"Since I sent my last letter, there have been great changes at your uncle's farm. He has discharged the housekeeper, and some say he is courting the Widow Guff. For all I know they'll be married pretty soon. More than that, I heard somebody say that he was thinking of coming to New York to look for you."
"Since I sent my last letter, there have been great changes at your uncle's farm. He has discharged the housekeeper, and some say he is courting the Widow Guff. For all I know they'll be married pretty soon. More than that, I heard somebody say that he was thinking of coming to New York to look for you."
Nat read this communication with close attention. He knew the Widow Guff as a person who took boarders in the town where he had sold his cow. She had three children, and had the reputation of being a rather tart and self-willed woman.
"I shouldn't think Uncle Abner would want to marry that widow," thought Nat. "Wonder what put it into his head? And what put it into his head to come to New York to look for me? I'd rather he would keep his distance."
Nat did not know that for the past few months the Widow Guff had had a hard time of it with a number of her boarders, and could scarcely make both ends meet, yet such was a fact.
One day the widow called on a friend, and from this friend learned that Abner Balberry had discharged his housekeeper, and was keeping house by himself.
"It's a shame for him to be all alone," thought the widow. "And with that nephew of his away, too! Some good woman ought to be keeping house for him."
The widow had long had her eye on Abner Balberry, whom she knew fairly well. She knew Abner was well-to-do, and keeping a boarding house seemed of a sudden a great burden to her.
"Wish I could make Abner propose," she said to herself. "He just ought to have a wife."
So the widow kept on thinking, and by and by her face brightened. She had an idea, which she resolved to put into execution the very first opportunity.
"Fred," said she to her son, a tall gawk of a boy, "I want you to go to Mr. Abner Balberry's house, and ask him if he will stop in and see me the first time he comes to town."
"Wot do yer want, ma?" drawled Fred.
"Never mind, Fred. Just ask him to call. Say I'd like a little advice from him."
Fred shuffled off on his errand, and found Nat's uncle down in the henhouse, searching for eggs.
"Ma wants you to come and see her," said the youth.
"Wants me to come an' see her?" queried Nat's uncle.
"Yep."
"What for?"
"Dunno. Said she'd like some advice."
"All right; I'll come," said Abner.
That afternoon, after milking, he arrayed himself in his best, and drove over to the widow's boarding house. He was glad to make the visit, for since discharging his housekeeper he had found life on the farm rather lonely.
The widow greeted him warmly, and asked him into her parlor, closing the doors, so that nobody might interrupt them. She seemed somewhat embarrassed.
"Fred told me that you would like to see me," commenced Nat's uncle.
"Yes, Abner, I do; but I'm afraid you'll think it strange of me—at least of what I have to say to you."
"Oh, that's all right, Lucy; you know you kin trust me," he replied.
"Suppose,"—the widow cast down her eyes,—"mind, I am only supposing a case—suppose a person should find a pot full of gold pieces in an old well, would the law have a right to touch it, or would it belong to the finder?"
At the mention of a pot of gold, Abner Balberry became exceedingly interested. As we know, he was very miserly, and he realized that a pot of gold would be worth a good deal of money.
"A pot of gold, Lucy," he said. "Why, unquestionably, the law would have nothing to do with it."
"Could the one who had owned the house years before, or lived in the place, come forward and claim it?"
"No, Lucy; I think not."
"Thank you, very much, Abner, for your advice. The—er—question just came into my—er—mind, and I wanted to satisfy myself; that's all."
"Certainly, widow, certainly," answered Nat's uncle. He wanted to ask some questions, but did not dare.
"Now you are here, you must take supper with me," went on the Widow Guff.
"Thank you, Lucy, you are very kind——"
"I know you haven't any housekeeper any more, and nobody to cook for you. Yes, stay by all means."
The widow was a fairly good cook, and Nat's uncle ate with a relish all that was offered to him, ending with a piece of berry pie which was particularly fine. He spent a social hour after the meal, and then drove home in a thoughtful mood.
"Is it possible that the widow really found a pot of gold in the well?" he thought. "She didn't really say so, but it was mighty odd for her to ask me such questions. I'll have to look into this a bit." And then he got to thinking that the widow was not such a bad-looking woman after all, and a wife with a pot of gold would be a very nice thing to possess.
About a week later Abner Balberry had occasion to go to town, to draw a little money from the bank, with which to pay for a cow he had purchased. He was passing the widow's home when she came out on the piazza and nodded to him.
"Good-morning," she said.
"Good-morning," he returned, and stopped for a chat. During the course of the conversation he mentioned his errand, and she said she was going to the bank too. He asked her to ride to the institution, and she accepted the invitation. When they arrived there he told her he would wait until she was through. Then he went around to a side window of the bank, where he might hear what took place.
The widow tripped up to the window.
