several hours at our disposal.”
“You must remember that my reputation is at stake. This night’s work may undo me.”
“My friend, you can afford to take the chances. Haven’t I agreed to give you half the bonds?”
“I shall be suspected, and shall be obliged to stand my ground, while you will disappear from the scene.”
“Two thousand dollars will pay you for some inconvenience. I don’t see why you should be suspected. You will be supposed to be fast asleep on your virtuous couch, while some bad burglar is robbing your worthy employer. Of course you will be thunderstruck when in the morning the appalling discovery is made. I’ll tell you what will be a good dodge for you.”
“Well?”
“Offer a reward of a hundred dollars from your own purse for the discovery of the villain who has robbed the safe and abstracted the bonds.”
Phil Stark burst out into a loud guffaw as he uttered these words.
“Hush!” said Gibbon, timidly. “I thought I heard some one moving.”
“What a timid fool you are!” muttered Stark, contemptuously. “If I had no more pluck, I’d hire myself out to herd cows.”
“It’s a better business,” said Gibbon, bitterly.
“Well, well, each to his taste! If you lose your place as bookkeeper, you might offer your services to some farmer. As for me, the danger, though there isn’t much, is just enough to make it exciting.”
“I don’t care for any such excitement,” said Gibbon, dispiritedly. “Why couldn’t you have kept away and let me earn an honest living?”
“Because I must live as well as you, my dear friend. When this little affair is over, you will thank me for helping you to a good thing.”
Of course all this conversation did not take place within Carl’s hearing. While it was going on, the men had opened the office door and entered. Then, as Carl watched the window closely he saw a narrow gleam of light from a dark lantern illuminating the interior.
“Now they are at the safe,” thought Carl.
We, who are privileged, will enter the office and watch the proceedings.
Gibbon had no difficulty in opening the safe, for he was acquainted with the combination. Stark thrust in his hand eagerly and drew out the box.
“This is what we want,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction. “Have you a key that will open it?”
“No.”
“Then I shall have to take box and all.”
“Let us get through as soon as possible,” said Gibbon, uneasily.
“You can close the safe, if you want to. There is nothing else worth taking?”
“No.”
“Then we will evacuate the premises. Is there an old newspaper I can use to wrap up the box in? It might look suspicious if anyone should see it in our possession.”
“Yes, here is one.”
He handed a copy of a weekly paper to Phil Stark, who skillfully wrapped up the box, and placing it under his arm, went out of the office, leaving Gibbon to follow.
“Where will you carry it?” asked Gibbon.
“Somewhere out of sight where I can safely open it. I should have preferred to take the bonds, and leave the box in the safe. Then the bonds might not have been missed for a week or more.”
“That would have been better.”
That was the last that Carl heard. The two disappeared in the darkness, and Carl, raising himself from his place of concealment, stretched his cramped limbs and made the best of his way home. He thought no one would be up, but Mr. Jennings came out from the sitting-room, where he had flung himself on a lounge, and met Carl in the hall.
“Well?” he said.
“The safe has been robbed.”
“Who did it?” asked the manufacturer, quickly.
“The two we suspected.”
“Did you see Mr. Gibbon, then?”
“Yes; he was accompanied by Mr. Stark.”
“You saw them enter the factory?”
“Yes, sir; I was crouching behind the stone wall on the other side of the road.”
“How long were they inside?”
“Not over fifteen minutes—perhaps only ten.”
“Mr. Gibbon knew the combination,” said Jennings, quietly. “There was no occasion to lose time in breaking open the safe. There is some advantage in having a friend inside. Did you see them go out?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carrying the tin box with them?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Stark wrapped it in a newspaper after they got outside.”
“But you saw the tin box?”
“Yes.”
“Then, if necessary, you can testify to it. I thought it possible that Mr. Gibbon might have a key to open it.”
“I overheard Stark regretting that he could not open it so as to abstract the bonds and leave the box in the safe. In that case, he said, it might be some time before the robbery was discovered.”
“He will himself make an unpleasant discovery when he opens the box. I don’t think there is any call to pity him, do you, Carl?”
