When Luke and Mrs. Merton were alone, the old lady said, with a smile: "You seemed to have some difficulty in getting into the house."
"Yes," answered Luke. "I don't think your nephew likes me."
"Probably not. Both he and his mother are afraid someone will come between me and them. They are selfish, and cannot understand how I can have any other friends or beneficiaries. You are surprised that I speak so openly of such near relatives to such a comparative stranger. However, it is my nature to be outspoken. And now, Luke, if you don't think it will be tiresome to escort an old woman, I mean to take you downtown with me."
"I look upon you as a kind friend, Mrs. Merton," responded Luke, earnestly. "I want to thank you for the handsome present you made me yesterday. I didn't expect anything like ten dollars."
"You will find it acceptable, however, I don't doubt. Seriously, Luke, I don't think it's too much to pay for saving my life. Now, if you will wait here five minutes, I will be ready to go out with you."
Five minutes later Mrs. Merton came into the room attired for the street. They went downstairs together, and Luke and she got on a street car.
They were observed by Mrs. Tracy and Harold as they left the house.
"Aunt Eliza's very easily imposed upon," remarked the latter.
"She scarcely knows anything of that boy, and she has taken him out with her. How does she know but he is a thief?"
"He looks like one," said Harold, in an amiable tone. "If aunt is robbed, I shan't pity her. She will deserve it."
"Very true; but you must remember that it will be our loss as well as hers. Her property will rightfully come to us, and if she is robbed we shall inherit so much the less."
"I have been thinking, Harold, it may be well for you to find out something of this boy. If you can prove to Aunt Eliza that he is of bad character, she will send him adrift."
"I'll see about it, mother."
Meanwhile Mrs. Merton and Luke were on their way to the business portion of the city.
"I think I will stop at Adams Street, Luke," said the old lady. "I shall have to go to the Continental Bank. Do you know where it is?"
"I believe it is on La Salle Street, corner of Adams."
"Quite right. I shall introduce you to the paying teller as in my employ, as I may have occasion to send you there alone at times to deposit or draw money."
"I wish Harold was more like you," she said. "His mother's suggestion that I should take him with me as an escort would be just as disagreeable to him as to me."
"Is he attending school?" asked Luke.
"Yes. He is preparing for college, but he is not fond of study, and I doubt whether he ever enters. I think he must be about your age."
"I am nearly sixteen."
"Then he is probably a little older."
They entered the bank, and Mrs. Merton, going to the window of the paying teller, presented a check for a hundred dollars.
"How will you have it, Mrs. Merton?" asked the teller.
"In fives and tens. By the way, Mr. Northrop, please take notice of this boy with me. I shall occasionally send him by himself to attend to my business. His name is Luke Walton."
"His face looks familiar. I think we have met before."
"I have sold you papers more than once, Mr. Northrop," said Luke. "I stand on Clark Street, near the Sherman."
"Yes, I remember, now. We bank officials are apt to take notice of faces."
"Here, Luke, carry this money for me," said Mrs. Merton, putting a lady's pocketbook into the hand of her young escort. "You are less likely to be robbed than I."
Luke was rather pleased at the full confidence his new employer seemed to repose in him.
"I am now going up on State Street," said Mrs. Merton, as they emerged into the street. "You know the store of Marshall Field?"
"Oh, yes; everybody in Chicago knows that," said Luke.
In a few minutes they stood before the large store, and Mrs. Merton entered, followed by Luke.
Mrs. Merton went to that part of the establishment where woolens are sold, and purchased a dress pattern. To Luke's surprise, the salesman was the same one who had come to his assistance in the car the day previous when he was charged with stealing. The recognition was mutual.
"I believe we have met before," said the young man, with a smile.
"Yes, fortunately for me," answered Luke, gratefully.
"The two parties who were determined to find you guilty looked foolish when they ascertained the real character of your accuser."
"What is this, Luke? You didn't tell me of it," said Mrs. Merton.
The story was related briefly.
"I should like to meet that woman," said Mrs. Merton, nodding energetically. "I'd give her a piece of my mind. Luke, you may hand me ten dollars."
The goods were wrapped up and the change returned.
