CHAPTER XXI.THE MIDNIGHT VISIT TO THE PANTRY.
"Suppose Mrs. Wilson sees me?" thought Bert uncomfortably. "She will take me for a thief."
He was actuated by the kindest motives, but he heartily wished his errand were done. As he stepped into the kitchen he heard the deep breathing of Mrs. Wilson and the noisy snore of her husband, and rightly judged that it would not be easy to rouse either of them. He opened the pantry door, and by the light of the moon was able to inspect the shelves. There was a half loaf of bread on one shelf, half a dozen doughnuts on a plate on the shelf below, and a few cold beans close beside them. Then there was a small pitcher half-full of milk.
"I don't think the beans or doughnuts will set well on an empty stomach," Bert reflected."I'd better take the milk and two or three slices of bread."
Here the cat, who had been asleep on the hearth, roused herself, perhaps at the sight of the milk pitcher, and, mewing loudly, rubbed herself against Bert's legs.
"Scat!" cried Bert, in a low voice, anxiously looking toward the door of the bed chamber in which the farmer and his wife lay asleep.
The cat got between his legs and nearly tripped him up, but he managed to get out of the room and upstairs. Phineas looked at him eagerly.
"I have some bread and milk here," said Bert. "I couldn't find any butter. There were some cold beans and doughnuts, but—"
"The bread and milk are better. Give them to me. I am almost famished."
The bread was dry and stale, but Phineas was not in the mood to be particular. He ate like one famished, and drained the pitcher to the last drop.
"I feel better," he said then, with a sigh of relief.
"I suppose I had better take the pitcher back to the kitchen. It will be missed," reflected Bert, and he started downstairs again in his bare feet. He paused at the kitchendoor, and heard the farmer talking in his sleep. This alarmed him. He decided that it would not do to replace the pitcher in the pantry, as he would be likely to be heard. He waited where he was for five minutes, and then ventured into the kitchen. This time he was successful, and with mind relieved returned to his chamber.
Phineas was dozing in his chair.
"You had better get into the bed, Mr. Wilson," said Bert, filled with compassion for the weary wayfarer. "I'll lie on the floor."
"If you don't mind. I am fagged out."
Bert made a pillow of his coat and trousers, and stretched himself on the floor. He found that there was an inside bolt, with which he fastened the door, to guard against any unexpected visit from Mr. or Mrs. Wilson.
He fell asleep again, and was only roused by a loud voice at the foot of the back stairs.
"Time to get up!" called the farmer.
"All right!" responded Bert in a loud tone.
Fortunately Silas Wilson did not think it necessary to come up. Had he done so it would have been embarrassing, for Phineas was sound asleep on the bed. Bert thought it best to rouse him before he went down stairs.
"Are you not afraid some one will come upstairs and find you here?" he asked.
"No; mother never comes up till after she has got breakfast out of the way and the dishes washed."
"I suppose you know best," said Bert doubtfully.
"If necessary I shall tell her who I am."
Bert went below, and sat down at the breakfast table. It was clear from the expression on Mrs. Wilson's face that she had something on her mind.
"Silas," she said solemnly, "something mysterious has happened during the night."
"What is it?" asked the farmer in a tone of surprise.
"We have been robbed!"
"What of?" he asked, turning pale. "Do you miss any of the spoons?"
"No."
"Or—or money?" and he pulled out his wallet hurriedly.
"No, no, it isn't that."
"What is it, then?"
"I left that pitcher half full of milk when I went to bed last night. This morning there wasn't a drop in it, and the pantry door was open."
"Cats are fond of milk," suggested Silas,with a glance at Tabby, who was lying near the fire-place.
"It wasn't the cat. She couldn't get her head inside the pitcher. Besides, there are three slices of bread missing."
"Won't cats eat bread?"
"It was a two-legged cat!" replied Mrs. Wilson significantly.
Bert reddened in spite of himself, and tried to look unconscious. He saw that Mrs. Wilson was on the point of making a discovery, and that suspicion was likely to fall upon him. This he could clear up, but it would be at the expense of the poor fellow who was asleep upstairs.
"But how could anybody get into the house?" asked Silas. "The doors were locked, weren't they?"
"Yes, Silas. In forty years I have never failed to lock the door before I went to bed."
"Then I don't see——"
"Nor I—yet!" said Mrs. Wilson significantly, and Bert thought—but he may have been mistaken—that her eyes turned for a moment in his direction.
"At any rate it isn't much of a loss. Was there anything else in the closet?"
"There were some doughnuts and beans."
"Were any of them taken?"
"No, not that I can see."
"Cats don't care for them."
"Don't be a fool, Silas! That poor cat had no more to do with the robbery than I have."
"Mebbe you're right; but cats have been known to steal. I like dogs better myself."
"I don't!" cried Mrs. Wilson with emphasis. "I'm not going to have any dog trapesing over my floors with his muddy feet."
"Just as you like, Sophia. You'd better lock the pantry door in future."
"I'm not sure that that will answer, unless I hide the key."
"Do you seriously think a human being took the things?"
"Yes, I do—in the middle of the night."
"By gracious! that's serious, He might have come into our room and taken my wallet and watch."
"And maybe murdered us in our beds!" added Mrs. Wilson grimly.
"Did you hear anybody walking round the house last night, Bert?" asked the farmer, who was by this time worked up into a state of agitation.
"No," answered Bert.
"I am glad he did not ask me whether Isawanybody," thought he. "I don't want to tell a lie."
"I usually sleep pretty sound," he added, a little ashamed of his duplicity, yet not knowing how else to avert suspicions.
"So we all do!" said the farmer's wife. "We might be all murdered in our beds without knowing anything about it."
"I shouldn't want to know anything about it if that was going to happen," observed Silas, not without reason. "I don't think it could have been a very desperate ruffian, if he contented himself with taking bread and milk."
"He may come again to-night," suggested Mrs. Wilson.
"I hope not," said Silas fervently. "I—I couldn't sleep if I thought so."
"We must get to the bottom of this," went on his wife resolutely. "I am not willing to have such goings on in my house."
"How are you going to do it, Sophia? Probably the thief's miles off by this time."
"He may be, or he may not be!" said Mrs. Wilson in an oracular tone.
"I've heard of folks walking in their sleep," she added, after a pause.
"You don't mean me?" asked Silas.
"No; if you did it I'd have had a chance to find out in forty years. Do you ever walk inyour sleep?" she asked, turning suddenly to Bert.
The question was so unexpected that he could not help changing color, and this served to increase Mrs. Wilson's dawning suspicions.
"Not that I ever heard of," Bert answered, after a pause.
"I knew a boy once that did—it was a second cousin of my brother's first wife."
"I am sure I never get up in my sleep."
The door leading into the entry from which the back-stairs ascended was open, and through this, just at this moment, was heard a sound that startled all three who were sitting at the breakfast table.
It was a loud, unmistakeable sneeze, and it came from the chamber which Bert had occupied.
The farmer and his wife started as if the house had been shaken by an exploding bombshell. Both turned as pale as death, looked fearfully at each other, and clutched tightly at the edges of the table.
"Silas!" said Mrs. Wilson, in a hollow voice, "the burglar is upstairs!"
CHAPTER XXII.A PANIC AT FARMER WILSON'S.
Silas Wilson was not a brave man, and at his wife's suggestion he turned pale, and looked panic-stricken.
"Do—you—think so?" he asked feebly.
"Do I think so? I know so," returned Mrs. Wilson energetically.
"How could he get up there?"
Mrs. Wilson walked to the window, and her lynx eyes detected the ladder by which Phineas had climbed to the window of Bert's room.
"Do you see that?" she asked.
It is rather surprising that she did not suspect Bert of knowing something about the matter, but she had not yet had time to put two and two together.
"It's terrible!" murmured Silas, mopping the cold perspiration from his forehead. "What can we do?"
"What can we do? Go and get your gun, Silas, and go up and confront the villain. That's what we can do."
Somehow the suggestion did not seem to find favor with Mr. Wilson.
"He would shoot me," he said. "He's probably waitin' for me with a loaded weepun upon the landin'."
"Silas Wilson, I am ashamed of you. Are you going to let a villainous burglar rampage round upstairs, stealin' whatever he can lay his hands on? Come now!"
"I believe you care more for the few things upstairs than for your husband's life," said Silas reproachfully.
"Do you wantmeto go, Silas? What'll the folks in the village say when they hear of it?"
"I don't know as I know where the gun is," said Silas nervously.
"It's out in the woodshed behind the door."
"I don't know as it's loaded. Besides I wouldn't want to be took up for murder."
"Not much danger, Silas Wilson! Such men as you don't get into such scrapes as that."
Mrs. Wilson went out into the woodshed, and returned, holding the gun in such a way that it pointed directly at her husband.
"Don't you know no better than to p'int that gun at me, Sophia?" exclaimed Silas in no little terror. "Beats all what fools women are about firearms."
"They may be fools, but they ain't cowards," returned Mrs. Wilson. "Come, are you going up or not?"
"Hadn't I better go to the foot of the stairs and fire up?" asked Silas with a bright idea.
"And then he'd come down on you, when your gun was discharged, and run his bayonet into you," said Mrs. Wilson, who knew that at the battle of Bunker Hill the muskets had bayonets attached.
"I'll give him warnin'!" continued Silas. "It'll only be fair. He'll probably be frightened and climb down the ladder."
"I never did see such a 'fraid cat in my life!" quoth Mrs. Wilson contemptuously.
"Mebbe you're braver'n I be. If you are, go up yourself!" said Silas Wilson angrily.
"You want to put your wife in danger, do you?" returned Mrs. Wilson, who was as averse to facing the burglar as her husband, though she talked more courageously.
"And you want to expose your husband to danger," retorted Silas, "so it's an even thing, so far as I can see."
It is hardly necessary to say that Bert enjoyed the dispute between the husband and wife, though he maintained an outward gravity which helped him to conceal his secret amusement. By this time he thought it time for him to take part.
"I'll go up," he said.
"You will?" exclaimed Silas in surprise and relief.
"Yes, I am not afraid."
"To be sure! The burglar wouldn't do you no harm. You're only a boy. Do you know how to fire a gun?"
"Yes, but I shan't need the gun. I am sure the burglar wouldn't harm me."
"You're a brave boy, Bert," said the farmer. "You're doing just what I would have done at your age."
"Youneverwould have done it, Silas! I should be ashamed anyway to own up I was more of a coward as a grown man than as a boy."
"Sophia, you don't know much about burglars and their ways. Don't be afraid, Bert; I'll back you up; I'll stand at the door of the kitchen with the gun in my hand, and help you if you need it."
Bert smiled, for he knew just how valuable Silas Wilson's assistance would be, but he made no comment, and started on his perilous enterprise.
"I hope he won't come to no harm," said Mrs. Wilson. "I don't know but I'd better go with him."
"It would be safer for you, Sophia, for burglars don't shoot women."
"Much you know about it, Silas."
The two moved toward the kitchen door, Silas handling the gun as if he were afraid of it. They listened with painful attention, and presently heard the sound of voices, though they could not make out what was being said.
"The boy's speakin' to him!" said Silas, awe-struck. "I never see such a terrible time. I wish I'd told Bert to tell the burglar to go back the same way he came, and we wouldn't fire at him. I don't want to be too hard on the transgressor. Mebbe he's driven to his evil ways by destitution."
Mrs. Wilson paid very little attention to what her husband was saying, being more intent on what was passing upstairs.
After a short interval Bert came down.
"Well?" said Silas eagerly. "Did you see the burglar?"
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"In my room."
"What is he doin' there?"
"He is lying on the bed."
"Well, if I ever saw such impudence!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilson.
"Has he got a gun with him? Did he offer to shoot you?"
"No," answered Bert gravely. "The poor fellow is sick."
"Poor fellow, indeed!" sniffed Mrs. Wilson. "What does he mean by getting into a respectable house through a window? He'll end up his days in jail."
"Does—does he look desperate?" inquired Silas Wilson. "Would he be likely to hurt me or Mis' Wilson?"
"No; he says he would like to have you come up."
"Well, of all things!" ejaculated Sophia.
"I've got something to tell you," went on Bert, turning from one to the other. "He wants me to tell you before you go up. It is some one whom you both know, though you haven't seen him for a good many years."
Silas did not understand, but a mother's instincts were quicker.
"Is it our son—Phineas?" she asked.
"Yes," answered Bert; "it is your son."
"Who stole fifty dollars from his father, and crept away like a thief in the night!" exclaimed the farmer indignantly.
"He has suffered, and is very weak," rejoined Bert. "He hadn't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours, and I may as welltell you that it was I who came downstairs in the night and took up the bread and milk to him."
"You did quite right," said Mrs. Wilson, who was half-way upstairs by this time. He was her own son in spite of all, and though she was not an emotional woman, she yearned to see the face of her only child, with a mother's feelings all aroused within her.
"He took fifty dollars!" repeated Silas Wilson, still harping on a wrong which he had never forgotten nor forgiven.
Bert was rather disgusted at the farmer's meanness, but he relieved his anxiety.
"He's brought you back the money!" he said shortly.
"He has!" exclaimed Silas in a tone of gladness. "Did he tell you so?"
"Yes; it is all the money he had, and he went without food rather than spend any of it."
"Come, that's encouragin'," said the farmer. "He's turnin' from his evil ways."
When they reached Bert's chamber they saw Mrs. Wilson kneeling beside the bed, her harsh features softened by the light of an affection which had been absent from them for years. She looked contented and happy, now that her boy was restored to her.
"Got back again, Phineas, hey?" said Silas Wilson. "You're lookin' kinder peaked."
"Yes, father, I've been sick, but now——"
"I'll soon get him well!" interposed Mrs. Wilson. "I'll go right down and bring up some breakfast."
"I can eat it, mother. I have had nothing except the bread and milk Bert brought me."
On Wednesday evening Bert closed his engagement with the farmer, and declined to continue it, though urged strongly to do so. He went home in a whirl of excitement, for Phineas Wilson had told him something which overwhelmed him with astonishment.
CHAPTER XXIII.BERT FORMS A RESOLUTION.
"Mother," said Bert abruptly, as he entered the cottage at the close of his engagement with the farmer, "when did father die?"
Mrs. Barton sank into a chair, and looked searchingly in her son's face.
"Why—do—you—ask?" she said slowly.
"I have been told to-day that he was living only a year since."
"Who told you?"
"Phineas Wilson, the farmer's son."
"Did he see him a year ago?"
"Yes, in some town in Canada—near Toronto, I believe. But, mother, you don't seem surprised."
"No, Bert, for I knew your father was living."
"Then why don't he come home. Why don't he live with us? Is there some mystery?"
"Yes, Bert, and a painful one for your unfortunate father. It is the fear of a prison that has kept him away from home."
"Surely, mother," said Bert, painfully shocked, "my father was not a criminal?"
"No, but circumstances made him appear such."
"Tell me the story."
"It is time that you heard it. Ten years ago your father and Albert Marlowe were employed by Weeks Brothers, large shoe manufacturers in a Massachusetts town. Both were skilled workmen——"
"Did Squire Marlowe work at the bench?"
"Yes, his position was precisely the same as your father's, no worse and no better. Both received the same pay—two dollars a day."