"Can you give me change for a ten-dollar gold piece?" she asked.
"With pleasure, Mrs. Guff," was the answer, and the change for the gold piece was immediately forthcoming.
"By the way," went on the widow, "the bank is in quite a flourishing condition, is it not?"
"We are doing finely, yes."
"And you receive deposits, do you not?"
"Of course."
"Do you receive as high as—as five thousand dollars?"
"No," answered the cashier, in some surprise. "Three thousand dollars from one depositor is our limit. Do you know of anybody who——"
"It's of no consequence," interrupted the widow, hurriedly. "I only asked out of curiosity. How much interest do you pay?"
"Four per cent. on the first thousand and three per cent. on the remainder."
"Thank you, and much obliged for the change. Good-morning," and the Widow Guff tripped out lightly and hurried up the street.
Abner Balberry had overheard every word and his face was a study as he went into the bank to draw what he wanted, thirty dollars.
"Jest had the Widow Guff here, didn't you?" he said, lightly.
"Yes, Mr. Balberry." The cashier paused. "Do you know if anybody has left her money lately?" he continued.
"Not that I know on? Why?"
"Oh, she was asking what rate of interest we paid, and if we took as high as five thousand dollars."
"I see. Well, I don't know nothin' about it," and Abner Balberry pocketed his money and his bank book, and walked out after the widow.
If he had been in deep thought before he was more so now. Was it possible that the widow had found five thousand dollars?
"She changed a ten-dollar piece," he reasoned. "I reckon I kin see through a millstone when there's a hole through it. Tell ye what, a widder with five thousand in gold ain't to be sneezed at! I wonder if anybody else knows o' this? Hope they don't!"
That evening the farmer sat up till late, thinking the situation over. He did not wish for a wife so much, but he did wish to get his hands on that pot of gold.
"If I want her I'll have to propose before some other feller hears o' this," he told himself.
The farmer made it his business to go to town two days later, and drove past the widow's house very slowly. She saw him from a window, and nodded and smiled.
This was encouraging, and on returning from his errand, he tied up in front of the place, and rang the bell.
"Oh, Abner, I am delighted to see you!" said the widow, on coming to the door. "Come in."
"Thank you, Lucy," he answered, and entered the parlor.
"It was so good of you to come," she simpered. "I wanted somebody to talk to."
"Anything special?" he asked, curiously.
"I have received notice to leave this house. I guess Mr. Haskell, the owner, wishes it for himself." She did not add that her rent was about due, and she did not know how to meet the payment.
"Where do you think of going, widow?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Abner. I haven't a single place. You know I'm all alone in the world."
She looked at him fondly, and he at once fell into the trap.
"Better come an' live with me, Lucy."
"Oh, Abner! What do you mean?"
"I mean that I think a heap o' you, Lucy, an' I'd like you fer my wife. I know as how we could git along fine together," answered Nat's uncle, earnestly. Just then that pot of gold seemed almost within his reach.
The widow blushed, and pretended to be greatly surprised.
"I—I never dreamed of this, Abner!" she whispered. "It's—it's so sudden."
"But you ain't goin' to say no, are you?"
"Well, I—I——" She blushed again. "I must say I like you a great deal, Abner."
"Then say yes."
"Well, I will," declared the widow, and then she allowed him to kiss her. Abner felt very happy, and asked her to set the day at once.
"Bein' as you're to git out o' this house, you might as well give up the boarders, an' come to my house at once," he said.
The widow consented, and said she would marry him in ten days. He drove home almost in a dream, and at once had the house put in order, and actually bought himself a new suit of clothes and a new hat.
"It's a good bit o' money to spend," he reasoned. "But I've got to do the proper thing, or she won't feel like lettin' go o' that gold."
When the time came, they were married in the local church, and then he drove her home. Her furniture had already arrived. She at once took possession of the place, and began to set things to rights.
"I won't ask her about that pot o' gold jest yet," mused Abner. "I'll have to wait a few days at least."
Several days passed, and Nat's uncle did all in his power to please his new wife. He found her very tart at times, and inclined to have her own way, but she was a good cook and general housekeeper, and that counted for a great deal.
"It won't do to cross her," he told himself. "I've got to find out about thet gold first."
At last he could stand the suspense no longer and so, one day, while at the dinner table, he told the story of a rich find of money by a lady in Philadelphia.
"It was in the weekly paper," said he, "and by the way," he went on, "what about the pot of gold you found?"
"The pot of gold I found?" she repeated, blankly.
"Yes, the one you found in the well. What did you do with it?"
"Why, I never found any pot of gold in a well, Abner! What put that in your head?"
He shoved back his chair in horror, and gazed at her blankly.
"Didn't you tell me you had found a pot of gold in a well, Lucy?" he demanded.
"Never!"