“No, sir. I should like to be within sight when he opens it.”
The manufacturer laughed quietly.
“Yes,” he said; “if I could see it I should feel repaid for the loss of the box. Let it be a lesson for you, my boy. Those who seek to enrich themselves by unlawful means are likely in the end to meet with disappointment.”
“Do you think I need the lesson?” asked Carl, smiling.
“No, my lad. I am sure you don’t. But you do need a good night’s rest. Let us go to bed at once, and get what sleep we may. I won’t allow the burglary to keep me awake.”
He laughed in high good humor, and Carl went up to his comfortable room, where he soon lost all remembrance of the exciting scene of which he had been a witness.
Mr. Jennings went to the factory at the usual time the next morning.
As he entered the office the bookkeeper approached him pale and excited.
“Mr. Jennings,” he said, hurriedly, “I have bad news for you.”
“What is it, Mr. Gibbon?”
“When I opened the safe this morning, I discovered that the tin box had been stolen.”
Mr. Jennings took the news quietly.
“Have you any suspicion who took it?” he asked.
“No, sir. I—I hope the loss is not a heavy one.”
“I do not care to make the extent of the loss public. Were there any marks of violence? Was the safe broken open?”
“No, sir.”
“Singular; is it not?”
“If you will allow me I will join in offering a reward for the discovery of the thief. I feel in a measure responsible.”
“I will think of your offer, Mr. Gibbon.”
“He suspects nothing,” thought Gibbon, with a sigh of relief.
Philip Stark went back to the hotel with the tin box under his arm. He would like to have entered the hotel without notice, but this was impossible, for the landlord’s nephew was just closing up. Though not late for the city, it was very late for the country, and he looked surprised when Stark came in.
“I am out late,” said Stark, with a smile.
“Yes.”
“That is, late for Milford. In the city I never go to bed before midnight.”
“Have you been out walking?”
“Yes.”
“You found it rather dark, did you not?”
“It is dark as a pocket.”
“You couldn’t have found the walk a very pleasant one.”
“You are right, my friend; but I didn’t walk for pleasure. The fact is, I am rather worried about a business matter. I have learned that I am threatened with a heavy loss—an unwise investment in the West—and I wanted time to think it over and decide how to act.”
“I see,” answered the clerk, respectfully, for Stark’s words led him to think that his guest was a man of wealth.
“I wish I was rich enough to be worried by such a cause,” he said, jokingly.
“I wish you were. Some time I may be able to throw something in your way.”
“Do you think it would pay me to go to the West?” asked the clerk, eagerly.
“I think it quite likely—if you know some one out in that section.”
“But I don’t know anyone.”
“You know me,” said Stark, significantly.
“Do you think you could help me to a place, Mr. Stark?”
“I think I could. A month from now write to me Col. Philip Stark, at Denver, Colorado, and I will see if I can find an opening for you.”
“You are very kind, Mr.—I mean Col. Stark,” said the clerk, gratefully.
“Oh, never mind about the title,” returned Stark, smiling good-naturedly. “I only gave it to you just now, because everybody in Denver knows me as a colonel, and I am afraid a letter otherwise addressed would not reach me. By the way, I am sorry that I shall probably have to leave you to-morrow.”
“So soon?”
“Yes; it’s this tiresome business. I should not wonder if I might lose ten thousand dollars through the folly of my agent. I shall probably have to go out to right things.”
“I couldn’t afford to lose ten thousand dollars,” said the young man, regarding the capitalist before him with deference.
“No, I expect not. At your age I wasn’t worth ten thousand cents. Now—but that’s neither here nor there. Give me a light, please, and I will go up to bed.”
“He was about to say how much he is worth now,” soliloquized the clerk. “I wish he had not stopped short. If I can’t be rich myself, I like to talk with a rich man. There’s hope for me, surely. He says that at my age he was not worth ten thousand cents. That is only a hundred dollars, and I am worth that. I must keep it to pay my expenses to Colorado, if he should send for me in a few weeks.”
The young man had noticed with some curiosity the rather oddly-shaped bundle which Stark carried under his arm, but could not see his way clear to asking any questions about it. It seemed queer that Stark should have it with him while walking. Come to think of it, he remembered seeing him go out in the early evening, and he was quite confident that at that time he had no bundle with him. However, he was influenced only by a spirit of idle curiosity. He had no idea that the bundle was of any importance or value. The next day he changed his opinion on that subject.
Phil Stark went up to his chamber, and setting the lamp on the bureau, first carefully locked the door, and then removed the paper from the tin box. He eyed it lovingly, and tried one by one the keys he had in his pocket, but none exactly fitted.
As he was experimenting he thought with a smile of the night clerk from whom he had just parted.
“Stark,” he soliloquized, addressing himself, “you are an old humbug. You have cleverly duped that unsophisticated young man downstairs. He looks upon you as a man of unbounded wealth, evidently, while, as a matter of fact, you are almost strapped. Let me see how much I have got left.”
He took out his wallet, and counted out seven dollars and thirty-eight cents.
“That can hardly be said to constitute wealth,” he reflected, “but it is all I have over and above the contents of this box. That makes all the difference. Gibbon is of opinion that there are four thousand dollars in bonds inside, and he expects me to give him half. Shall I do it? Not such a fool! I’ll give him fifteen hundred and keep the balance myself. That’ll pay him handsomely, and the rest will be a good nestegg for me. If Gibbon is only half shrewd he will pull the wool over the eyes of that midget of an employer, and retain his place and comfortable salary. There will be no evidence against him, and he can pose as an innocent man. Bah! what a lot of humbug there is in the world. Well, well, Stark, you have your share, no doubt. Otherwise how would you make a living? To-morrow I must clear out from Milford, and give it a wide berth in future. I suppose there will be a great hue-and-cry about the robbery of the safe. It will be just as well for me to be somewhere else. I have already given the clerk a good reason for my sudden departure. Confound it, it’s a great nuisance that I can’t open this box! I would like to know before I go to bed just how much boodle I have acquired. Then I can decide how much to give Gibbon. If I dared I’d keep the whole, but he might make trouble.”
Phil Stark, or Col. Philip Stark, as he had given his name, had a large supply of keys, but none of them seemed to fit the tin box.
“I am afraid I shall excite suspicion if I sit up any longer,” thought Stark. “I will go to bed and get up early in the morning. Then I may succeed better in opening this plaguy box.”
He removed his clothing and got into bed. The evening had been rather an exciting one, but the excitement was a pleasurable one, for he had succeeded in the plan which he and the bookkeeper had so ingeniously formed and carried out, and here within reach was the rich reward after which they had striven. Mr. Stark was not troubled with a conscience—that he had got rid of years ago—and he was filled with a comfortable consciousness of having retrieved his fortunes when they were on the wane. So, in a short time he fell asleep, and slept peacefully. Toward morning, however, he had a disquieting dream. It seemed to him that he awoke suddenly from slumber and saw Gibbon leaving the room with the tin box under his arm. He awoke really with beads of perspiration upon his brow—awoke to see by the sun streaming in at his window that the morning was well advanced, and the tin box was still safe.
“Thank Heaven, it was but a dream!” he murmured. “I must get up and try once more to open the box.”
The keys had all been tried, and had proved not to fit. Mr. Stark was equal to the emergency. He took from his pocket a button hook and bent it so as to make a pick, and after a little experimenting succeeded in turning the lock. He lifted the lid eagerly, and with distended eyes prepared to gloat upon the stolen bonds. But over his face there came a startling change. The ashy blue hue of disappointment succeeded the glowing, hopeful look. He snatched at one of the folded slips of paper and opened it. Alas! it was valueless, mere waste paper. He sank into a chair in a limp, hopeless posture, quite overwhelmed. Then he sprang up suddenly, and his expression changed to one of fury and menace.
“If Julius Gibbon has played this trick upon me,” he said, between his set teeth, “he shall repent it—bitterly!”
Philip Stark sat down to breakfast in a savage frame of mind. He wanted to be revenged upon Gibbon, whom he suspected of having deceived him by opening and appropriating the bonds, and then arranged to have him carry off the box filled with waste paper.
He sat at the table but five minutes, for he had little or no appetite.
From the breakfast room he went out on the piazza, and with corrugated brows smoked a cigar, but it failed to have the usual soothing effect.
If he had known the truth he would have left Milford without delay, but he was far from suspecting that the deception practiced upon him had been arranged by the man whom he wanted to rob. While there seemed little inducement for him to stay in Milford, he was determined to seek the bookkeeper, and ascertain whether, as he suspected, his confederate had in his possession the bonds which he had been scheming for. If so, he would compel him by threats to disgorge the larger portion, and then leave town at once.
But the problem was, how to see him. He felt that it would be venturesome to go round to the factory, as by this time the loss might have been discovered. If only the box had been left, the discovery might be deferred. Then a bright idea occurred to him. He must get the box out of his own possession, as its discovery would compromise him. Why could he not arrange to leave it somewhere on the premises of his confederate?
He resolved upon the instant to carry out the idea. He went up to his room, wrapped the tin box in a paper, and walked round to the house of the bookkeeper. The coast seemed to be clear, as he supposed it would be. He slipped into the yard, and swiftly entered an outhouse. There was a large wooden chest, or box, which had once been used to store grain. Stark lifted the cover, dropped the box inside, and then, with a feeling of relief, walked out of the yard. But he had been observed. Mrs. Gibbon chanced to be looking out of a side window and saw him. She recognized him as the stranger who had been in the habit of spending recent evenings with her husband.
“What can he want here at this time?” she asked herself.
She deliberated whether she should go to the door and speak to Stark, but decided not to do so.
“He will call at the door if he has anything to say,” she reflected.
Phil Stark walked on till he reached the factory. He felt that he must see Julius Gibbon, and satisfy himself as to the meaning of the mysterious substitution of waste paper for bonds.
When he reached a point where he could see into the office, he caught the eye of Leonard, who was sitting at the window. He beckoned for him to come out, and Leonard was glad to do so.
“Where are you going?” asked the bookkeeper, observing the boy’s movement.
“Mr. Stark is just across the street, and he beckoned for me.”
Julius Gibbon flushed painfully, and he trembled with nervous agitation, for he feared something had happened.
“Very well, go out, but don’t stay long.”
Leonard crossed the street and walked up to Stark, who awaited him, looking grim and stern.
“Your uncle is inside?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell him I wish to see him at once—on business of importance.”
“He’s busy,” said Leonard. “‘He doesn’t leave the office in business hours.”
“Tell him I must see him—do you hear? He’ll come fast enough.”
“I wonder what it’s all about,” thought Leonard, whose curiosity was naturally excited.
“Wait a minute!” said Stark, as he turned to go. “Is Jennings in?”
“No, sir, he has gone over to the next town.”
“Probably the box has not been missed, then,” thought Stark. “So much the better! I can find out how matters stand, and then leave town.”
“Very well!” he said, aloud, “let your uncle understand that I must see him.”
Leonard carried in the message. Gibbon made no objection, but took his hat and went out, leaving Leonard in charge of the office.
“Well, what is it?” he asked, hurriedly, as he reached Stark. “Is—is the box all right?”
“Look here, Gibbon,” said Stark, harshly, “have you been playing any of your infernal tricks upon me?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” responded Gibbon, bewildered.
Stark eyed him sharply, but the bookkeeper was evidently sincere.
“Is there anything wrong?” continued the latter.
“Do you mean to tell me you didn’t know that wretched box was filled with waste paper?”
“You don’t mean it?” exclaimed Gibbon, in dismay.
“Yes, I do. I didn’t open it till this morning, and in place of government bonds, I found only folded slips of newspaper.”
By this time Gibbon was suspicious. Having no confidence in Stark, it occurred to him that it was a ruse to deprive him of his share of the bonds.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You want to keep all the bonds for yourself, and cheat me out of my share.”
“I wish to Heaven you were right. If there had been any bonds, I would have acted on the square. But somebody had removed them, and substituted paper. I suspected you.”
“I am ready to swear that this has happened without my knowledge,” said Gibbon, earnestly.
“How, then, could it have occurred?” asked Stark.
“I don’t know, upon my honor. Where is the box?”
“I—have disposed of it.”
“You should have waited and opened it before me.”
“I asked you if you had a key that would open it. I wanted to open it last evening in the office.”
“True.”
“You will see after a while that I was acting on the square. You can open it for yourself at your leisure.”
“How can I? I don’t know where it is.”
“Then I can enlighten you,” said Stark, maliciously. “When you go home, you will find it in a chest in your woodshed.”
Gibbon turned pale.
“You don’t mean to say you have carried it to my house?” he exclaimed, in dismay.
“Yes, I do. I had no further use for it, and thought you had the best claim to it.”
“But, good heavens! if it is found there I shall be suspected.”
“Very probably,” answered Stark, coolly. “Take my advice and put it out of the way.”
“How could you be so inconsiderate?”
“Because I suspected you of playing me a trick.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t.”
“Then somebody has tricked both of us. Has Mr. Jennings discovered the disappearance of the box?”
“Yes, I told him.”
“When?”
“When he came to the office.”
“What did he say?”
“He took the matter coolly. He didn’t say much.”
“Where is he?”
“Gone to Winchester on business.”
“Look here! Do you think he suspects you?”
“I am quite sure not. That is why I told him about the robbery.”
“He might suspect me.”
“He said nothing about suspecting anybody.”
“Do you think he removed the bonds and substituted paper?”
“I don’t think so.”
“If this were the case we should both be in a serious plight. I think I had better get out of town. You will have to lend me ten dollars.”
“I don’t see how I can, Stark.”
“You must!” said Stark, sternly, “or I will reveal the whole thing. Remember, the box is on your premises.”
“Heavens! what a quandary I am in,” said the bookkeeper, miserably. “That must be attended to at once. Why couldn’t you put it anywhere else?”
“I told you that I wanted to be revenged upon you.”
“I wish you had never come to Milford,” groaned the bookkeeper.
“I wish I hadn’t myself, as things have turned out.”
They prepared to start for Gibbon’s house, when Mr. Jennings drove up. With him were two tall muscular men, whom Stark and Gibbon eyed uneasily. The two strangers jumped out of the carriage and advanced toward the two confederates.
“Arrest those men!” said Jennings, in a quiet tone. “I charge them with opening and robbing my safe last night about eleven o’clock.”
Phil Stark made an effort to get away, but the officer was too quick for him. In a trice he was handcuffed.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” demanded Stark, boldly.
“I have already explained,” said the manufacturer, quietly.
“You are quite on the wrong tack,” continued Stark, brazenly. “Mr. Gibbon was just informing me that the safe had been opened and robbed. It is the first I knew of it.”
Julius Gibbon seemed quite prostrated by his arrest. He felt it necessary to say something, and followed the lead of his companion.
“You will bear me witness, Mr. Jennings,” he said, “that I was the first to inform you of the robbery. If I had really committed the burglary, I should have taken care to escape during the night.”
“I should be glad to believe in your innocence,” rejoined the manufacturer, “but I know more about this matter than you suppose.”
“I won’t answer for Mr. Gibbon,” said Stark, who cared nothing for his confederate, if he could contrive to effect his own escape. “Of course he had opportunities, as bookkeeper, which an outsider could not have.”
Gibbon eyed his companion in crime distrustfully. He saw that Stark was intending to throw him over.
“I am entirely willing to have my room at the hotel searched,” continued Stark, gathering confidence. “If you find any traces of the stolen property there, you are welcome to make the most of them. I have no doubt Mr. Gibbon will make you the same offer in regard to his house.”
Gibbon saw at once the trap which had been so craftily prepared for him. He knew that any search of his premises would result in the discovery of the tin box, and had no doubt that Stark would be ready to testify to any falsehood likely to fasten the guilt upon him. His anger was roused and he forgot his prudence.
“You—scoundrel!” he hissed between his closed teeth.
“You seem excited,” sneered Stark. “Is it possible that you object to the search?”
“If the missing box is found on my premises,” said Gibbon, in a white heat, “it is because you have concealed it there.”
Phil Stark shrugged his shoulders.
“I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that settles it. I am afraid Mr Gibbon is guilty. I shall be glad to assist you to recover the stolen property. Did the box contain much that was of value?”
“I must caution you both against saying anything that will compromise you,” said one of the officers.
“I have nothing to conceal,” went on Stark, brazenly. “I am obliged to believe that this man committed the burglary. It is against me that I have been his companion for the last week or two, but I used to know him, and that will account for it.”
The unhappy bookkeeper saw the coils closing around him.
“I hope you will see your way to release me,” said Stark, addressing himself to Mr. Jennings. “I have just received information that my poor mother is lying dangerously sick in Cleveland, and I am anxious to start for her bedside to-day.”
“Why did you come round here this morning?” asked Mr. Jennings.
“To ask Mr. Gibbon to repay me ten dollars which he borrowed of me the other day,” returned Stark, glibly.
“You—liar!” exclaimed Gibbon, angrily.
“I am prepared for this man’s abuse,” said Stark. “I don’t mind admitting now that a few days since he invited me to join him in the robbery of the safe. I threatened to inform you of his plan, and he promised to give it up. I supposed he had done so, but it is clear to me now that he carried out his infamous scheme.”
Mr. Jennings looked amused. He admired Stark’s brazen effrontery.
“What have you to say to this charge, Mr. Gibbon?” he asked.
“Only this, sir, that I was concerned in the burglary.”
“He admits it!” said Stark, triumphantly.
“But this man forced me to it. He threatened to write you some particulars of my past history which would probably have lost me my position if I did not agree to join him in the conspiracy. I was weak, and yielded. Now he is ready to betray me to save himself.”
“Mr. Jennings,” said Stark, coldly, “you will know what importance to attach to the story of a self-confessed burglar. Gibbon, I hope you will see the error of your ways, and restore to your worthy employer the box of valuable property which you stole from his safe.”
“This is insufferable!” cried the bookkeeper “You are a double-dyed traitor, Phil Stark. You were not only my accomplice, but you instigated the crime.”
“You will find it hard to prove this,” sneered Stark. “Mr. Jennings, I demand my liberty. If you have any humanity you will not keep me from the bedside of my dying mother.” “I admire your audacity, Mr. Stark,” observed the manufacturer, quietly. “Don’t suppose for a moment that I give the least credit to your statements.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbon. “I’m ready to accept the consequences of my act, but I don’t want that scoundrel and traitor to go free.”
“You can’t prove anything against me,” said Stark, doggedly, “unless you accept the word of a self-confessed burglar, who is angry with me because I would not join him.”
“All these protestations it would be better for you to keep till your trial begins, Mr. Stark,” said the manufacturer. “However, I think it only fair to tell you that I am better informed about you and your conspiracy than you imagine. Will you tell me where you were at eleven o’clock last evening?”
“I was in my room at the hotel—no, I was taking a walk. I had received news of my mother’s illness, and I was so much disturbed and grieved that I could not remain indoors.”
“You were seen to enter the office of this factory with Mr. Gibbon, and after ten minutes came out with the tin box under your arm.”
“Who saw me?” demanded Stark, uneasily.
Carl Crawford came forward and answered this question.
“I did!” he said.
“A likely story! You were in bed and asleep.”
“You are mistaken. I was on watch behind the stone wall just opposite. If you want proof, I can repeat some of the conversation that passed between you and Mr. Gibbon.”
Without waiting for the request, Carl rehearsed some of the talk already recorded in a previous chapter.
Phil Stark began to see that things were getting serious for him, but he was game to the last.
“I deny it,” he said, in a loud voice.
“Do you also deny it, Mr. Gibbon?” asked Mr. Jennings.
“No, sir; I admit it,” replied Gibbon, with a triumphant glance at his foiled confederate.
“This is a conspiracy against an innocent man,” said Stark, scowling. “You want to screen your bookkeeper, if possible. No one has ever before charged me with crime.”
“Then how does it happen, Mr. Stark, that you were confined at the Joliet penitentiary for a term of years?”
“Did he tell you this?” snarled Stark, pointing to Gibbon.
“No.”
“Who then?”
“A customer of mine from Chicago. He saw you at the hotel, and informed Carl last evening of your character. Carl, of course, brought the news to me. It was in consequence of this information that I myself removed the bonds from the box, early in the evening, and substituted strips of paper. Your enterprise, therefore, would have availed you little even if you had succeeded in getting off scot-free.”
“I see the game is up,” said Stark, throwing off the mask. “It’s true that I have been in the Joliet penitentiary. It was there that I became acquainted with your bookkeeper,” he added, maliciously. “Let him deny it if he dare.”
“I shall not deny it. It is true,” said Gibbon. “But I had resolved to live an honest life in future, and would have done so if this man had not pressed me into crime by his threats.”
“I believe you, Mr. Gibbon,” said the manufacturer, gently, “and I will see that this is counted in your favor. And now, gentlemen, I think there is no occasion for further delay.”
The two men were carried to the lockup and in due time were tried. Stark was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, Gibbon to five. At the end of two years, at the intercession of Mr. Jennings, he was pardoned, and furnished with money enough to go to Australia, where, his past character unknown, he was able to make an honest living, and gain a creditable position.
Twelve months passed without any special incident. With Carl it was a period of steady and intelligent labor and progress. He had excellent mechanical talent, and made remarkable advancement. He was not content with attention to his own work, but was a careful observer of the work of others, so that in one year he learned as much of the business as most boys would have done in three.
When the year was up, Mr. Jennings detained him after supper.
“Do you remember what anniversary this is, Carl?” he asked, pleasantly.
“Yes, sir; it is the anniversary of my going into the factory.”
“Exactly. How are you satisfied with the year and its work?”
“I have been contented and happy, Mr. Jennings; and I feel that I owe my happiness and content to you.”
Mr. Jennings looked pleased.
“I am glad you say so,” he said, “but it is only fair to add that your own industry and intelligence have much to do with the satisfactory results of the year.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The superintendent tells me that outside of your own work you have a general knowledge of the business which would make you a valuable assistant to himself in case he needed one.”
Carl’s face glowed with pleasure.
“I believe in being thorough,” he said, “and I am interested in every department of the business.”
“Before you went into the factory you had not done any work.”
“No, sir; I had attended school.”
“It was not a bad preparation for business, but in some cases it gives a boy disinclination for manual labor.”
“Yes; I wouldn’t care to work with my hands all my life.”
“I don’t blame you for that. You have qualified yourself for something better. How much do I pay you?”
“I began on two dollars a week and my board. At the end of six months you kindly advanced me to four dollars.”
“I dare say you have found it none too much for your wants.”
Carl smiled.
“I have saved forty dollars out of it,” he answered.
Mr. Jennings looked pleased.
“You have done admirably,” he said, warmly. “Forty dollars is not a large sum, but in laying it by you have formed a habit that will be of great service to you in after years. I propose to raise you to ten dollars a week.”
“But, sir, shall I earn so much? You are very kind, but I am afraid you will be a loser by your liberality.”
Mr. Jennings smiled.
“You are partly right,” he said. “Your services at present are hardly worth the sum I have agreed to pay, that is, in the factory, but I shall probably impose upon you other duties of an important nature soon.”
“If you do, sir, I will endeavor to meet your expectations.”
“How would you like to take a journey Carl?”
“Very much, sir.”
“I think of sending you—to Chicago.”
Carl, who had thought perhaps of a fifty-mile trip, looked amazed, but his delight was equal to his surprise. He had always wished to see the West, though Chicago can hardly be called a Western city now, since between it and the Pacific there is a broad belt of land two thousand miles in extent.
“Do you think I am competent?” he asked, modestly.
“I cannot say positively, but I think so,” answered Mr. Jennings.
“Then I shall be delighted to go. Will it be very soon?”
“Yes, very soon. I shall want you to start next Monday.”
“I will be ready, sir.”
“And I may as well explain what are to be your duties. I am, as you know, manufacturing a special line of chairs which I am desirous of introducing to the trade. I shall give you the names of men in my line in Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland and Chicago, and it will be your duty to call upon them, explain the merits of the chair, and solicit orders. In other words, you will be a traveling salesman or drummer. I shall pay your traveling expenses, ten dollars a week, and, if your orders exceed a certain limit, I shall give you a commission on the surplus.”
“Suppose I don’t reach that limit?”
“I shall at all events feel that you have done your best. I will instruct you a little in your duties between now and the time of your departure. I should myself like to go in your stead, but I am needed here. There are, of course, others in my employ, older than yourself, whom I might send, but I have an idea that you will prove to be a good salesman.”
“I will try to be, sir.”
On Monday morning Carl left Milford, reached New York in two hours and a half and, in accordance with the directions of Mr. Jennings, engaged passage and a stateroom on one of the palatial night lines of Hudson River steamers to Albany. The boat was well filled with passengers, and a few persons were unable to procure staterooms.
Carl, however, applied in time, and obtained an excellent room. He deposited his gripsack therein, and then took a seat on deck, meaning to enjoy as long as possible the delightful scenery for which the Hudson is celebrated. It was his first long journey, and for this reason Carl enjoyed it all the more. He could not but contrast his present position and prospects with those of a year ago, when, helpless and penniless, he left an unhappy home to make his own way.
“What a delightful evening!” said a voice at his side.
Turning, Carl saw sitting by him a young man of about thirty, dressed in somewhat pretentious style and wearing eyeglasses. He was tall and thin, and had sandy side whiskers.
“Yes, it is a beautiful evening,” replied Carl, politely.
“And the scenery is quite charming. Have you ever been all the way up the river?”
“No, but I hope some day to take a day trip.”
“Just so. I am not sure but I prefer the Rhine, with its romantic castles and vineclad hills.”
“Have you visited Europe, then?” asked Carl.
“Oh, yes, several times. I have a passion for traveling. Our family is wealthy, and I have been able to go where I pleased.”
“That must be very pleasant.”
“It is. My name is Stuyvesant—one of the old Dutch families.”
Carl was not so much impressed, perhaps, as he should have been by this announcement, for he knew very little of fashionable life in New York.
“You don’t look like a Dutchman,” he said, smiling.
“I suppose you expected a figure like a beer keg,” rejoined Stuyvesant, laughing. “Some of my forefathers may have answered that description, but I am not built that way. Are you traveling far?”
“I may go as far as Chicago.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you have friends in Chicago?”
“Not that I am aware of. I am traveling on business.”
“Indeed; you are rather young for a business man.”
“I am sixteen.”
“Well, that cannot exactly be called venerable.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“By the way, did you succeed in getting a stateroom?”
“Yes, I have a very good one.”
“You’re in luck, on my word. I was just too late. The man ahead of me took the last room.”
“You can get a berth, I suppose.”
“But that is so common. Really, I should not know how to travel without a stateroom. Have you anyone with you?”
“No.”
“If you will take me in I will pay the entire expense.”
Carl hesitated. He preferred to be alone, but he was of an obliging disposition, and he knew that there were two berths in the stateroom.
“If it will be an accommodation,” he said, “I will let you occupy the room with me, Mr. Stuyvesant.”
“Will you, indeed! I shall esteem it a very great favor. Where is your room?”
“I will show you.”
Carl led the way to No. 17, followed by his new acquaintance. Mr. Stuyvesant seemed very much pleased, and insisted on paying for the room at once. Carl accepted half the regular charges, and so the bargain was made.
At ten o’clock the two travelers retired to bed. Carl was tired and went to sleep at once. He slept through the night. When he awoke in the morning the boat was in dock. He heard voices in the cabin, and the noise of the transfer of baggage and freight to the wharf.
“I have overslept myself,” he said, and jumped up, hurriedly. He looked into the upper berth, but his roommate was gone. Something else was gone, too—his valise, and a wallet which he had carried in the pocket of his trousers.