"Where shall I send the bundle, Mrs. Merton?" asked the salesman, deferentially.
"Luke will take it."
As they left the store Mrs. Merton said: "Did you think I was buying this dress for myself, Luke?"
"I thought so," Luke answered.
"No, I have dresses enough to last me a lifetime, I may almost say. This dress pattern is for your mother."
"For my mother?" repeated Luke, joyfully.
"Yes; I hope it will be welcome."
"Indeed it will. Mother hasn't had a new dress for over a year."
"Then I guessed right. Give it to her with my compliments, and tell her I give it to her for your sake. Now, I believe I will go home."
No present made to Luke could have given him so much pleasure as this gift to his mother, for he knew how much she stood in need of it.
When they reached the house on Prairie Avenue, they met Mrs. Tracy on the steps. She had been out for a short call.
"Did you have a pleasant morning, Aunt Eliza?" she asked, quite ignoring Luke.
"Yes, quite so. Luke, I won't trouble you to come in. I shall not need you to-morrow. The next day you may call at the same hour."
Luke turned away, but was called back sharply by Mrs. Tracy.
"Boy!" she said, "you are taking away my aunt's bundle. Bring it back directly."
"Louisa," said the old lady, "don't trouble yourself. That bundle is meant for Luke's mother."
"Something you bought for her?"
"Yes, a dress pattern."
"Oh!" sniffed Mrs. Tracy, eying Luke with strong disapproval.
In one of the handsomest streets in Milwaukee stood a private residence which was quite in harmony with its surroundings. It looked like the home of a man of ample means. It was luxuriously furnished, and at one side was a conservatory. It was apt to attract the attention of strangers, and the question was asked: "Who lives there?"
And the answer would be: "Thomas Browning. He will probably be mayor some day."
Yes, this was the residence of Thomas Browning, formerly Thomas Butler, the man to whom the dead father of Luke Walton had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and children. How he fulfilled his trust, or, rather, did not fulfill it, we already know. But in Milwaukee, where Mr. Browning had become a leading citizen, it was not known. It was entirely inconsistent with what was believed to be his character. For Mr. Browning was president of one charitable society and treasurer of another. At the annual meetings of these societies he was always called upon to speak, and his allusions to the poverty and privations of those who were cared for by these societies never failed to produce an impression.
It was popularly supposed that he gave away large sums in charity. Indeed, he admitted the fact, but explained the absence of his name from subscription papers by saying: "All my gifts are anonymous. Instead of giving my name, I prefer to put down 'Cash,' so much, or 'A Friend,' such another sum. I don't wish to influence others, but it jars upon me to have my name ostentatiously paraded in the public prints."
Now, in all subscriptions there are donations ascribed to "Cash" and "A Friend," and whenever these occurred, it was generally supposed they represented Mr. Browning. But, to let the reader into a little secret, this was only a shrewd device of Mr. Browning's to have the reputation of a philanthropist at little or no expense, for, as a matter of fact, he never contributed at all to the charities in which he seemed to take such an interest!
In a pleasant room on the second floor sat the pseudo-philanthropist. The room was furnished as a library. At a writing table, poring over what looked like an account book, he looked the picture of comfort and respectability. A few well-chosen engravings adorned the walls. A pleasant light was diffused about the room from a chandelier suspended over the table.
Thomas Browning leaned back in his chair, and a placid smile overspread his naturally harsh features. He looked about him, and his thoughts somehow ran back to a time when he was very differently situated.
"Five years ago to-night," he said, "I was well-nigh desperate. I hadn't a cent to bless myself with, nor was the prospect of getting one particularly bright. How I lived, for a considerable time, I hardly know. I did have a notion at one time, when I was particularly down on my luck, of committing suicide, and so ending the struggle once for all. It would have been a great mistake!" he added after a pause. "I didn't foresee at the time the prosperous years that lay before me. Frederick Walton's money changed my whole life. Ten thousand dollars isn't a fortune, but it proved the basis of one. It enabled me to float the Excelsior Mine. I remember there were a hundred thousand shares at two dollars a share, all based upon a few acres of mining land which I bought for a song. With the ten thousand dollars, I hired an office, printed circulars, distributed glowing accounts of imaginary wealth, etc. It cost considerable for advertising, but I sold seventy thousand shares, and when I had gathered in the money I let the bottom fall out. There was a great fuss, of course, but I figured as the largest loser, being the owner of thirty thousand shares (for which I hadn't paid a cent), and so shared the sympathy extended to losers. It was a nice scheme, and after deducting all expenses, I made a clean seventy-five thousand dollars out of it, which, added to my original capital, made eighty-five thousand. Then I came to Milwaukee and bought this house. From that time my career has been upward and onward. My friends say some day I shall be mayor of the city. Well, stranger things have happened, and who knows but my friends may be right!"