"Certainly, you did. You asked me if you could keep it or if the law could take it from you. I told you the law couldn't touch it."
"Oh, I remember now!" she answered, sweetly. "I read about such a find in a story magazine, and I was wondering if the finder could keep it, or if it would have to be turned over to the person who owned the property on which the well was located. But I certainly never said anything about my finding a pot of gold."
"Well, I'll be jiggered! Didn't you go to the bank an' ask 'em if they would take five thousand dollars?"
"Oh, I was only curious to know how much they would take, that was all, Abner." And she smiled again.
Abner could not endure that smile, and pushing back his chair still further, he arose and left the house. Once in the barn he shook his fist viciously at an imaginary enemy.
"Of all the fools!" he muttered. "I've been tuk in clean an' clear! She ain't got no pot o' gold, an' never did have! If this ain't jest the worst yet. Abner Balberry, you ought to be kicked full o' holes, and ducked in the pond besides!"
He felt in no mental condition to go back to the house, and so did not return until it was time for supper. He found a good meal awaiting him, and his wife on hand as pert as ever.
"What made you run off?" she demanded. "It wasn't a nice way to do."
"You fooled me about thet pot o' gold," he answered, bluntly.
"I never did, and I want you to stop talking about it, Abner Balberry."
This was said so sharply it fairly made him jump.
"Eh?"
"Did you marry me simply for my money?" she demanded, coming up to him with her hands on her hips.
"N—no!" he stammered.
"Well, then, stop talking about a pot o' gold. I haven't any, and neither have you."
"Ain't you got no money o' your own, Lucy?"
"If I have I'm going to keep it to myself," she answered. "Come to supper."
He sat down and ate in silence. The next day he wanted to speak about money again, but she cut him short.
"I don't want to hear about it," she said, tartly. "I'm your wife, and I am going to do my share, keeping house and helping around. And you have got to do your share, and treat me fairly. I once heard that the first Mrs. Balberry didn't get all that was coming to her—that she had to wear the same dress and bonnet for years. Now, I want to say, right now, that isn't my style. When I want a new dress I want it, and you are going to give it to me."
"Am I?" he said, slowly.
"Yes, you are, Abner Balberry, and if I want spending money you have got to give me that, too. If you don't, I'll quit work and won't do a blessed thing around the house. So there!"
She spoke with such vigor that it made him groan. He felt it in his bones that she meant to have her way.
"I am a-goin' to do my duty," he said, humbly.
"You'd better. If you don't——" and she ended with a shake of her head that meant a great deal.
"She's bound to have her way," he told himself later. "I've got to git used to it, I suppose. Drat the luck, anyway. I wish I had never heard o' thet pot o' gold!"
In a roundabout fashion Abner Balberry had heard that Nat had gone to Buffalo, and then he learned through a man who had been to New York that his nephew was in the metropolis. Abner had often longed to visit New York, and here he saw his opportunity to do so.
"I'm a-goin' to New York," he announced one day, shortly after the pot of gold incident.
"What are you going to do there?" asked his wife.
"I'm a-goin' to look fer Nat. I've heard he's down there, an' I want to save him from goin' to destruction."
"Better leave him where he is," said the new wife, who did not fancy another of her husband's people around the farm.
"No, I'm a-goin' to hunt him up. I feel it's my duty to do it."
"Then, if you go to New York, you have got to take me along, Abner."
"Take you along, Lucy?"
"Yes. I've always wanted to go to New York. Fred can take care of the farm while we are gone." Fred and the other Guff children had been installed on the place, but none of them had proved of much assistance. Fred, himself, was decidedly lazy—not half as willing as Nat, so Abner himself admitted.
"I don't see how I can take you, Lucy. It costs a heap to go to New York."
"Well, if you can spend the money on yourself, you can spend it on me, too," she answered, calmly.
"But it's my duty to go—to save Nat from goin' to the dogs."
"You didn't bother about Nat when you were courting me."
"I didn't know where he was, exactly."
"Pooh! Well, if you go you must take me. If you don't, you won't find me or the things when you get back."
This rather alarmed the miserly farmer, and he was half afraid she might sell off all his belongings, and clear out.
"All right, you shall go," he said, at last. "But it's goin' to cost a terrible sight o' money," he added, with a long sigh.
It was decided that they should start for New York on the following Monday morning. Mrs. Balberry had relatives at Rochester, and they made arrangements to stop over at that point for one night, for neither the farmer or his spouse wished to take a berth in a sleeping car.
"It's money thrown away," said Abner, "an', besides, who kin sleep with a car runnin' fifty miles an hour? If there was an accident a feller would be killed before he woke up!"
Mrs. Balberry's son, Fred, grumbled greatly at having to run the farm during their absence, and the mother had to promise the lad fifty cents a day for the extra work.
"It's an outrage," declared Abner, when he heard of this. "He ain't worth his keep!"
"He is my son, and you have no right to abuse him!" declared the new wife, and then the farmer found it best to say no more. He was discovering that his wife had a sharp tongue, and could use it on the slightest provocation.
Not to go to the expense of buying meals on the train, they provided themselves with a basket full of food, and set off bright and early at the time appointed. The run to Rochester was without incident, and Mrs. Balberry's relatives there treated them kindly. Then, on Tuesday, they took another train for New York, and late in the afternoon found themselves at the Grand Central Depot.
"It's a fearfully crowded place," was Abner Balberry's comment, as he gazed around.
"Which way are we to go, Abner?" asked his wife, and now she clung to him, for the bustle and noise frightened her.
"Let's git out on the street, where I kin have a look around," he answered, and pulled her along through the crowd. A boy wanted to take his carpet bag, but he shook the urchin off.
Fortunately, while at Rochester, the farmer had heard of a hotel which I shall call the Callac House, located but a few blocks from the station. A policeman directed the pair to this place, and here Abner Balberry succeeded in getting a room for a dollar and a half a night.
"Steep, ain't it?" he remarked, when he and his wife had been taken to the room, on the seventh floor.
"Steep? I should say it was, Abner—the seventh story! It's dreadful! I know I shan't sleep—thinking of what to do in case of a fire!"
"I meant the price. I don't care how high up it is."
"Will they give us meals for that, too?"
"No, the meals is extry."
"It's 'most a waste of money, I must say."
"Well, I had to pay it, an' so there ain't no use to talk about it. Let's go to bed, an' git our money's worth, an' in the mornin' I'll look fer Nat."
On the day that Abner Balberry started for New York to look for Nat, our hero was called into Mr. Garwell's private office.
"Nat, how would you like to take a run down to Trenton with me?" asked the gentleman, pleasantly.
"I'd like it first-rate, Mr. Garwell," was the prompt answer.
"Very well, we'll go in half an hour. I wish to look up certain records concerning some property."
"When will we be back, Mr. Garwell?"
"Oh, some time this evening," answered the gentleman.
It may be mentioned here that John Garwell was a real estate broker. He handled only high-class properties, and chiefly those used for business purposes. He had started years before in a modest way, but was now fairly well-to-do, and his business was steadily increasing. He had taken a great fancy to Nat, and was wondering if he could not use the lad as a private secretary.
"I'd do it in a minute if the boy knew shorthand and typewriting," he told himself. "Perhaps I can get him to learn those branches."
At the appointed time our hero was ready for the trip to Trenton. His employer had stuffed a valise full of legal papers, and Nat took possession of the bag.
"Be careful of that valise," cautioned Mr. Garwell. "The contents are very valuable."
"I'll look out for it," was the answer.
They walked to the ferry, and there took a boat to Jersey City, and then boarded a train bound for the capital city of New Jersey. Mr. Garwell had obtained seats in a parlor car, and the elegant furnishings impressed Nat deeply.
"These cars are like palaces," he said.
"They are certainly comfortable," was his employer's response.
On the trip to Trenton Mr. Garwell asked Nat much about himself, and at last the boy told his tale from beginning to end.
"I don't suppose you care to go back to the farm," said Mr. Garwell, with a quiet smile.
"No, sir, I want to stay in New York. I believe there is more of a future here for me than on the farm."
"Possibly that is true. You had positively nothing to do with that fire at your uncle's barn?"
"No, sir—I didn't even have a light around the place."
"But you saw somebody near by."
"Yes, sir. I thought it was my uncle."
"It must have been a tramp."
"Just what I think, Mr. Garwell."
"And you think your uncle is coming to New York to look for you?"
"He'll come, if the carfare doesn't scare him off. He is a very close man."
"Hum!" The real estate broker mused for a moment. "Well, if he comes, supposing you let me know? Maybe I can persuade him to allow you to remain in the city."
At this Nat's face brightened.
"Oh, Mr. Garwell, will you do that? I suppose, as my guardian, he has a legal right to order me back to the farm."
"We'll have to see about that. But he hasn't found you yet."
"That is true."
"You ought to let him know that you are well, and have a position. You need not give him your address."
"I'll write the letter to-morrow."
"Was your father a farmer?"
"Yes, sir, although when he was a young fellow like myself he lived in Brooklyn. His father and his grandfather were both born in New York."
"I see. Then you have city blood in your veins. That may account for your liking New York so much."
In a short time after the conversation came to an end, Trenton was reached, and calling a cab, Mr. Garwell had himself and Nat driven to one of the public buildings.
Here both spent some time in looking over legal records, and one of the records Nat had to copy off in pencil for his employer. After this, came a visit to a lawyer's office, and Nat was sent on a short errand.
When the business in Trenton was over, both found they had two hours to wait before they could get a train for home.
"Let us go and get a lunch," said Mr. Garwell, and led the way to a fine restaurant in that vicinity.
The real estate broker was on the point of entering the eating place when a child of five ran up to him, exclaiming:
"Papa, I want you to buy me some candy, please."
Now, as it happened, Mr. Garwell was a bachelor, so he was taken much by surprise, and so was our hero.
"Did you speak to me, my dear?" he asked, kindly.
"Why, yes, papa," answered the little one, readily.
"But I am not your father, child," and the real estate broker began to flush up.
"Oh, yes, you are!" came from the child.
"No. What is your name?"
At this the child laughed heartily.
"What a funny papa you are, to ask me my name. But won't you buy me the candy? Please, do," went on the little one, pleadingly.
"What a funny mistake," said Mr. Garwell to Nat.
"Don't you know the little girl?"
"Not in the least."
"Get the candy!" cried the child, petulantly.
"All right, I'll get you some candy, only don't call me papa," answered the real estate broker. And he slipped into a candy shop, and purchased some chocolates. He had just passed the confectionery over, when a middle-aged lady hurried up.
"Oh, mamma, see the candy papa bought me!" cried the little girl, gleefully.
"You shouldn't have bought her so much candy, Horace," said the lady to Mr. Garwell, severely. "Chocolates make Lulu sick."
Being thus addressed, John Garwell turned redder than ever.
"Excuse me, madam," he stammered. "I—er—this is a mistake. My name is not Horace."
"Not Horace. The idea!"
"My name is John—John Garwell, and I am from New York."
At this answer the lady looked perplexed, and then indignant.
"Horace, quit your fooling!" she said, coldly.
"I am not fooling, madam."
"Oh, such a man! Perhaps you'll say next that I am not your wife!" continued the lady, with a black look.
"You certainly are not my wife, for I am a bachelor, madam," and now Mr. Garwell began to grow more embarrassed than ever, while Nat was completely mystified.
"Not my husband? Oh, you wretch, to say such a thing!" The lady turned to the child. "Lulu, who is this?"
"Why, that's papa," answered the little girl, promptly.
"Now, Horace, do you hear that?"
"I—I heard what she said," answered the real estate broker, feebly. "But—but——"
"If you are not her father, why did you buy her candy?"
"Just to keep her from calling me papa."
"Indeed! Did you want to bribe her? Oh, Horace, this is infamous! I—I—have you lost your mind?"
"No, but I think you and this child have."
At this the lady stared, and gave a gasp. She fainted, and would have fallen to the pavement had not Nat caught and supported her. Instantly a crowd began to collect.
"What's the trouble here?" asked one.
"The gentleman's wife has fainted," answered another.
"Excuse me, but she is not my wife," said John Garwell. "I don't know her."
"Certainly, she is your wife," cried a bystander. "I've seen you together lots of times, Mr. Mann."
"Wait," put in Nat. "Did you call this gentleman Mr. Mann?"
"Yes, and that's his name."
"You are mistaken. This gentleman is Mr. John Garwell."
"Go on with you, I know Mr. Mann too well to believe such a yarn."
"I don't care what you say, this gentleman is Mr. John Garwell, and he is from New York City."
"Then he has been playing a part here in Trenton, where he is known as Horace Q. Mann," said the bystander.
By this time the lady was coming to her senses. She clutched at the real estate broker.
"Take me home!" she murmured. "Oh, this is too much!"
"Better take her home," said several.
"I don't even know where she lives," answered John Garwell, blankly.
"She lives at 19 Hallock Street," said a boy in the crowd. "I'll show you the place, mister."
"Why not take her and the little girl home?" suggested Nat. "Perhaps you can clear up this mystery there?"
"All right, I will," answered his employer. "Nat, call a coach. I'm going to see this affair through. It's the oddest thing I ever had happen to me."
The coach was called, and the lady and the girl got in, and John Garwell and Nat followed.
"I knew you were coming home to-day from that trip to Washington," said the lady, with a tearful look in her face, "but I never dreamed you would act this way, Horace."
"Madam, will you answer me one question. Have you a husband who went to Washington?"
"Oh, Horace!"
Seeing he could make no headway, Mr. Garwell became silent. Inside of ten minutes they reached 19 Hallock Street, and the coach came to a halt. A servant let them into the mansion. As she did this she stared at the real estate broker and gave a low cry of surprise.
"Why, I—er—I thought Mr. Mann was in the library!" she stammered. "I didn't know he went out to meet you, Mrs. Mann."
"Let us go to the library," said John Garwell.
The lady of the house was willing, and hurried hither, followed by her daughter, the real estate broker, and Nat. As they entered, a gentleman who had been seated in an arm-chair, reading a book, arose to meet them.
"Well, Clara, I'm back," he said, cheerily.
"Oh!" screamed the lady, and fainted again, and not without good reason, for before her stood a gentleman who was almost the exact facsimile of Mr. Garwell in face, form, and general appearance.
"Why, which one of you is my papa?" cried little Lulu.
"I'm your papa!" answered the gentleman of the house. "Why—er—who—who is this?" he stammered, looking at John Garwell.
"Let us attend to your wife first," was the answer, and soon the lady of the house was restored to her senses. Then began a series of explanations.
"It was dreadful of me to make such a mistake," said Mrs. Mann, hysterically. "But—but——"
"I don't wonder at it—now," answered John Garwell. "Your husband could pass for my twin brother."
"I can hardly tell one from the other, myself," said Nat.
"Never mind; he bought me some candy," put in little Lulu, and this made all laugh.
"I am going to ask you to do something," said John Garwell, to Horace Mann. "I think you owe it to me to walk down town, so that your fellow citizens can see that there are really two of us."
"Yes, Horace," pleaded his wife. "I made a lot of trouble for Mr. Garwell."
Horace Mann agreed readily, and soon he and the real estate broker and Nat left the residence. On the main streets of Trenton many stopped to stare after them. Among the number was the man who had spoken to Mr. Garwell, and insisted that the real estate broker was Mr. Mann.
"I apologize," said the man, promptly. "But I reckon you'll admit the resemblance is simply wonderful."
"I do admit it," was the answer. "Still, that doesn't make me anybody but myself."
Horace Mann insisted upon taking John Garwell and Nat to dinner, and treated them to the best the restaurant afforded.
"After this I'm going to wear a badge, so my wife will know me," said the Trenton man. "And I'll never dare to come to New York, for fear of being taken for you."
"Nat, if you wish to do me a favor, do not mention this affair to anybody in New York," said John Garwell, when the pair were on the train, bound for the metropolis.
"I won't say a word, sir."
"There was nothing wrong about it, but I don't want my friends to make a laughing stock of me," added the bachelor.
"I shall never mention it to anybody," returned our hero, and it may be added here that he never did. The matter was also hushed up in Trenton, so nothing more was heard of it.
Our hero was kept very busy for a day or two after his trip into New Jersey. Part of his time was spent over some books, and the balance was used up in running errands, and delivering important papers and documents.
Once again he visited police headquarters, to learn if anything had been heard of Nick Smithers.
"We have learned that he visited Jersey City not long ago," said an official. "But before we could get the authorities to lay their hands on him, he disappeared. We rather think he is in New York again, and if so, we shall do all we can to round him up."
On the following day Nat was sent on an errand up to Forty-second Street. He had to deliver some real estate documents, and this done, he stopped for a moment to look at the Grand Central Depot.
"Thank fortune, I am not quite so green as I was when I landed," he mused.
He was just leaving the vicinity of the station, when, chancing to look down a side street, he saw a sight that filled him with astonishment.
"Uncle Abner, and the Widow Guff!" he murmured. "What are they doing, talking to that seedy-looking fellow?"
Our hero was right. There, near the entrance to a big building, stood Abner Balberry and his bride, and a sharp-eyed but shabbily dressed stranger was talking to them very earnestly.
"Uncle Abner must have married the widow," thought Nat. "More than likely they are on their wedding tour. Wonder what that other fellow wants of uncle?"
Nat's first inclination was to leave the spot, so that his relative might not discover him. But he did not like the looks of the stranger, and so drew closer, to learn, if possible, what the interview meant.
The man had just come past Abner and his wife, and had pretended to pick up a pocketbook.
"Say, did you drop your pocketbook?" he asked, of Abner.
"I—I guess not!" stammered the farmer, and felt to make certain that his own wallet was safe.
"Queer, who did drop this," went on the stranger. "Pretty well filled, too," he added, opening the pocketbook and looking into it.
"Did you jest pick it up?" queried Abner, falling into the trap.
"Sure, right down there. Say, this is a find, ain't it?" and the man smiled broadly.
"That's what it is," said the farmer.
"I wish I could find a pocketbook," sighed Mrs. Balberry.
"I'd like to return this to the owner," went on the stranger. "I don't want to keep anybody's money."
"'Tain't everybody would say thet," was Abner's comment. He wished he had made the find.
"I suppose not, but I believe in being honest." The stranger scratched his head. "Hang me, if I know what to do," he continued.
"What do you mean?"
"I've got to go out of town soon—train leaves in ten minutes. I don't want to take this with me. It don't seem just right."
"I see."
"Can't you find the owner—I'm sure he would pay us a reward."
"Me find the owner?" stammered the farmer.
"Yes. You might advertise. The pocketbook has got at least a hundred dollars in it. The owner ought to give you twenty-five for returning it."
"Maybe he would."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said the stranger, earnestly. "You take the pocketbook, and give me ten dollars. If you can find the owner, you can claim twenty-five dollars reward."
"An' supposin' I can't find the owner?"
"Then you can keep the pocketbook."
The temptation was strong, and Abner looked at his newly-made wife.
"Might as well take it, Abner," she said, promptly. "I guess we can find the owner quick enough," and she pinched his arm suggestively.
The farmer drew forth his wallet, and began to count out ten dollars. At the same time the stranger gazed again into the other wallet.
"Must be about a hundred and fifty dollars in this," he said. "I'll trust you to do the square thing by the owner."
"Oh, you kin trust me," said Abner, quickly.
He was about to pass over his ten dollars, when he felt somebody catch him by the arm, and turning, he beheld Nat.
"Nat!" he gasped.
"Not so fast, Uncle Abner!" cried our hero. "You had better keep your money."
"Wh—what?"
"Put your money away."
"See here, what do you mean by interfering?" said the stranger, roughly.
"If he gives up the pocketbook take the ten dollars out of that," went on Nat. "My idea is, there isn't a dollar in the pocketbook."
"Nat!"
"That's right, uncle. This is an old game. I heard all about it only a few days ago."
"Oh, you go to grass!" cried the stranger, with a malicious look at Nat, and then he hurried away with all speed.
"Where did you spring from, Nat?"
"I was in this neighborhood on an errand, Uncle Abner. How do you do, Mrs. Guff."
"I'm not Mrs. Guff any more," said the lady. "I'm Mrs. Balberry, your new aunt."
"Oh, so you're married, Uncle Abner."
"Yes," was the answer. "But see here, Nat, I don't understand about thet pocketbook," said the farmer.
"It's simple enough. As I said before, the game is an old one. That fellow had the pocketbook all the time. It was stuffed with old paper, with a dollar bill wrapped on the outside. He wanted to get your money, and if he had gotten it he would have left you with a pocketbook worth about a quarter, with nothing but old paper and a dollar bill in it, and maybe he would have taken the dollar bill out, too."
"Well, I never!" cried Mrs. Balberry. "Did you ever hear of such a swindle!"
"They play all sorts of games in a big city like this. You've got to keep your eyes open."
"I know it," groaned Abner Balberry. "Yesterday, a cabman cheated me out o' fifty cents, an' a boy got a quarter from me by a bogus telegram. I thought something had happened to hum, and when I opened the telegram it had nuthin but a sheet o' blank paper inside!"
"That was too bad."
There was an awkward pause. Now that the farmer had found Nat he hardly knew what to say. He had expected to upbraid his nephew for running away, but the pocketbook episode rather flustered him.
"So you come to New York, didn't you?" he said, slowly.
"Yes."
"Are you working?"
"Yes, and I've got a pretty good job, too."
"What at?"
"I'm in an office downtown."
"How much do you git?"
"What do you think, Uncle Abner?"
"About two or three dollars a week."
"I get seven dollars a week."
"Seven dollars a week—fer a boy!"
"You have been very lucky," put in Mrs. Balberry. "I wish Fred could strike a job like that."
"I'm to have a raise later on," added Nat.
"It wasn't right fer you to run away, Nat," continued his uncle.
"There are two ways of looking at it."
"An' you had no right to set fire to the barn."
"I never did that, Uncle Abner. I wouldn't be so mean."
"And you sold thet cow."
"She was my cow."
"No, she wasn't!"
"I say she was, and I can prove it!"
"Well, we won't quarrel about the cow. What I want to know is, are you behavin' yourself here in the city?"
"I am. I work every day, and I board with some very nice people."
"Ain't squanderin' your earnin's on theaters an' sech?"
"No, I have never seen the inside of a theater."
"Maybe you ain't seen the inside of a church either," came from Mrs. Balberry.
"Yes, I go to church every Sunday."
"Then you don't want to go back to the farm?" came from Abner Balberry.
"No, I am never going back there."
"Don't you know that I am your guardeen?"
"That may be so, Uncle Abner, but I am not going back to the farm."
"You'll go if I say so!"
"No, I won't!" and Nat's eyes flashed fire. "I'm going to support myself, and all I ask is to be let alone."
"Oh, leave him stay, Abner," broke in Mrs. Balberry. "You don't want him, now you have Fred."
The farmer was on the point of saying that Nat as a worker was worth two Freds, but he thought it best to keep silent on that point.
"I'd like to make certain you are stopping with decent folks," said he, after another pause.
"And you won't bother me if I can prove that?" cried our hero, eagerly.
"I guess so, Nat. But you mustn't come down on me fer board an' clothes, later on."
"I won't."
The matter was talked over for a few minutes longer, and in the end Nat led the way to his boarding house and introduced his uncle and Mrs. Balberry to Mrs. Talcott. The surroundings rather pleased Abner Balberry, and he ended by arranging to stay with Mrs. Talcott for several days.
"It's better'n them hotels," said the farmer. "It's more like hum, ain't it, Lucy?"
"Yes, but it ain't quite so high-toned," said the bride, who was inclined to cut a dash whenever the opportunity afforded.
Abner Balberry and his bride remained in New York four days longer, and during that time Nat did all in his power to make their visit a pleasant one. He received Mr. Garwell's permission to remain away from work one day, and took his uncle and aunt to Central Park, and to the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Statue of Liberty. They were greatly pleased, and were frank enough to tell Nat so.
"I guess you are more cut out for the city than for the farm," said Abner to his nephew. "I hope you do well. You must write to us often, an' some day you must pay us a visit."
"I certainly will do that, Uncle Abner," said Nat, and then, to please the bride, he purchased for her a souvenir book, containing many illustrations of the metropolis. This book Mrs. Balberry prized highly, and from that moment she began to like Nat.
"He ain't half so bad as I was led to expect," she said, on the way home. "He seems to know what he is doing."
"He certainly is gettin' along," responded Abner. "Shouldn't wonder but what he'll be a regular business man some day."
"Do you think it would pay to send Fred down to the city?"
"No, he better stay on the farm. Fred ain't got the way about him thet Nat's got."
"He's just as smart," said the youth's mother, quickly.
"Maybe, but he ain't got the knack o' it."
"He would do just as well if he had the chance," continued Mrs. Balberry. As was perhaps natural she thought her own son as good as any boy.
On the day after Nat's uncle left New York John Garwell called the boy into his private office.
"Did you arrange matters with Mr. Balberry?" he asked, pleasantly.
"Yes, sir. He is going to leave me alone after this," and our hero smiled.
"I am glad to hear it, Nat. Then there is nothing in the way of your continuing here."
"No, sir."
"In that case I want to ask you a question. How would you like to take up stenography and typewriting?"
"I'd like it first-rate, if I thought I could do anything with them after I had learned them."
"I would like to have a private secretary who understood stenography, and the use of the typewriter."
"Oh, Mr. Garwell, do you think I would do?"
"Perhaps. You are bright, and I feel that I can trust you."
"If you want me to, I'll go at stenography and typewriting at once."
"You'll have to have some time for it."
"I can go at night. There are several evening schools I know of."
"Very well, then, you may start in at once, and I will pay your tuition fees."
"I can pay those out of my savings."
"No, bring the bills to me, Nat. And after this week your duties will be wholly as my private clerk," added John Garwell.
This made quite a change for our hero. But it was an agreeable one, and he went at his new duties with vigor. A good school was selected, which Nat attended five nights in the week.
"This kind of knocks me out," said Dick, when our hero told him of the change.
"No, it don't," said Nat, quickly. "I've made arrangements for you, Dick."
"Me? How?"
"You are to come three nights a week, for lessons in arithmetic and penmanship."
"Do they give the lessons free?"
"No, I am going to settle that."
"How much will you pay?"
"Three dollars a month."
"I ought to pay that."
"No, I am going to do it," said Nat, firmly, and he kept his word.
As John Garwell's private clerk, Nat received ten dollars per week, and as he had no school bills to pay for himself he found it easy to pay for Dick. The newsboy was making rapid progress, and this not only pleased his mother, but also the man who had promised to give Dick a position in his stationery store.
"I'm going to have a job in the store next month," said the newsboy one day. "Mr. Andrews' clerk is going to leave, and I am to take his place."
"And how much will Mr. Andrews give you?" asked Mrs. Talcott.
"Six dollars a week to start on, and he says he will give me eight dollars as soon as I can help on the books."
"I am glad to hear it, Dick."
"I guess I've got Nat to thank for the job," said the newsboy. "I had to do some writing for Mr. Andrews, and he said the writing was all right."
"Yes, you can certainly thank Nat," said Mrs. Talcott.
The days passed swiftly for Nat. He made good progress at the evening school, and Mr. Garwell was correspondingly pleased. Every day the real estate broker trusted Nat more and more, until the lad occupied a truly responsible position.
One day Nat was sent to Brooklyn, to have a certain document signed by a lady of wealth.
"You must get Mrs. Parloe's signature to this, Nat," said his employer, "and get somebody to witness the signature, and sign here," he added.
"Yes, sir."
"The paper is valuable, and I don't want you to let it go out of your sight," went on John Garwell.
"I'll take care to keep my eye on it," answered Nat.
He was soon on his way, and after crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, took a street car to the address given him. It was a fine brownstone house, with elegant lace curtains at the windows.
"Does Mrs. Parloe live here?" he asked of the girl who came to the door.
"Yes, sir."
"I would like to see her on business," and Nat handed out a card on which was printed: