CHAPTER XVI.WHAT BECAME OF THE STOLEN NOTE.
Among the attentive listeners at Bert's trial was a tall young man with light hair and pallid complexion, upon whose thin face there played a shrewd smile. He seemed unusually interested, as was indeed the case, for he strongly suspected that he knew who was the actual purloiner of the stolen twenty-dollar bill. It is hardly necessary to say that the young man was Percy's friend, Reginald Ward.
When the landlord gave his testimony, he was no longer in doubt, for he had himself noticed the letters I. W. on the back of the bank-bill.
As he left the court-room, he saw Percy lingering near the door.
"Come with me, Percy," he said, linking his arm with that of the boy. "I have something to say to you."
"I have an engagement," pleaded Percy, trying to release himself. "I will call round this afternoon."
"I can't wait till afternoon," said Reginald decidedly. "I must speak to you now on a matter of importance."
"How did the trial come out?"
"The boy was acquitted."
"I thought he would be."
"Why?" asked Reginald Ward, eyeing Percy curiously.
"Because I don't think he would steal."
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"No; he is only a working boy."
"Still you think he is honest?"
"Oh, yes."
"How then do you account for the bill's being stolen?"
Percy shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't feel sure that any bill was stolen," he said. "I don't think much of old Jones. I dare say he made up the story."
"That is hardly likely. What object could he have?"
"He wanted to get hold of Bert Barton's bill. Where did Bert get it from? Did he say?"
"He said it was left in an envelope by some old uncle of his."
"Uncle Jacob?"
"Yes; I think that was the name."
"I didn't think the old man had so much money to spare."
"You seem to know him then?"
"I have heard of him."
By this time they had reached the hotel, and Reginald asked Percy to come up to his room.
"What was it you wanted to speak to me about?" asked Percy, as he took a seat at the window.
"I wanted to tell you that the stolen bill came from Mr. Holbrook. Mr. Jones testified to this effect, and Mr. Holbrook also."
"Well, what of that?"
"Mr. Holbrook described the bill and stated that the letters I. W. were written in red ink on the reverse side."
Percy began to see the point, and waited anxiously for Reginald to continue.
Ward drew from his pocket the twenty-dollar bill, and held it up to open view.
"This is the bill you paid me last evening," he said. "You will observe the letters I. W. as described by the landlord. Now, where did you get this bill?" he asked searchingly.
Drops of perspiration stood on Percy's forehead, and he hesitated to reply. Finally an inspiration came to him, and he said, "I picked it up in the street, near the grocery store. The thief must have dropped it."
"You didn't tell me that when you paid it to me."
"No, I didn't think it necessary. I was anxious to get out of debt to you."
"Percy Marlowe, that statement of yours won't pass muster. Weren't you in the grocery store last evening?"
"No—yes," stammered Percy.
"And you saw this bill on Mr. Jones's desk—yes or no?"
"I don't see what right you have to question me," said Percy sullenly.
"Because you have paid me stolen money, and if I keep it I am likely to get into trouble. Indeed, I came very near it this morning. I was on the point of paying it to Mr. Holbrook for my board. You can imagine that he would have recognized it at once."
"I don't see as you are to blame."
"No, I am not; but if the bill were known to be in my possession, the only thing I could do would be to state from whom I received it."
"You wouldn't do that!" said Percy, in alarm.
"I should have to. But I don't mean to run the risk. I will give you back the bill, and you must return me the ten dollars I gave you in change."
"But what can I do with the bill?"
"That is your lookout. Of course you will still owe me ten dollars."
Reluctantly Percy drew out the ten dollars he had received in change, not having yet spent any of it, and Reginald Ward gave him back the unlucky bill. Percy thrust it quickly into his vest pocket.
"Now, Percy," said Reginald, "let me advise you as a friend to get that bill out of your possession as soon as possible. If it is traced to you, you will get into hot water."
"I can't pass it here."
"You have no right to pass it anywhere."
"You could pass it in New York."
Reginald Ward considered a moment, but shook his head. "No, it would be too dangerous," he said. "It might be traced to me, and it would be known that I have been in Lakeville. I should have to expose you to screen myself."
"Then what would you advise me to do?"
"Get it back to Mr. Jones in some way. Here, take an envelope, inclose the bill, and mark the grocer's name on it. Then drop it somewhere, and the thing will be done; Jones will be happy and you will be safe."
"All right!"
Percy followed Reginald's advice, and then put the letter in his pocket.
"When are you going back to New York?" he asked.
"To-morrow. I will leave you my address, and hope you will have the honesty to pay me what you owe me as soon as possible."
"Yes, I will, but I am afraid that won't be soon."
"You ought to make an effort to pay me."
"It isn't as if I really owed it to you. It is money I have lost at cards."
"If you are a boy of honor," said Reginald impressively, "you will feel that such debts ought to be paid above all others."
"Why should they?" asked Percy, and there will be many others who will be disposed to echo the question. "Why should gambling debts take precedence of honest obligations?" It is not necessary to repeat Reginald's explanation, as it was shallow and sophistical.
Two hours later Sam Doyle, a young Irish boy, espied, under a bush by the roadside, what seemed to be a letter. He picked it up, and, though his education was by no means extensive, he made out the name of Mr. Jones.
"Shure Mr. Jones must have dropped it out of his pocket," he said. "I'll carry it to him."
He entered the store, and attracted the attention of the grocer, who was behind thecounter, and in a bad humor, smarting still from his loss of twenty dollars.
"Clear out, you Sam Doyle!" he said, "unless you want to buy something. I don't want any boys loafing round my store."
"Is this your envelope, Mr. Jones?" asked Sam, producing the envelope.
"Give it to me."
Mr. Jones read his name on the envelope in some wonder and tore it open. What was his amazement and delight when he saw the lost bill!
"Where did you get this, Sam?" he asked.
"I found it under a bush by the side of the road, near the blacksmith's shop."
"When?"
"Shure it wasn't more'n five minutes."
"Do you know what was in the envelope?"
"No."
"You are sure no one gave you the letter to hand to me?" said the grocer, with a searching glance.
"Shure, I found it."
"Well, I'm glad to get it. You are a good boy to bring it to me. Here's ten cents."
Sam took the money, as much surprised as pleased, for the grocer was considered, and justly, a very mean man.
"Thank you, Mr. Jones," he said.
"You are sure that Bert Barton didn't give you the letter?"
"Yes, sir. I haven't seen Bert since mornin'."
"Did you see any other boy near?"
"Yes, sir, I saw Percy Marlowe."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Yes, sir; he asked me what I'd got in my hand."
"What did you say?"
"I showed him the letter."
"Did he say anything to you then?"
"He told me it was for you, and he said I'd better take it right over to your store."
"He gave you good advice. Wait a minute, and I'll do up a pound of sugar and send it to your mother as a present."
"What's come to the old man?" thought Sam. "Shure he's gettin' generous in his old age!"
"I wish I knew who took that bill," thought the grocer meditatively. "However I've got it back, and that's the main thing."
When Percy dropped the envelope, he remained near at hand, and seeing Sam pick it up, instructed him to carry it to the grocer. He then breathed a sigh of relief, and felt that he was lucky to get out of a bad scrape so safely.
CHAPTER XVII.AFTER THE TRIAL.
"Mr. Conway," said Bert, as they walked home together from the trial, "I am very grateful to you for getting me out of my trouble. If you will let me know your fee, I will pay it."
"My dear boy," rejoined the young lawyer, "this is my vacation, and I only took up your case to keep my hand in."
"You are very kind, and I shall always remember it."
"Lawyers are not always mercenary, though they have that reputation with some. I should like, by the way, to find out who did steal the bill."
"So should I. I have no idea for my part."
"If you ever find out, let me know. I go back to New York to-morrow, and am glad to leave the memory of a professional triumph behind me."
"What is your address, Mr. Conway?"
"No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 15. Here is my card. When you come to New York, call and see me."
"I shall do so, though it may be some timein the future. Do you think I could get anything to do in New York?"
"Yes; but perhaps not enough to pay your expenses."
"I find the same trouble here."
"You have been at work in the shoe factory, I believe."
"Yes; but I have been discharged. My place has been taken by a machine."
"That is unfortunate. Is there no other opening in Lakeville?"
"I have not found any yet."
"I will keep your case in mind, and if I hear of anything I will let you know."
When Squire Marlowe returned home from the trial, his wife inquired with interest, "How did the case come out?"
"The boy was acquitted," answered her husband shortly.
"Acquitted! Why, you thought it was a close case."
"So I did, but it came out on the trial that there were two twenty-dollar bills, and the one which the Barton boy presented was left for him by Uncle Jacob."
"By that old man? Why, I thought he was poor."
"So he is—worth only five hundred dollars,and he is making ducks and drakes of that as fast as he can."
"And then he will fall back on you?"
"I suppose so."
"Then I hope you will let him go to the poor house," said Mrs. Marlowe with energy.
"I shall. I have no pity for a man who throws away his money."
Percy came home to dinner in lively spirits. He was free from anxiety, and felt that he had been remarkably fortunate.
"Were you at the trial, Percy?" asked his mother.
"No, ma."
"I thought you would be interested in seeing that boy on trial."
"I was sorry for him, and didn't want to be present."
"Sorry for him?"
"Yes; I felt sure he had not taken the money."
"Seems to me this is a new streak, Percy," said the squire. "I thought you didn't like Bert Barton."
"I am not intimate with him, for he is only a working boy; but all the same I don't want him convicted when he is innocent."
"It is a mystery to me who could havetaken the other twenty-dollar bill," said the squire. "Can you think of anybody?"
"No; how should I?" returned Percy, nearly swallowing a spoonful of soup the wrong way.
"There are so few people in the village, that it must be some one we know."
"Perhaps old Jones didn't lose any money, after all."
"There is no doubt on that point. The stolen bill has been returned to him in an envelope by Sam Doyle."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Percy, counterfeiting surprise. "Why, it must be the same envelope Sam showed me."
"He showed you the envelope?"
"Yes; he picked it up by the roadside. It was directed in pencil to Mr. Jones. So that contained the stolen bill?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps it was taken in joke."
"A poor joke! No; the thief got alarmed, and took that way of returning it. I suggested to Jones that the handwriting on the envelope might furnish a clew to the thief."
"What did he say?" asked Percy, alarmed.
"He said he should do nothing about it, now that he had the money back."
"I guess he's right," said Percy, relieved.
In the afternoon Bert met Percy in the street. He advanced cordially.
"Well, Percy, I got free, after all."
"Yes, I am glad of it."
"I feel grateful to you for believing in my innocence."
"It's all right," said Percy, in a patronizing tone. "Even if you are a working boy, I was sure you wouldn't steal."
Bert's feelings cooled a little. Somehow Percy's manner kept him aloof.
"Yes, I am a working boy," he replied, "or at any rate I would like to be, but I don't find it easy to get work."
"Just so! If I hear of anything I will let you know. Good-morning!"
"I don't know what to make of Percy," thought Bert, perplexed. "He was as kind as he could be this morning, and now he is offish. At any rate, he didn't believe me guilty, and I won't forget that in a hurry."
Two more weeks passed, and Bert still found himself unable to find employment. Berries had become so plenty that he was unable to sell any, and only picked some for consumption at home. The sum of money which had been received from Uncle Jacob gradually dwindled, and Bert became alarmed. What would they do when it was all gone? He hadno doubt that Uncle Jacob would give them further assistance, if appealed to, but both he and his mother felt that it would be an imposition on the old man, with his limited fund of money, to ask anything more of him.
"I don't want any more of Uncle Jacob's money, mother," said Bert; "but I should like to ask him if he could find me a place in New York."
"I couldn't bear to have you leave me, Bert."
"But I must take work wherever I can find it."
So Bert with his mother's permission, wrote to Uncle Jacob, informing him of his discharge from the factory, and his desire to obtain work elsewhere. This letter reached Jacob Marlowe, and led to his writing as follows to the squire:
Nephew Albert:I hear by a letter from Lakeville that you have discharged Bert Barton from your employment, and that he cannot secure any other kind of work. I am surprised that you should treat Mary's boy in this manner, considering the relationship that exists between you. I appeal to your better nature to reinstate him in his old place. I can assure you that youwill have no cause to regret it. I have steady work here, and am quite well satisfied with my position and prospects.Jacob Marlowe.
Nephew Albert:
I hear by a letter from Lakeville that you have discharged Bert Barton from your employment, and that he cannot secure any other kind of work. I am surprised that you should treat Mary's boy in this manner, considering the relationship that exists between you. I appeal to your better nature to reinstate him in his old place. I can assure you that youwill have no cause to regret it. I have steady work here, and am quite well satisfied with my position and prospects.
Jacob Marlowe.
"The stupid old meddler!" ejaculated the squire, throwing the letter from him in impatience. "I suppose the Barton boy has been writing to him. He evidently considers it my duty to support all my poor relations, himself included. I will undeceive him on that point." He drew writing materials toward him and wrote as follows:
Uncle Jacob:I have received your letter asking me to reinstate the Barton boy in his old place. This is a business matter, and I don't permit any interference with my business. I may add that, even if he is a poor relation, I do not feel called upon to support all my needy relations. I am glad you have obtained a situation in which you can make an honest living. I hope you will keep it, and won't squander the small sum of money you have in reserve.Yours, etc.,Albert Marlowe.
Uncle Jacob:
I have received your letter asking me to reinstate the Barton boy in his old place. This is a business matter, and I don't permit any interference with my business. I may add that, even if he is a poor relation, I do not feel called upon to support all my needy relations. I am glad you have obtained a situation in which you can make an honest living. I hope you will keep it, and won't squander the small sum of money you have in reserve.
Yours, etc.,
Albert Marlowe.
When Uncle Jacob read this letter, he smiled.
"It is what I expected," he said to himself. "Albert Marlowe is thoroughly selfish, and so, I think, are his wife and son. I must find some other way of helping Bert."
The day succeeding the receipt of Uncle Jacob's letter, the squire met Bert in the post-office.
"Have you been writing to Jacob Marlowe?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose you asked him to urge me to take you back into the factory?"
"No, sir."
"At any rate, he has done so; but I allow no one to interfere in my business affairs. You hear, do you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then remember it!" and Squire Marlowe turned his back rudely upon Bert.
"Here is a letter for you, Bert!" said the postmaster.
Bert opened the letter in some surprise, and read it with interest and excitement.
CHAPTER XVIII.BERT OBTAINS WORK.
To begin with, the letter, which Bert so unexpectedly received, contained a ten-dollar bill.
"It must be from Uncle Jacob!" he thought. He turned to the next page, and looked for the signature. It was, as he anticipated, Jacob Marlowe. It was brief, as will be seen from the copy given below:
My Dear Nephew:I am sorry to hear that you have lost your place in the factory. I think Albert Marlowe might at any rate have retainedyou, knowing how much you and your mother needed your weekly wages. I have written to him, asking him to take you back into the shop, but I do not suppose he will. It is more to test him than anything else that I have made the request. But, at any rate, we will give him a chance to deal considerately. Next week, Thursday, if you should not have found work, come up to the city and seek me at the office where I am employed, No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 19, and I may have it in my power to employ you in an important matter. Bring all your clothes with you, but take only money enough to get to the city, leaving the balance with your mother. Give my love to her, and tell her to keep up good courage.Your affectionate uncle,Jacob Marlowe.
My Dear Nephew:
I am sorry to hear that you have lost your place in the factory. I think Albert Marlowe might at any rate have retainedyou, knowing how much you and your mother needed your weekly wages. I have written to him, asking him to take you back into the shop, but I do not suppose he will. It is more to test him than anything else that I have made the request. But, at any rate, we will give him a chance to deal considerately. Next week, Thursday, if you should not have found work, come up to the city and seek me at the office where I am employed, No. 111 Nassau Street, Room 19, and I may have it in my power to employ you in an important matter. Bring all your clothes with you, but take only money enough to get to the city, leaving the balance with your mother. Give my love to her, and tell her to keep up good courage.
Your affectionate uncle,
Jacob Marlowe.
"I am to go to New York!" thought Bert joyfully. "Perhaps Uncle Jacob will find me a place there. I shall enjoy that ever so much. Let me see, I am to go next week, Thursday, and it is now Saturday. I wish the time had come!"
Of course, Bert carried the letter home and showed it to his mother.
"How kind Uncle Jacob is!" she murmured. "But I am afraid he is too generous. He is a poor man. He cannot afford to be giving us money all the time."
"He is earning a good salary, you know, mother."
"Only twelve dollars a week, Bert."
"But that is a good deal. If I were earning twelve dollars a week I should feel rich."
"It doesn't go very far in a large and expensive city like New York."
"I could save half of it, if I had it. Would you mind much, mother, if I should take a place in New York?"
"It would be terribly lonely for me, Bert," sighed Mrs. Barton.
"But you would not oppose it?"
"Not if your Uncle Jacob thought it best. He seems to be our only friend just now."
"Yes; I don't know what we should have done without him."
On Monday morning, considerably to his surprise, Bert received an offer of employment.
About a mile from his mother's cottage lived Silas Wilson, an old farmer about sixty years of age, who had the reputation of being one of the meanest men in Lakeville. Even his horses and cows had a hungry look, and it was easy to see that they were not pampered or injured by over-feeding. This was the man who stopped his farm wagon in front of Mrs. Barton's dwelling, and spoke to Bert, who was just coming out of the front door.
"Here, you, Bert Barton!"
"Good-morning, Mr. Wilson," replied Bert.
"Squire Marlowe tells me you are out of a job."
"Yes, sir."
"And I've been thinkin' I could give you work on my farm."
Bert was not overjoyed at this announcement, but he felt that he ought to take into consideration any offer that might be made to him.
"Would you expect me to board at your house?" he asked.
"Sartin! All my boys board with me."
"How much wages would you be willing to pay?"
"Fifty cents a week and board. I calculate that would be about right."
"Fifty cents a week and board?" repeated Bert, by no means dazzled by the tempting offer.
"Yes. What do you say?"
"I shouldn't be willing to work for that."
"You wouldn't, hey? What did you get in the shoe shop?"
"Four dollars a week."
"Board's worth that, so I give you what's equal to four dollars and a half."
Bert had heard something of the kind of board supplied by the farmer, and he was hardly prepared to rate it so high.
"It wouldn't be worth that to me," he said. "I would rather work for three dollars and a half in cash, and board at home."
"I've got to have my boy in the house," said Silas Wilson decidedly. "Come, now, what do you say?"
He regarded Bert with some anxiety, for he had been suddenly left in the lurch by a hired man who had received a better offer elsewhere, and hardly knew where to turn for assistance.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Bert. "I've got to go to New York on Thursday on business, but I'll come and work for you tillWednesday night for half a dollar and my board."
"I'll give you thirty-five cents," replied the farmer cautiously.
Bert shook his head.
"Forty, then, and that's high pay for a half grown boy."
"I'm more than half grown," returned Bert. "It's no use, Mr. Wilson, I won't take less than fifty cents."
"Then jump on the wagon. It's a big price to pay, but I'm in a hole, and won't stop to dicker."
"I will go and tell my mother first."
"Well, hurry up, for part of the day is gone already."
"I don't believe you'll like it, Bert," said Mrs. Barton.
"Nor I, but I made up my mind to accept the first offer I got, and I shall feel better satisfied if I keep my word. I'll come round this evening, after work, and tell you how I like it as far as I've got."
Bert seated himself in the wagon next to the farmer.
"Be you the boy that Jones charged with stealin'?" asked Silas.
"Yes, sir."
"You didn't do it?" asked Silas, in some apprehension.
"No, of course not!" answered Bert, indignantly. "Didn't you know I was acquitted, and that it was shown that there were two twenty-dollar bills?"
"It's wicked to steal," observed the farmer, apparently a little anxious still.
"Of course it is."
"One of the boys that worked for me stole some money from a chest-of-drawers in my chamber. You see Mis' Wilson and me sleep in a bedroom on the first floor openin' out of the settin' room."
"Did the boy take much?" asked Bert, in some curiosity.
"Yes; he took a twenty-five cent piece," answered Silas Wilson, soberly.
Bert wanted to laugh, but controlled his facial muscles, though he eyed his companion with a queer look.
"That was a good deal of money," he said, soberly.
"Yes, it was."
"How did you find him out—the boy, I mean?"
"He spent the money at Jones's store."
"What did he buy with it?"
"He bought some doughnuts."
"Did he board with you?" asked Bert significantly.
"Yes, he did."
"Then," thought Bert, "I don't wonder much that he was tempted."
"I've got fifty cents in my pocket," he said aloud, producing the coin. "I show it to you, so that if you hear of my spending money you needn't think I took it from you."
Silas Wilson eyed the half-dollar with a covetous look, which the sight of money always brought to his face.
"Hadn't you better give it to me to keep for you?"
"No, thank you; I am very careful. I shall not lose it."
"Boys ginerally are keerless. They are apt to lose money."
"I don't believe you ever lose money, Mr. Wilson."
"Not since I was a boy. I lost two cents once, but it was a lesson to me, and I've never lost a copper since."
By this time they had reached the farm-house. The farmer drove into the barn and put up the horse.
"Now we'll go to work," he said.
The work which awaited Bert was in the cornfield. He was set to hoeing, and kept it up for three hours, along with the farmer in the adjoining row. Noon came, and Silas, pausing in his work, said: "I calculate Mis' Wilson will have dinner ready. We'll go to the house."
CHAPTER XIX.BERT'S EXPERIENCE AS A FARMER'S BOY.
Bert followed the farmer into the kitchen, in the center of which a table was set. A bony and angular woman was just placing on it a large pitcher of water.
"Mis' Wilson," said the farmer, "this is Bert Barton, who is helping me about the farm work."
Bert was no stranger to Mrs. Wilson, whose pew in church was near the one he occupied.
"How's your ma?" she inquired jerkily.
"Pretty well, thank you, Mrs. Wilson."
"I'm glad to hear it. She looks like a friend of mine, Mrs. Dusenberry, who died of heart disease."
"I don't think her heart is affected," said Bert, not without anxiety.
"Maybe not, but you can't tell. Folks lives along for years with their hearts out of kilter, who never find it out till some day they drop dead."
Mrs. Wilson decidedly was not a cheerfulconverser. She prided herself on detecting signs of unsuspected diseases.
"Mebbe you've got heart disease yourself, Sophia," remarked the farmer jocosely.
"Just as likely as not," answered Mrs. Wilson calmly. "I'm sure my liver's affected, for I feel it squirm sometimes."
"Mebbe I'd better look out for a second Mis' Wilson," suggested the farmer smiling.
"You ain't over healthy yourself, Silas," responded his better half, surveying her husband in a business-like manner. "It looks to me as if your kidneys was out of order, and you're the very image of Jed Pettibone, who died of apoplexy. He lived next door to my mother. One day he was alive and well, and to-morrow he was as the grass of the field."
The farmer's face wore a very uncomfortable look, and he was evidently by no means pleased with his wife's prognostications.
"Nonsense!" he said testily. "I'm as well as any man of my age in Lakeville."
"'Boast not thyself of to-morrow'!" quoted Mrs. Wilson solemnly.
"Come, Bert, let us set down to dinner," said Silas hastily. "What have you got for us, Sophia?"
"I've warmed over them beans we had yesterday," answered his helpmeet, "and there'stwo sausages besides. I don't want any. You'd ought to make a dinner off of that."
"Why, to be sure! Beans and sausages is hearty, and will stand by us in the field. The laborer is worthy of his meat."
"Where's the meat," thought Bert.
Silas Wilson put a moderate portion of beans on a large plate, flanking it with a thin, consumptive-looking sausage.
"Help yourself to potatoes," he said, as he handed the plate to Bert.
Bert availed himself of the invitation, and helped himself to a potato in that condition known as soggy. He tried to eat it, but, though fond of potatoes, he left it almost entire on his plate. This, however, was not all. There was a plate of rye-bread on the table, from which Bert helped himself to a slice. It was apparently two or three days old, and needed something to make it palatable.
"Please give me some butter," asked Bert, not having observed that this was a prohibited article on the Wilsons' dinner table.
"There ain't none," answered Mrs. Wilson promptly.
"I beg pardon. I hadn't noticed," said Bert, blushing.
"We never have butter at dinner," explained Silas Wilson. "It's apt to lead tohumors, particularly in boys, isn't it, Mis' Wilson?"
"So I've always heard, Silas. Besides, as we have it at breakfast and supper, that's enough. It goes fast enough, even then. Why, we used most a pound last week."
"And butter twenty-seven cents a pound!" chimed in the farmer. "Why, it's extravagant!"
"Do you know, Silas, how much butter is used in Squire Marlowe's family?"
"No," answered the farmer, with interest.
"Hannah—Mrs. Marlowe's girl—told me they used six pounds and a half last week, and there's only four of them, including the girl. What do you think of that?"
"What do I think? I think it's sinful—positively sinful! Six pounds and a half at twenty-seven cents——"
"They pay thirty-two, and get the best in the market," amended his wife.
"Worse and worse! That comes to what—Bert?"
"Two dollars and eight cents," answered Bert promptly.
"Sho! Did you ever?"
"Well, I s'pose the squire can stand it. No doubt they live on the fat of the land. I just wish they'd invite me to tea, so I could judgefor myself. I could tell within five cents how much the supper cost."
It must be confessed that Bert did not enjoy his dinner. The sausage was far from rich or juicy, and the beans were almost cold. The potatoes and bread have already been referred to. However, there was to be a second course, and to that Bert looked forward anxiously, for he had by no means satisfied his appetite. It was a plain rice pudding, and partially satisfactory, for it takes very little skill to boil rice, and there is little variety in the quality. By way of sauce Mrs. Wilson provided cheap grade of molasses. Still Bert enjoyed it better than any other article on the table.
"There's nothing like a good dinner to strengthen us for the labors of the field," said Silas Wilson complacently, as he rose from the table. "Come, Bert, now let us get to work to make up for lost time."
"So Mr. Wilson considers the time spent in eating as lost time," thought Bert. "I'd rather have one of mother's dinners than half a dozen like this. Ugh! how nasty those potatoes were."
Bert returned to the field, and resumed his work. He found it hard to keep up with Silas Wilson, whose energies seemed to be quickened by his midday meal.
About four o'clock a man came along who wanted to see Silas on business, and he went back to the house, leaving Bert to continue his work alone.
"This is about the longest day I ever passed," thought Bert, pausing to wipe his moistened forehead. "I am afraid I shall never want to be a farmer. I mustn't forget, though, that I am to receive sixteen cents and a little over per day, besides board—and such board! Yet this is the way Silas Wilson has lived all his life, and he must be sixty-five at least. How much more enjoyment Uncle Jacob has out of life, though he is a poor man compared to the farmer."
At this moment he heard wheels passing on the road hard by, and looking up he recognized Percy Marlowe, neat and trim in his attire, driving a light buggy.
"Hallo!" called out Percy, checking his horse.
"Hallo, Percy!"
"Are you working for Silas Wilson?"
"Yes, for a few days."
"I guess you'll make a fortune in that time?" said Percy laughing.
"It seems like it," responded Bert.
"How much does he pay you?"
"Fifty cents for three days and board."
Percy laughed.
"I should want fifty cents an hour, and then I wouldn't do it."
"I'd work all the year round at that price," said Bert.
"I never expect to work—with my hands," went on Percy.
"Have you decided what to do?" asked Bert curiously.
"My father wants me to be a manufacturer, but I think I shall be a lawyer."
"I am afraid I shan't have much choice. I must take what I can get."
"You might stay with Mr. Wilson and be a farmer."
"I don't think that will suit me at any rate, unless I can work for a different man."
"Perhaps father can take you back into the shop when you are older."
"I wish he would take me back now. I like it a great deal better than working out in the field here."
"You mustn't get too high notions into your head, Bert. You know you are a working boy and mustn't expect to have things all your own way."
"I am not likely to forget that I am a working boy, especially with kind friends to remind me of it. But we live in the best country in the world, and there is many a working boy who grows up to be a distinguished man."
Percy laughed ironically.
"I wouldn't get such silly ideas into your head," he said.
"Why are they silly?"
"You talk as if you expected to be a distinguished man. Ha, ha!"
"I hope to be a successful man," answered Bert stoutly.
Percy laughed again and drove on. Five minutes later Bert saw the farmer running from the house in a state of great apparent excitement.
"Have you seen anything of my wallet?" he gasped, as he came within hearing distance.
CHAPTER XX.BERT IS PLACED IN AN EMBARRASSING POSITION.
Bert regarded his employer with surprise.
"Your wallet?" he repeated.
"Yes," answered Silas Wilson impatiently. "I had it in my pocket when I was at work here. I didn't think about it till just now, after Mr. Dexter had left me. Then I found that my pocket was empty."
"I haven't seen it, but you may have dropped it somewhere."
"Just help me look for it. Has anybody been here?"
"No; at least not in the field. Percy Marlowe passed in his buggy, and——"
"Never mind about that. Help me look for the wallet."
The rows of corn were of considerable length, and there were a good many of them. At least ten minutes elapsed before anything was seen of the missing article, and dark suspicions of his young assistant entered the mind of Mr. Wilson. But at last Bert's sharp eyes espied a faded leather wallet between two hills in one of the rows which the farmer had hoed.
"Is this it?" he asked, holding it up in his hand.
"Yes!" exclaimed Silas delighted. "Where did you find it?"
"Just here."
Mr. Wilson opened it, anxious to see whether the contents were intact.
"It's all safe," he said, with a sigh of relief.
"Was there much money in it?" asked Bert.
"Yes; two dollars and sixty-seven cents.It's a narrow escape! Suppose a dishonest person had found it?"
"It would have been terrible!" said Bert, successfully checking his disposition to laugh.
"I'm much obliged to you, Bert, for findin' it. I suppose you don't want any reward?"
"Oh, no! I am working for you, you know, and it wasn't my own time I was using."
"That's true! Still, I am willin' to give you two cents to encourage you to be honest."
"Thank you, Mr. Wilson; but I don't need any reward for that."
"You're a good boy, and if you stay with me I'll make a man of you."
"Thank you."
Bert was privately of opinion that if he remained till the age of twenty-one in Silas Wilson's employ, boarding at his table, he would grow into a very thin, under-sized man indeed.
Supper was a less substantial meal than dinner in the Wilson household, consisting of bread and butter and tea, with the addition of a plate of doughnuts, which were so tough and hard that it occurred to Bert that they would make very good base-balls if they had been of the right shape.
After supper he went home for an hour.
"Don't you feel very tired, Bert?" asked his mother.
"Yes, mother, but I feel still more hungry. If you've got anything left from supper I think I can dispose of it."
"Certainly, Bert; but didn't you eat supper at Mr. Wilson's?"
"Mother, they don't know what good living is there. I'd rather have one of your suppers than a dozen of Mr. Wilson's. I begin to think that the board part won't be worth over fifty cents for three days. I am sure it won't cost them any more."
"I wish you were going to sleep here, Bert. I shall feel lonely."
"So do I, but I shall only be away two nights. Silas Wilson promises to make a man of me if I'll stay, but I'd rather grow to manhood somewhere else."
Bert returned to the farm-house, and about half-past eight went to bed. He knew he must be early astir, and he felt fatigued by his day of labor in the field. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went to bed at this hour. The farmer was not fond of reading, nor indeed was there anything in the house to read, for neither he nor his wife had a literary taste. Once he took an agricultural paper for a year at a cost of two dollars, but whenever thepaper arrived he groaned in spirit over the cost, and deplored his extravagance in subscribing for it.
The room assigned to Bert was over the kitchen, which was in the ell part. The roof was sloping, and, toward the eaves, very low. There was one window near the bed which he occupied.
Bert went to sleep in ten minutes, and slept soundly for three or four hours. Then something roused him, and he opened his eyes. What he saw startled him. By the bright moonlight he perceived a man climbing in at the window.
To say that Bert was perfectly calm would not be true. He was very much startled, as I think almost any boy, or man either, would have been under the circumstances.
"It is a burglar!" thought Bert in excitement. "What can I do?"
Some one evidently had heard of Silas Wilson's miserly disposition, and judged that there would be a good chance to secure booty in the farm house. Bert, though he did not admire Mr. Wilson, felt that it was his duty to protect him from being plundered, if possible. He knew that he was in some personal peril, but he was naturally a brave boy, and his spirit rose to the occasion.
He waited until the supposed burglar was in the room, and then, sitting up in bed, asked stoutly: "Who are you? What brings you here?"
The man turned swiftly toward the bed, and fixed his eyes on Bert, but did not immediately speak.
"If you are a burglar," continued Bert, emboldened by the man's hesitation, "you had better get out of the window again, or I shall call Mr. Wilson."
"No, don't call him, at least not yet," said the intruder, sinking into a chair a few feet from the bed. "Are you working here?"
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
This seemed a singular question. What could his name matter to a burglar? However, Bert answered mechanically, "My name is Bert Barton."
"The widow Barton's boy?"
"Yes; how do you know that?" demanded Bert, in bewilderment.
"Don't you know me?" was the unexpected rejoinder.
He drew nearer to the bed, and Bert gazed at him earnestly, but no light dawned upon him.
"No, I don't know you," he said, shaking his head.
"I am Silas Wilson's son," said the stranger.
"Phineas Wilson?"
Now Bert remembered that eight years before, the farmer's son, a man grown, had left Lakeville, and, so far as he knew, had not been heard of since. He had contracted a habit of drinking and had tired of farm work. Moreover, when he left, he had taken fifty dollars of his father's money with him, which had led to bitter feelings on the part of the farmer, who appeared to mourn the loss of his money more than that of his son. And this was the young man who had crept into his father's house like a thief in the night.
"Why did you get into my window?" asked Bert. "Why didn't you come to the door?"
"I—didn't know if I would be welcome. I wanted to ask. Do you know how my father feels toward me?"
"No; I have only been here one day. He ought to be glad to see his son."
"I took some money with me when I went away," said Phineas hesitating. "Father's very fond of money."
"Yes," assented Bert.
"And he would find it hard to forget that."
"Why didn't you come back before?"
"I didn't dare to come till I could bring the money. I have got it with me, but not a dollar more. If you want to know what brings me back, look in my face and see for yourself."
The moon came out from behind a cloud, and by its light Bert saw that the young man's face was thin and ghastly.
"I am sick," he said; "irregular hours and whiskey have done their work. I am afraid I have got to pass in my checks."
"What does that mean—die?"
"Yes."
"Don't give up!" said Bert, feeling his sympathies go out toward this prodigal son. "You are young. It takes a good deal to kill a young man."
"You're a good fellow, Bert. That's your name, isn't it? Will you do me a favor?"
"To be sure I will."
"I am famished. I haven't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours. Can you slip downstairs and fetch me something to eat—no matter what—and a glass of milk?"
Bert hesitated. He could get what was required in the pantry, but suppose the farmer or his wife should wake up! It would make his position a very awkward one.
"Hadn't you better go down yourself?" he asked.
"I can hardly stand, I am so tired. Besides, I don't know where mother keeps things."
"I will try," said Bert; and he slipped on his pantaloons, and went softly downstairs.