At this moment a servant entered the library.
"Well, Mary, what is it?" asked the philanthropist.
"Please, sir, there's a poor woman at the door, and she would like to see you."
"Ah, yes, she wants relief from the Widows' and Orphans' Society, probably. Well, send her up. I am always at home to the poor."
"What a good man he is!" thought Mary. "It's strange he gives such low wages to the girls that work for him. He says it's because he gives away so much money in charities."
Mary ushered in, a moment later, a woman in a faded dress, with a look of care and sorrow on her thin features.
"Take a seat, madam," said Thomas Browning, urbanely. "Did you wish to see me?"
"Yes, sir. I am in difficulties, and have ventured to call upon you."
"I am glad to see you. I am always ready to see the unfortunate."
"Yes, sir; I know you have the reputation of being a philanthropist.
"No, no," said Mr. Browning, modestly. "Don't mention it. I am fully aware of the flattering estimation which is placed on my poor services, but I really don't deserve it. It is, perhaps, as the President of the Widows' and Orphans' Charitable Society that you wish to speak to me."
"No, sir. It is as President of the Excelsior Mining Company that I wish to make an appeal to you."
"Oh!" ejaculated Browning, with a perceptible change of countenance.
"Of course you remember it, sir. I was a widow, with a small property of five thousand dollars left me by my late husband. It was all I had on which to support myself and two children. The banks paid poor interest, and I was in search of a profitable investment. One of your circulars fell into my hands. The shares were two dollars each, and it was stated that they would probably yield fifty per cent dividends. That would support me handsomely. But I didn't decide to invest until I had written a private letter to you."
She took it from the pocket of her dress, and offered it to Thomas Browning, but that gentleman waved it aside.
She continued: "You indorsed all that the circular contained. You said that within a year you thought he shares would rise to at least ten dollars. So I invested all the money I had. You know what followed. In six months the shares went down to nothing, and I found myself penniless."
"I know it, my good woman," said Thomas Browning. "I know it, to my cost. I myself had sixty thousand dollars invested in the stock. I lost it all."
"But you seem to be a rich man," said the poor woman, looking about her.
"I have made it out of other ventures. But the collapse of the mine was a sad blow to me. As the president, I might have had something from the wreck, but I did not. I suffered with the rest. Now, may I ask what I can do for you?"
"It was on account of your advice that I bought stock. Don't you think you ought to make up to me a part of the loss?"
"Impossible!" said Browning, sharply. "Didn't I tell you I lost much more heavily than you?"
"Then you can do nothing for me?"
"Yes; I can put you on the pension list of the Widows' and Orphans' Society. That will entitle you to receive a dollar a week for three months."
"I am not an object of charity, sir. I wish you good-night."
"Good-night. If you change your mind come to me."
"Very unreasonable, upon my word," soliloquized Thomas Browning.
At eleven o'clock Mr. Browning went to his bedchamber. He lit the gas and was preparing to disrobe, when his sharp ear detected the sound of suppressed breathing, and the point from which it proceeded. He walked quickly to the bed, bent over, and looked underneath. In an instant he had caught a man who had been concealed beneath it.
The intruder was a wretchedly dressed tramp. Browning allowed the man to get upon his feet, and then, facing him, demanded, sternly: "Why are you here? Did you come to rob me?"
"Did you come to rob me?" repeated Mr. Browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed.
There was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded—not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. Thomas Browning misinterpreted it. He thought the man was speechless from alarm.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded Browning, sternly.
The answer considerably surprised him.
"Why, pard, it's you, is it?" said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain.
"What do you mean by your impertinence?" asked the respectable Mr. Browning, angrily.
"Well, that's a good one! Who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?"
"What do you mean? Are you crazy, fellow?"
"No, I ain't crazy, as I know of, but I'm flabbergasted—that's what I am."
"Have done with this trifling and tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to the police?"
"I guess you won't do that, Tom Butler!" returned the burglar, coolly.
Browning stared in surprise and dismay at hearing his old name pronounced by this unsavory specimen of humanity.
"Who are you?" he demanded, quickly.
"Don't you know me?"
"No, I don't. I never saw you before. I don't associate with men of your class."
"Hear him now!" chuckled the tramp, in an amazed tone. "Why, Tom Butler, you an' me used to be pards. Don't you remember Jack King? Why, we've bunked together, and hunted for gold together, and almost starved together; but that was in the old days."
Browning looked the amazement he felt.
"Are you really Jack King?" he ejaculated, sinking back into an easy-chair, and staring hard at his unexpected visitor.
"I'm the same old coon, Tom, but I'm down at the heel, while you—do you really own this fine house, and these elegant fixin's?"
"Yes," answered Browning, mechanically.
"Well, you've fared better than I. I've been goin' down, down, till I've got about as far down as I can get."
"And you have become a burglar?"
"Well, a man must live, you know."
"You could work."
"Who would give such a lookin' man as I any work?"
"How did you get in?"
"That's my secret! You mustn't expect me to give myself away."
"And you had no idea whose house you were in?"
"I was told it belonged to a Mr. Browning."
"I am Mr. Browning—Thomas Browning."
"You! What has become of Butler?"
"I had good substantial reasons for changing my name—there was money in it, you understand."
"I'd like to change my own name on them terms. And now, Tom Butler, what are you going to do for me?"
Mr. Browning's face hardened. He felt no sympathy for the poor wretch with whom he had once been on terms of intimacy. He felt ashamed to think that they had ever been comrades, and he resented the tone of familiarity with which this outcast addressed him—a reputable citizen, a wealthy capitalist, a man whose name had been more than once mentioned in connection with the mayor's office.
"I'll tell you what I ought to do," he said, harshly.
"Well?"
"I ought to call a policeman, and give you in charge for entering my house as a burglar."
"You'd better not do that," he said without betraying alarm.
"Why not? Why should I not treat you like any other burglar?"
"Because—but I want to ask you a question."
"What did you do with that money Walton gave you on his deathbed?"
"What do you mean?" he faltered.
"Just what I say. What did you do with Walton's money?"
"I am at a loss to understand your meaning."
"No, you are not. However, I am ready to explain. On his deathbed Walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. Did you do it?"
"Who told you this?"
"It is unnecessary for me to say. It is enough that I know it. At the time you were poor enough. You might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. Now—it isn't so many years ago—I find you a rich man. Of course, I have my own ideas of how this came about."
"Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty?" demanded Browning, angrily.
"I don't accuse you of anything. I am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. I'm not an angel myself, Tom Butler, and I can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. I wish it had; I wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch I am now."
"Walton handed me some money," said Browning, cautiously—"not ten thousand dollars—and I handed it to his family."
"Where did they live?"
"In a country town," he answered, glibly.
"I was thinking I might run across Mrs. Walton some day," he said, significantly. "She would be glad to see me, as I knew her late husband in California."
"She is dead," said Browning, hastily.
"Dead! How long since?"
"She died soon after she heard of her husband's death. Died of grief, poor woman!"
"Were there no children?"
"Yes, there was a girl, but she was adopted by a relative in Massachusetts."
"I don't believe a word of it!" thought Jack King. "He wants to put me off the scent."
"Humph! And you gave the wife the money?"
"Of course."
"I may meet the girl some time; I might advertise for any of the family."
"Do you think they would be glad to see you?"
"They might help me, and I stand in need of help."
"There is no need of that. You are an old comrade in distress. I haven't forgotten the fact, though I pretended to, to try you. Here's a five-dollar bill. I'll let you out of the house myself. Considering how you entered it, you may count yourself lucky."
"That's all right, as far as it goes, Tom, but I want to remind you of a little debt you owe me. When you were out of luck at Murphy's diggings I lent you twenty-five dollars, which you have never paid back."
"I had forgotten it."
"I haven't. That money will come mighty convenient just now. It will buy me a better-looking suit, second hand, and make a different man of me. With it I can get a place and set up for a respectable human being."
"Here's the money," said Browning, reluctantly drawing the additional bills from his wallet. "Now that we are square, I hope you won't annoy me by further applications. I might have sent you out of the house under very different circumstances."
"You were always considerate, Tom," said the tramp, stowing away the bills in the pocket of his ragged vest. "May I refer to you if I apply for a situation?"
"Yes; but remember I am Thomas Browning. I prefer not to have it known that my name was ever Butler."
"All right! Now, if you'll do me the favor of showing me the door I'll leave you to your slumbers."
"It's very awkward, that man's turning up," muttered Browning, as he returned from letting out his unsavory visitor. "How could he have heard about Walton's money?"
Jack King left the house with the money Browning had unwillingly given him. He sought a cheap lodging and the next morning proceeded to make himself respectable. When he had donned some clean linen, a suit of clothes which he bought cheap at a second-hand store, taken a bath, and called into requisition the services of a barber, it would have been hard to recognize him as the same man who had emerged from under the bed of the well-known philanthropist, a typical tramp and would-be burglar.
Jack King counted over the balance of his money, and found that he had nine dollars and thirty-seven cents left.
"This won't support me forever," he reflected. "I must get something to do."
While sauntering along, he fell in with an old acquaintance named Stone.
"What are you up to, King?" he asked.
"Looking for a job."
"You are my man, then. I am keeping a cigar store at the Prairie Hotel, but I have some business calling me away from the city for six weeks or two months. Will you take my place?"
"What are the inducements?"
"Board and lodging and five dollars a week."
"Agreed."
"Come over, then, and I will show you the place."
The hotel was a cheap one, not far from the railway station, and though comfortable, was not patronized by fastidious travelers.
"When do you want me to take hold?" he asked.
"To-morrow."
"All right."
"Come around at ten o'clock. I want to leave Milwaukee in the afternoon."
King could not help reflecting about the extraordinary prosperity of his old comrade, Tom Butler, now Thomas Browning, Esq.
"What does it mean?" he asked himself. "He seemed very uneasy when I asked him about Walton's money. I believe he kept it himself. I wish I knew. If I could prove it, it would be a gold mine for me. I must make inquiries, and, if possible, find out Walton's family."
"Do you know anything of Thomas Browning?" he asked Stone.
"The philanthropist? Yes. What of him?"
"I called on him last evening."
Jack did not think it best to mention the circumstances of his visit.
"Indeed! How did you know him?"
"In California."
"I suppose he laid the foundation of his fortune there."
"Is he so rich, then?"
"Yes, probably worth a quarter of a million."
This was an exaggeration, but rich men's wealth is generally overstated.
"How does he stand in the city?"
"First-class. He has been mentioned for mayor. I shouldn't be surprised if he might get the office some day."
"He has certainly been very lucky."
"I should say so. Was he rich in California?"
"Not when I knew him. At one time there he had to borrow money of me. He paid me back last evening."
"He is on the top of the ladder now, at any rate."
"His respectability would suffer a little," thought Jack King, "if I could prove that he had appropriated Walton's money. I must think the matter over, and secure some information if I can."
The next Sunday evening he called at the house of the philanthropist, and sent in his name.
Thomas Browning went himself to the door. He was afraid King might be wearing the same disreputable suit in which he had made his former visit. But to his relief his visitor looked quite respectable.
"Do you wish to see me?" he asked.
"Yes; but only for a social call. I am not acquainted in Milwaukee, and it does me good to see an old friend and comrade."
"I have not much time to spare, but come in!"
They went into the philanthropist's library, formerly described.
"Have you found anything to do?" asked Browning.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
King answered the question.
"It is not much," he added, "but will do for the present."
"At any rate, it is considerably better than entering a house at night and hiding under the bed," said Browning, dryly.
"So it is," answered King, smiling. "You must make allowance for my destitute condition. I little thought that I was in the house of an old friend. I have been asking about you, Tom Butler—I beg pardon, Mr. Browning—and I find that you stand very high in Milwaukee."
A shade of annoyance showed itself on the philanthropist's face when King referred to him under his former name, but when his high standing was referred to he smiled complacently.
"Yes," he said, "I have been fortunate enough to win the good opinion of my fellow-citizens."
"Some one told me that you would probably run for mayor some day."
"It may be. I have been sounded on the subject."
"The worst of running for office is that if a man has ever done anything discreditable it is sure to be brought out against him."
"I hope you don't mean to imply that I have ever done anything discreditable," said Browning, sharply.
"Oh, dear, no! How could I think such a thing? But sometimes false charges are brought. If you had ever betrayed a trust, or kept money belonging to another, of course, it would hurt you."
"Certainly it would," said the philanthropist, his voice betraying some nervousness, "but I am glad to say that my conscience is clear on that point."
"By the way, Jack, let me send for a bottle of wine. We'll drink to the memory of old time."
"With all my heart, Tom. I see you're the right sort. When you are nominated for office I will work for you."
Browning smiled graciously on his visitor, and the interview closed pleasantly.
"He's afraid of me!" thought Jack, as he left the house.
When Luke brought home the dress pattern his mother was much pleased.
"I have needed a dress for a good while," she said, "but I never felt that I could spare the money to buy even a common one. This material is very nice."
"It cost seventy-five cents a yard. I was with Mrs. Merton when she bought it."
"I hope you didn't hint to Mrs. Merton that I needed one."
"No, that isn't like me, mother, but I own that I was very glad when she thought of it."
"Please tell her how grateful I am."
"I will certainly do so. Now, mother, I want you to have it made up at once. I can spare the money necessary."
"It will cost very little. I will have it cut by a dress maker and make it up myself. I hope you will long retain the friendship of Mrs. Merton."
"It won't by my fault if I don't. But I can't help seeing that her niece, Mrs. Tracy, and Harold, a boy about my age, look upon me with dislike."
"Why should they? I don't see how anyone can dislike you."
"You are my mother and are prejudiced in my favor. But I am sure they have no reason to dislike me. I think, however, they are jealous, and fear the old lady will look upon me with too much favor. She is very rich, I hear, and they expect to inherit all her fortune."
"Money makes people mean and unjust."
"If I can only get hold of some, I'll run the risk of that," said Luke. "I should feel a good deal more comfortable if I hadn't two enemies in the house."
"Do your duty, my son, and leave the rest to God. It isn't well to borrow trouble."
"No doubt you are right, mother. I will follow your advice."
The next morning Luke was at his usual stand near the Sherman House when a boy who was passing uttered a slight exclamation of surprise. Looking up, Luke recognized Harold Tracy.
"So it's you, is it?" said Harold, not over politely.
"Yes," answered Luke. "I hope you are well."
"I didn't know you were a newsboy."
"I spend a part of my time in selling papers."
"Does Mrs. Merton know you are a newsboy?"
"I think I have told her, but I am not certain."
"It must be inconvenient for you to come so far as our house every day?"
"Of course it takes up some time, but Mrs. Merton does not allow me to work for nothing."
"How much does Aunt Eliza pay you?"
"I would rather you would ask Mrs. Merton. I am not sure that she would care to have me tell."
"You seem to forget that I am her nephew that is, her grandnephew. It is hardly likely she would keep such a thing secret from me."
"That may be, but I would rather you would ask her."
"Does she pay you more than two dollars a week?"
"Again I must refer you to her."
"It is ridiculous to make a secret of such a trifle," said Harold, annoyed.
"How much do you make selling papers?" he asked.
"I averaged about seventy-five cents a day before I began to work for Mrs. Merton. Now I don't make as much."
"Why don't you black boots, too? Many of the newsboys do?"
"I never cared to take up that business."
"If you should go into it, I would give you a job now and then."
"I am not likely to go into that business, but I shall be glad to sell you a paper whenever you need one."
"You are not too proud to black boots, are you?" persisted Harold.
"I don't think it necessary to answer that question. I have always got along without it so far."
Harold carried the news home to his mother that Luke was a newsboy, and Mrs. Tracy found an opportunity to mention it at the supper table.
"Harold saw your paragon this morning, Aunt Eliza," she commenced.
"Have I a paragon? I really wasn't aware of it," returned the old lady.
"Your errand boy."
"Oh, Luke. Where did you see him, Harold?"
"He was selling papers near the Sherman House."
"I hope you bought one of him."
"I didn't have any change."
"Did you know he was a newsboy, Aunt Eliza?" asked Mrs. Tracy.
"Yes; he told me so. You speak of it as if it were something to his discredit."
"It is a low business, of course."
"Why is it a low business?"
"Oh, well, of course it is only poor street boys who engage in it."
"I am aware that Luke is poor, and that he has to contribute to the support of his mother and brother. I hope, if you were poor, that Harold would be willing to work for you."
"I wouldn't sell papers," put in Harold.
"I don't suppose Luke sells papers from choice."
"Aunt Eliza, I don't see why you should so persistently compare Harold with that ragged errand boy of yours."
"Is he ragged? I am glad you noticed it. I must help him to a new suit."
This was far from a welcome suggestion to Mrs. Tracy, and she made haste to add: "I don't think he's ragged. He dresses well enough for his position in life."
"Still, I think he needs some new clothes, and I thank you for suggesting it, Louisa."
The next day, Luke, to his surprise, was asked to ac company Mrs. Merton to a ready-made clothing house on Clark Street, where he was presented with a fine suit, costing twenty dollars.
"How kind you are, Mrs. Merton!" said Luke.
"I didn't notice that you needed a new suit," returned the old lady, "but my niece, Mrs. Tracy, spoke of it, and I was glad to take the hint."
It was in the afternoon of the same day that Luke, having an errand that carried him near the lake shore, strolled to the end of North Pier. He was fond of the water, but seldom had an opportunity to go out on it.
"How are you, Luke?" said a boy in a flat-bottomed boat a few rods away.
In the boy who hailed him Luke recognized John Hagan, an acquaintance of about his own age.
"Won't you come aboard?" asked John.
"I don't mind, if you'll come near enough."
In five minutes Luke found himself on board the boat, He took the oars and relieved John, who was disposed to rest.
They rowed hither and thither, never very far from the pier. Not far away was a boat of the same build, occupied by a man of middle size, whose eccentric actions attracted their attention. Now he would take the oars and row with feverish haste, nearly fifty strokes to a minute; then he would let his oars trail, and seem wrapped in thought. Suddenly the boys were startled to see him spring to his feet and, flinging up his arms, leap head first into the lake.
Luke and his companion were startled by the sudden attempt at suicide, and for an instant sat motionless in their boat. Luke was the first to regain his self-possession.
"Quick, let us try to save him," he called to John Hagan.
They plunged their oars into the water, and the boat bounded over the waves. Fortunately they were but half a dozen rods from the place where the would-be suicide was now struggling to keep himself up. For, as frequently happens, when he actually found himself in the water, the instinct of self-preservation impelled the would-be self-destroyer to attempt to save himself. He could swim a very little, but the waters of the lake were in lively motion, his boat had floated away, and he would inevitably have drowned but for the energetic action of Luke and John. They swept their boat alongside, and Luke thrust his oar in the direction of the struggling man.
"Take hold of it," he said, "and we will tow you to your own boat."
Guided and sustained by the oar, the man gripped the side of Luke's boat, leaving the oar free. His weight nearly overbalanced the craft, but with considerable difficulty the boys succeeded in reaching the other boat, and, though considerably exhausted, its late occupant managed to get in.
As he took his place in the boat he presented a sorry spectacle, for his clothes were wet through and dripping.
"You will take your death of cold unless you go on shore at once," said Luke.
"It wouldn't matter much if I did," said the young man, gloomily.
"We will row to shore also," said Luke to John Hagan. "He may make another attempt to drown himself. I will see what I can do to reason him out of it."
They were soon at the pier, and the three landed.
"Where do you live?" asked Luke, taking his position beside the young man.
The latter named a number on Vine Street. It was at a considerable distance, and time was precious, for the young man was trembling from the effects of his immersion.
"There is no time to lose. We must take a carriage," said Luke.
He summoned one, which fortunately had just returned from the pier, to which it had conveyed a passenger, and the two jumped in.
Luke helped him up to his room, a small one on the third floor, and remained until he had changed his clothes and was reclining on the bed.
"You ought to have some hot drink," he said. "Can any be got in the house?"
"Yes; Mrs. Woods, the landlady, will have some hot water."
Luke went downstairs and succeeded in enlisting the sympathetic assistance of the kind-hearted woman by representing that her lodger had been upset in the lake and was in danger of a severe cold.
When the patient had taken down a cup of hot drink, he turned to Luke and said: "How can I thank you?"
"There is no need to thank me. I am glad I was at hand when you needed me."
"What is your name?"
"Luke Walton."
"Mine is Ambrose Kean. You must think I am a fool,"
"I think," said Luke, gently, "that you have some cause of unhappiness."
"You are right there. I have been unfortunate, but I am also an offender against the law, and it was the fear of exposure and arrest that made me take the step I did. I thought I was ready to die, but when I found myself in the water life seemed dearer than it had before, and I tried to escape. Thanks to you, I am alive, but now I almost wish that I had succeeded. I don't know how to face what is before me."
"Would you mind telling me what it is?"
"No; I need someone to confide in, and you deserve my confidence. Let me tell you, then, that I am employed in an office on Dearborn Street. My pay is small, twelve dollars a week, but it would be enough to support me if I had only myself to look out for. But I have a mother in Milwaukee, and I have been in the habit of sending her four dollars a week. That left me only eight dollars, which I found it hard to live on, and there was nothing left for clothes."
"I can easily believe that," said Luke.
"I struggled along, however, as best I might, but last week I received a letter from my mother saying that she was sick. Of course her expenses were increased, and she wrote to know if I could send her a little extra money. I have been living so close up to my income that I absolutely had less than a dollar in my pocket. Unfortunately, temptation came at a time when I was least prepared to resist it. One of our customers from the country came in when I was alone, and paid me fifty dollars in bills, for which I gave him a receipt. No one saw the payment made. It flashed upon me that this sum would make my mother comfortable even if her sickness lasted a considerable time. Without taking time to think, I went to an express office, and forwarded to her a package containing the bills. It started yesterday, and by this time is in my mother's hands. You see the situation I am placed in. The one who paid the money may come to the office at any time and reveal my guilt."
"I don't wonder that you were dispirited," returned Luke. "But can nothing be done? Can you not replace the money in time?"
"How can I? I have told you how small my salary is."
"Have you no friend or friends from whom you could borrow the money?"
"I know of none. I have few friends, and such as they are, are, like myself, dependent on small pay. I must tell you, by the way, how we became poor. My mother had a few thousand dollars, which, added to my earnings, would have made us comparatively independent, but in an evil hour she invested them in a California mine, on the strength of the indorsement of a well-known financier of Milwaukee, Mr. Thomas Browning——"
"Who?" asked Luke, in surprise.
"Thomas Browning. Do you know him?"
"I have seen him. He sometimes comes to Chicago, and stops at the Sherman House."
"He recommended the stock so highly—in fact, he was the president of the company that put it on the market—that my poor mother thought it all right, and invested all she had. The stock was two dollars a share. Now it would not fetch two cents. This it was that reduced us to such extreme poverty."
"Do you think Mr. Browning was honest in his recommendation of the mine?" asked Luke, thoughtfully.
"I don't know. He claimed to be the principal loser himself. But it is rather remarkable that he is living like a rich man now. Hundreds lost their money through this mine. As Mr. Browning had himself been in California——"
"What is that?" asked Luke, in excitement. "You say this Browning was once in California? Can you tell when?"
"Half a dozen years ago, more or less."
"And he looks like the man to whom my poor father confided ten thousand dollars for us," thought Luke. "It is very strange. Everything tallies but the name. The wretch who swindled us was named Butler."
"Why do you ask when Mr. Browning was in California?" asked the young man.
"Because my father died in California," answered Luke, evasively, "and I thought it possible that Mr. Browning might have met him."