"Does Percy know this?"
"Probably not. Albert Marlowe is not fond of speaking of his early days when he was a common workman. At that time our families were intimate and associated on equal terms. Our circumstances and ways of living were the same. We lived in a double house, Albert occupying one tenement, we the other."
"Were you and Mrs. Marlowe friendly then?"
"Yes; she had not yet become a fine lady, but did her own work, dispensing with a servant. We lived plainly, and, if anything, your father was the more prosperous of the two, as we managed to save from fifty to seventy-five dollars a year, while I don't believe Albert saved anything. But one day a terrible thing happened. Mr. Weeks, the senior partner, was a trustee and guardian for some minor children. A part of their property was invested in United States bonds, 5-20's as they are called. He kept them in his safe in the factory. One morning when he opened the safe they were missing. You can imagine the dismay of the guardian and his indignation against the unknown thief. The loss was publicly proclaimed, and a reward of one hundred dollars was offered to any one who could and would give any informationthat would lead to the discovery of the thief. Some one—a young man named Harding—entered the office of the firm and informed them that he had seen your father thrusting a paper, looking like a government bond, into the inside pocket of his overcoat—it was in the middle of winter. The workmen kept their coats in a small room near the entrance of the factory. Of course the room was visited, your father's coat was examined, and in one of the pockets was found one of the missing bonds, one for five hundred dollars. Your father was summoned, charged with the theft, and required to tell what he had done with the remaining bonds. He was thunder-struck at the accusation, and denied in the most positive terms any knowledge of the stolen property. His statement was not credited. He was arrested, tried for the offense, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment."
"Bert's face flushed with indignation, and he clinched his fist almost unconsciously.
"Did he go to prison?" he asked hoarsely.
"No; some of his friends, who believed in his innocence, helped him to escape, and supplied him with funds to get out of the country. Now you know why he has remained absent all these years."
"But why was I never told of this, mother? Why did I not know at the time?"
"You were only six years of age, and were sent away during the excitement to the house of a friend living at some distance. I moved away from the town in which my misfortunes were known, and eventually came here, learning that Albert Marlowe had established himself in business here. You readily believed that your father was dead."
"I understand now, mother. But is it not terrible that the happiness of a family should be broken up in this way?"
"Yes, Bert. Providence permits it for some wise purpose, no doubt, though it is hard for us to understand why it should be."
"One thing I don't understand, mother. You say that Squire Marlowe was a common workman, like my father, and a poor man?"
"Yes, Bert."
"How is it that he is now a rich manufacturer? Where did he get the necessary capital?"
"Nobody knew. He took all his friends by surprise when he went into business for himself on a large scale. Whatever the amount of his capital, he has never been financially embarrassed, and has gone on prospering."
"Till now he is a rich man, living in luxury,while we are living from hand to mouth, and poor father is an exile somewhere."
"Yes, Bert."
"Don't you receive letters from father?"
"If I should, it would draw attention to him, and might imperil his safety."
"I might meet him sometime, and not know him."
"Have you no recollection of him?"
"Not the least? Haven't you any picture of him, mother?"
"Yes, I have a daguerreotype upstairs—an old-style picture."
"Why have you never shown it to me?"
"Because it would have led you to ask questions which would have been embarrassing for me to answer. You might have mentioned the existence of the picture before some visitor, and compelled me to produce it. Suppose this had been the case, and it had been recognized, it might have got your father into trouble."
"Now that I know all the circumstances, won't you show me the picture, mother?"
"Yes, Bert; the only objection I had is now removed."
Mrs. Barton went upstairs, and soon returned with one of those old-fashioned pictures of which many of my readers may have specimens in their homes—a daguerreotype.
Bert scanned it attentively, and he first looked bewildered, then surprised.
"I have seen a face like that," he said after a pause.
"Where, Bert?"
"I don't remember. Is it possible that I can remember so far back?"
"It may be an accidental resemblance."
"No, the face is like in every respect. Can't you explain it to me, mother?"
"Think a little, Bert. Perhaps you will recall where you saw a face like this."
"I have it now," said Bert, his face brightening up. "It is like Mr. Robinson—the friend of father, who called here a few weeks since."
"Bert," said his mother slowly, "Mr. Robinson was not your father's friend. It was your father himself."
Bert looked the picture of astonishment.
"Why did you not tell me, mother?"
"How could I? You did not even know that he was alive. Ever since then I have been seeking an opportunity to tell you the truth."
"I am glad to know. What did father have to say?"
"He thinks he has found out—at any rate he has strong suspicions—who was the real thief for whom he suffered."
"Who is it, mother? Is it any one I ever knew?"
"Yes, Bert."
"Tell me quick."
"Then you must promise to keep it secret till we are in a condition to prove the truth of our suspicions. It was Albert Marlowe."
"The squire?"
"Yes."
"That must explain his being able to go into business for himself."
"Yes. Your father is on the track of a man who was his accomplice, or rather his tool, in the matter—the young man named Harding, on whose information your father was arrested. Of course he is placed under a disadvantage in making these inquiries, being under the ban of the law."
"Mother," said Bert solemnly, "I am going to solve the mystery, if possible, make my father's evidence clear, and expose the real criminal. I am only a boy, and I don't know how I shall accomplish it, but I won't rest till I have done it."
"May Heaven grant you success, my dear boy!" responded Mrs. Barton fervently.
CHAPTER XXIV.THE OFFICE OF THE MAGNET MINE.
Bert took the morning train to New York, and arrived about half-past seven o'clock. He met with no adventures on the way, and as soon as he reached the Grand Central Depot took a Fourth Avenue car down, as instructed by Uncle Jacob. In a large building of many stories on Nassau Street, on the sixth floor, was an office on the door of which Bert read
MAGNET MINING CO.
This, as he understood, was the office where Jacob Marlowe was employed.
Bert was considering whether he ought to knock or not, when a brisk-looking gentleman stepped up, and, opening the door, entered. Bert followed him in.
"Whom did you wish to see?" asked the brisk-looking man.
"Mr. Jacob Marlowe. Is this the office where he is employed?"
"Yes," answered the man, with a smile.
Bert hardly needed this assurance, however, as he had already discovered Uncle Jacob sitting in an inner room, at a desk, conversing on business, apparently, with an elderly man of dignified appearance.
"He will soon be at leisure," said the one who had just entered, and seated himself at another desk in the outer room.
"That must be Uncle Jacob's employer," thought Bert.
"What news do you hear of the mine?" he heard the elderly man ask.
"Excellent," answered Uncle Jacob. "It has gone up five points within two weeks. The output is steadily increasing."
"Do you know anything of it from your own knowledge?"
"Certainly; I ought to, for I was myself its discoverer."
This rather surprised Bert.
"It was a rich find," continued Uncle Jacob, "and I have no hesitation in putting it on the New York market."
"There are so many wild-cat mines, you know, that a man needs to be very cautious."
"Quite true. In such mines it is only the men who capitalize them who make money. I would not lend myself to any such scheme of deception. I have a reputation to sustain, and I value that more than money. Our mine has found favor with some of the most conservative investors in the city." Here Uncle Jacob mentioned several names, so prominent thatthey were familiar to Bert, country boy though he was.
"You may put me down for five hundred shares," said the elderly man, apparently convinced. "I will send you round a check to-morrow. To whom shall I make it payable?"
"To me."
"Very well."
The old gentleman rose, drew on his gloves, and went out, Uncle Jacob accompanying him to the door. This brought him face to face with Bert.
"So you have come, Bert," he said with a pleasant smile. "How did you leave your mother?"
"Very well, uncle."
"At what time did you breakfast?"
"At half-past six."
"Then you must be hungry. It is rather early for my lunch, but I will go out with you now. Mr. Bascom, I shall be back within an hour. If any one calls to see me, try to keep him."
"Yes, sir," answered Bascom deferentially.
"He can't be Uncle Jacob's employer," thought Bert. "He is too respectful. I had no idea uncle was such a man of business. He doesn't appear to be afraid of anybody."
They descended in the elevator, rather toBert's surprise, who had climbed up by the staircase. Crossing the street they entered a dairy restaurant, which in spite of the name supplied the usual variety of dishes. They found a table at which no others were seated, and Uncle Jacob ordered a substantial meal of roast beef and vegetables.
"Did you find me easily, Bert?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes, uncle. I had to inquire the way once only. Do you like your place?"
"Very well, indeed, Bert."
"Is it a good man you work for?"
Uncle Jacob smiled.
"I have no fault to find with him," he answered.
"I thought perhaps that man with black hair and whiskers might be the boss."
"No, he is a clerk."
"Like you?"
"Yes," answered Jacob, with another smile.
"Does the boss often come in?"
"He doesn't interfere much. You see he has a good deal of confidence in Mr. Bascom and myself."
"So I thought."
"What made you think so?"
"You seem to talk and act as if you were independent."
"It's a way I have, Bert. As I understand the business thoroughly, more than anybody else, there is no reason why I shouldn't, is there?"
"Oh, no!"
"That is why I enjoy my position so well."
"Do you get paid your wages every Saturday night?"
"Oftener, if I please," answered Jacob Marlowe, seeming amused. "If I happen to get short in the middle of the week, I can draw in advance."
"You seem to have a very good position, Uncle Jacob. It is a great deal better than opening a cigar store in Lakeville."
"Yes, I think so myself—Albert Marlowe was right in advising me against it. Have you seen him lately?"
"I see him about every day, but not to speak to."
"It was mean in him to discharge you from the factory."
"So I thought, Uncle Jacob."
"I wrote asking him to take you back."
"What did he say?" asked Bert, with interest.
"He in effect told me to mind my own business. I hope you and your mother have not suffered for want of money?"
"No, thanks to you, Uncle Jacob. Mother thought you ought not to have sent so much."
"I don't think I shall miss it, Bert," said Uncle Jacob. "I am glad that it helped you."
"The twenty-dollar bill got me into trouble."
"How was that?"
Bert told the story of his arrest on the charge of robbing Mr. Jones, and gave an account of his trial.
"And you were tried before Albert Marlowe?"
"Yes."
"I suppose Percy rejoiced in your humiliation?"
"No, he didn't. He behaved like a brick. He walked to the court-room with me, and told me he was sure I was not guilty."
"I am certainly surprised, but I am pleased also. That is a point in Percy's favor, an unexpected one. He shan't lose by it."
"I am afraid I shouldn't have got off if it hadn't been for a young lawyer from New York, named Conway, who volunteered to defend me."
"Go on. Give me an account of it. Can you give me the address of Mr. Conway?"
"Yes, uncle. I have it here."
"I may be able to throw a little business in his way. One good turn deserves another."
"I wish you would, Uncle Jacob. Mr. Conway refused to accept a fee, knowing that I could not afford to pay him."
Uncle Jacob asked other questions as the dinner proceeded. Finally Bert brought out his most important piece of news.
"I have just found out that my father is still alive," he said.
"Yes, I knew that," returned Uncle Jacob calmly.
"You knew it?"
"Yes, he has been to see me."
"He has! When?"
"Last week."
"You don't think him guilty of the charge which was brought against him?"
"No; I think him a badly-used man."
"I wish I could be the means of proving his innocence."
"I mean that you shall be."
Bert surveyed his uncle in surprise.
"In fact, it is for that reason I have sent for you. Your father has put his case into my hands, and I propose to see him righted. This evening, when I am free from business cares, I will speak further with you on this subject."
Uncle Jacob called for his check, paid it, and they returned to the office.
CHAPTER XXV.AN ADVERTISEMENT AND WHAT CAME OF IT.
Uncle Jacob left the office at five o'clock, and Bert, who had been exploring the lower part of New York, went uptown with him on the Sixth Avenue road. They got out at Twenty-third Street, and Jacob Marlowe led the way to a large, roomy house near Seventh Avenue. He took out a night-key, and opening the outer door proceeded to a large, handsomely furnished apartment on the second floor, with a bedroom attached.
"This is where I live, Bert," he remarked, as he took off his hat and hung it up in a closet.
Bert looked around him. To him the room looked quite luxurious, being furnished in a style which would compare favorably even with Squire Marlowe's, the best house in Lakeville.
Bert knew nothing of room rents in New York; but, inexperienced as he was, he was surprised that his uncle, on a salary of twelve dollars a week, should be able to live so well. He would have been even more amazed had heknown that the weekly rent of the room he was in was twelve dollars.
"You've got a splendid room, Uncle Jacob," he said. "I shouldn't think you could afford to live in such style."
"Some of my friends think I am extravagant," observed Jacob Marlowe with a smile. "Perhaps they are right."
"I am afraid you can't save anything," went on Bert gravely. "What if you should get sick?"
"I see, Bert, you are more prudent than I am. However I have invested some of my money in the Magnet Mine, and it is likely to double. So I feel justified in making myself comfortable."
"I am glad to hear that, Uncle Jacob. You deserve to succeed, you are so kind to others."
"I am glad you think so, Bert. I want to do some good while I live. It gives a man something to live for."
After supper, which was taken at a restaurant near by, Uncle Jacob said: "Now let us come to business. I promised your father that I would do what I could to prove him innocent of the charge made against him ten years since."
"Where is my father? Is he in the city?"
"No; it is not safe for him to stay here, as he is subject to arrest, and might be recognized. He has gone back to Canada. Do you know the particulars of his story?"
"Yes; mother told me all about it last night."
"You know, then, that a young man named Ralph Harding informed against him, and that it was his testimony that led to your father's arrest."
"Yes."
"Your father is under the impression that this Harding was in league with Albert Marlowe, and was employed by him to throw suspicion upon your father. The weak point of the prosecution was that your father could only be connected with the five-hundred dollar bond found in his overcoat pocket, while a large balance was wholly unaccounted for. That made it seem like a cunning conspiracy, as undoubtedly it was."
"Were the other bonds never traced?"
"I understand not. No list of the numbers had been kept, and, not being registered, they could easily be sold. Your father thinks that upon these the present prosperity of Albert Marlowe was built up."
"How are we to prove that?"
"It will be difficult. One thing is absolutely essential. We must find this Ralph Harding, and persuade him, if we can, to exonerate your father and place the guilt where it properly belongs."
"Does father know where to find Harding?"
"No; if he did, the greatest difficulty in our way would be removed."
"Then I don't see that we can do anything," said Bert, disappointed.
"The task is difficult, but not impossible. All we know is, that only two months after the robbery Harding disappeared. It was reported that he went to the West, but this was by no means certain. From that day to this, nothing is positively known as to his whereabouts."
"Then I don't see what can be done," repeated Bert.
"There is one thing to guide us," continued Uncle Jacob; "the man's occupation. There is a fair probability that he is working in some shoe town, that is, if he is still alive."
"There are a good many shoe towns," objected Bert.
"True; the clew is only a faint one, yet sometimes a faint clew leads to important discoveries."
"Have you taken any steps yet, Uncle Jacob?"
"Yes; your father remembered that Harding was a Pennsylvanian by birth, and this made it possible, at least, that he had gone back to his native State. Accordingly, last week, I inserted an advertisement in two daily papers printed in Philadelphia, calling for information touching the man of whom we are in search. I will show you a copy of it."
Uncle Jacob took from his wallet a newspaper clipping and showed it to Bert.
It ran thus: