As he spoke he slipped his hand into Cross' breast pocket and drew forth the letter.
"Mine, sure enough!" he ejaculated.
"Is the money order in it?" questioned Robert.
"Yes. My boy, you have done me a valuable service."
"I am glad of it."
"I really believe I ought to have this rascal arrested."
"I think you are justified, Mr. Shotmore. It's bad policy to have such dishonest persons running around loose."
"Arrest me?" gasped Andy Cross. "If you have me arrested you will make the greatest mistake of your lives."
"I'll risk it," said Charles Shotmore.
He started to look around for an officer.
As he did so, Andy Cross gave a pull and freed himself from both Shotmore and Robert. Then he dashed into the street, among the cars and trucks going in both directions.
"Hi! stop him!" cried Shotmore. "Police! Police!"
Robert at once took up the chase. Soon Shotmore joined in. But Andy Cross was fleet of foot, and fear lent speed to his feet. By the time the other side of the crowded thoroughfare was gained he was nowhere to be seen.
"He's disappeared," panted Robert, coming to a halt at the corner.
"So I see," returned Charles Shotmore. "He could run, couldn't he?"
"Well, he had something to run for."
"That's right." Shotmore indulged in a low laugh. "I'm glad I got my letter and money order away from him before he started."
"Do you know him?"
"No more than that he boarded at the same house with me. I fancy he is an all-round sharper, from what the servant girl said of him."
"Then it's a pity he escaped."
"I may meet him again some day. But I owe you something for your aid."
"You are welcome to whatever I have done for you."
"But I would like to pay you something," persisted Charles Shotmore.
"I don't wish it."
"May I ask your name?"
Robert gave it, and they shook hands.
"I hope we meet again," said the gentleman, and after a few more words they parted, Shotmore going over to have his money order cashed without further delay,—he being already known at the post-office.
From the directory in the drug store Robert had obtained Herman Wenrich's address. Theold lumberman lived on the outskirts of the city, on the other side of the Chicago River, and the youth set off for the place, little dreaming of what trouble his visit was to bring to him.
CHAPTER XIX.
AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK.
Andy Cross ran for several blocks after leaving Charles Shotmore and Robert so unceremoniously. Then he turned into a large office building and took the elevator to one of the upper floors.
Here he felt himself tolerably safe from pursuit.
He stood at a hall window, which overlooked the street, and gazing down saw a friend walking along on the opposite sidewalk.
"Jim Huskin," he murmured. "I wonder if he has anything new on?"
Feeling that Shotmore and Robert must have given up the pursuit by this time, he descended again and hurried after the man he had recognized.
"Hullo, Jim!" he said, as he caught the other by the arm.
Jim Huskin started, half fearing that it was adetective who had accosted him, for he was wanted for several petty crimes—indeed the two rascals were well matched, and had committed many a wrong deed together.
"Andy!" replied Jim Huskin. "How are you?"
"Nothing to brag of," answered Andy Cross.
"Then you haven't been striking it rich lately."
"On the contrary, I've had mighty poor luck. Have you got another cigar, Jim?" He said this for Huskin was smoking.
"No. I got this out of a gent at the Palmer House. I tried to work him for a loan, but it was no go."
"Then I reckon you haven't any more money than I."
"I've got a quarter," answered Jim Huskin, frankly.
"You are exactly five cents richer than yours truly."
Both sharpers laughed at this. With them it was "easy come, easy go," and temporary poverty did not bother them.
"Perhaps I am five cents richer," went on Jim Huskin. "But I owe my hotel three weeks' board."
"It's a wonder they let you stay that long."
"I've got a well-filled trunk in my room." And Huskin chuckled and winked one eye.
"Filled with bricks, eh?"
"No, paving stones—although they are about the same thing. Say, when the hotel keeper opens that he'll have enough to build on another addition."
"He won't build it on to accommodate such guests as you."
"I don't suppose he will—and I don't care."
"I am behind two weeks with my landlady. She's sharp after me—but I don't care. I can't go back, even if I wanted to."
"Had a falling out with somebody?"
"Yes. One of the boarders got a money order and I tried to get it cashed for him."
"And it didn't work, eh?"
"No, it didn't—and what's more, the man and a boy came close to having me arrested. I'll tell you what, Jim, I would like to get that boy in some spot where I could go through his pockets."
"Has he got much?"
"He's got a good silver watch, and I saw him cash money orders at the post office amounting to one hundred and fifty dollars."
"Phew! that would make a nice haul. Where is the boy?"
"I don't believe he's far off. I left him near the post office."
"Why not look him up?"
"He would recognize me and make trouble."
"Then point him out to me, and I'll see what I can do."
Andy Cross was willing to do this, providing Jim Huskin would "whack up" with anything which was netted from the proceedings, and the pair sauntered the way Cross had come.
"There he is now!" cried the sharper presently.
He pointed across the street to where Robert was walking, bound for the place where Herman Wenrich lived.
"You are sure that's the boy?" asked Huskin.
"I am positive."
"Is the money in his vest pocket?"
"I think he put it in his breast pocket."
"Then I'll soon have it from him, providing I get half a chance."
"You've got to be careful. He's a smart customer, I can tell you that."
"I've never met the boy or man I couldn't work—if I had half a show," returned Jim Huskin confidently. "What will you do, follow me?"
"Yes. If you can corner him and want assistance, whistle, and I'll do all I can," added Andy Cross.
So it was arranged, and a moment later Jim Huskin crossed the street and placed himself at Robert's heels.
By this time the boy was close to the river, and crossing the bridge at the foot of the street, he hurried on in the direction where the old lumberman resided.
"I wonder if he lives over here?" thought Huskin. "If he does I must tackle him before he reaches home."
Several blocks were passed, and Robert came to a halt on a street corner.
As he did so Huskin stooped down and pretended to pick up a handkerchief.
"Excuse me, but you dropped your handkerchief," he said, holding out the article.
Robert felt in his pocket.
"You are mistaken, the handkerchief is not mine," he answered.
"Is that so? Why, I was sure you dropped it." And Jim Huskin appeared much surprised. "It's a pretty good article," he continued. "I guess I'll keep it."
"You might as well—if you can't find the owner."
"I once had a funny thing happen with a handkerchief," went on Jim Huskin, as he ranged up alongside of Robert when the boy started off again. "A lady dropped hers in a street car. I picked it up, and as I did so, out rolled, what do you think?"
"I'm sure I cannot imagine."
"A set of false teeth. The lady had been wiping her mouth and the teeth had dropped into the handkerchief. Maybe both of us weren't embarrassed. The lady got as red as a beet, and left the car at the very next corner." And Jim Huskin laughed loudly. "A good joke, wasn't it?"
"Perhaps for the others in the car; not for the lady," answered Robert, yet he could not help smiling.
"Live down this way?" asked the sharper carelessly.
"No, I am a stranger in this part of Chicago. I am looking for Grandon street."
"Grandon Street. I can take you there easily enough. I own property on that street."
"Do you? Then perhaps you can take me to number 238—that is, if you are going there now."
"Yes, I was bound there—to see one of mytenants who talks of moving. Number 238 is less than a block from my houses. I think the Nelsons live at 238,—or is it the Romers."
"I am looking for a man named Herman Wenrich—an old lumberman from Michigan."
"Oh, yes, to be sure. I know him fairly well. Doesn't he live in the house with the Nelsons,—or maybe it's next door?"
"I don't know who he lives with, or if he lives alone. He is a stranger to me. I want to see him on a little business."
"And you have never been in this part of Chicago before?"
"No."
Jim Huskin turned his head to conceal a smile. "I reckon I can lead him where I please now," he thought. Then he looked back, to see Andy Cross following them at a distance of less than a block.
Several squares were covered, and Huskin took Robert around a corner into a street which was little better than an alleyway.
"This is a short cut," he said. "The street is all torn up a bit further on, and unless we go this way we will have to walk several blocks out of our way."
"Any way will suit me," answered Robert."Only I may have some difficulty in finding my way back."
"Not if you take the street two blocks to our left."
As they entered the alleyway Jim Huskin began to whistle a lively air. It was the signal for Andy Cross to draw closer.
"I always whistle when I get here," explained the sharper, glibly, as he stopped for a second. "I was born and brought up in this neighborhood, and the scene takes me back to my boyhood days."
Robert was not favorably impressed by the surroundings. On one side of the alleyway were a number of deserted tenement houses, and on the other the high brick wall surrounding a factory yard. "He must have been pretty poor to have lived in one of those shanties," thought the boy.
"In those days these houses were well kept, and where the factory stands was a pretty open lot," said Huskin, as if reading his thoughts. "Everything is changed now. Will you mind my stopping at one of the houses for a minute? An old negro lives here, and I want to see if he is sick."
"All right."
Jim Huskin entered one of the tenements, to find it as he expected, deserted.
"Say, just look here a minute!" he cried, coming to the front door. "What do you think is the matter with this poor fellow?"
Wondering what was up, Robert advanced and entered the hallway of the tenement.
The light was poor, and for several seconds he could see but little.
"I don't see anybody—" he began, when, without warning, Jim Huskin leaped upon him and caught him by the arm and collar.
"Give me that money and your watch!" he cried, harshly. "Give it to me instantly, or it will be the worse for you."
CHAPTER XX.
THE ESCAPE OF CROSS AND HUSKIN.
For the moment Robert was dumfounded, for he had not dreamed that this pleasant stranger was about to attack him.
"Do you hear? Give me that money," repeated Huskin, and tightened his grip.
"Let me go!" returned Robert. "Would you rob me?"
"I want that money you drew out of the post-office. And I want it instantly."
"I won't give you a cent," cried Robert, and began to struggle with all the strength at his command.
Although but a boy, he was strong, and soon it looked as if he might break away in spite of all the sharper could do to hold him. Seeing this, Huskin whistled loudly three times,—a signal that Andy Cross must join him at once.
The signal had scarcely come to an end when Andy Cross pushed his way into the hallway.
"Quick—hold him!" shouted Jim Huskin. "He's a regular eel."
"I've got him," answered Andy Cross, and caught Robert from behind, and soon his bony fingers were pressing themselves directly into the poor youth's windpipe, so that it looked as if Robert would be choked to death.
Robert could not see Cross, but he recognized the sharper's voice, and at once came to the conclusion that the two men had laid a plot to rob him.
Nearly strangled, he let go his hold of Huskin, and tried to break Andy Cross' grip.
The moment Jim Huskin felt himself free he wrenched Robert's watch and chain from their fastening and placed them in his own pocket.
Then he dove into the boy's coat.
"Let—let me go!" spluttered Robert. "Help! thiev——"
He could go no farther, for now his wind was cut off entirely. All grew black before his eyes, and it was only in a hazy fashion that he felt Huskin snatch the money from where he had placed it with care.
"Got what you want?" asked Andy Cross.
"Yes."
"Sure about the money?"
"Here is a package of five and ten dollar bills."
"That's it. And the watch?"
"Safe."
"Then we had better make tracks."
"Ram his head against the wall first. We don't want him to give the alarm too soon."
Andy Cross understood what Huskin meant, and between them the sharpers raised the boy's body up and threw him with great violence against the hard wall close at hand.
The shock landed mainly upon Robert's head, as was intended, and with a groan, the youth sank down in a heap unconscious.
"I guess he's done for," said Cross.
"He is for a while, anyway," responded Huskin. "Come, the sooner we get out of this neighborhood the better off we will be."
Running to the doorway of the tenement, both sharpers peered forth.
"A man is coming!" cried Cross.
"Let us get out by the back way," said his companion.
They hurried back past Robert, and into the kitchen.
Here, to their surprise, a fire was burning in a dilapidated stove.
"Hullo! I thought this place was deserted," ejaculated Jim Huskin, in astonishment.
"We must not be caught," added Cross. "Here is a back door and another alleyway."
The door was unlocked, and they slipped outside. Soon the rascals had placed several blocks between themselves and the scene of the nefarious encounter.
Meanwhile the man coming up the alleyway paused at the tenement.
He lived in the place, paying no rent. He was very old, and could hardly walk, and his eyesight was poor.
He had been to the corner grocery to buy himself a few of the necessities of life.
Entering the semi-dark hallway he shambled along until his foot struck Robert's body.
"Why, what can this be?" he muttered, and bent over that he might see.
He was greatly amazed to find a boy there, suffering from a slight cut over one eye, from which the blood was flowing.
"Something is wrong," he thought. "Has the lad met with foul play?"
He was half of a mind to summon the police, but was afraid he could not find an officer short of six or seven blocks off.
Setting down his basket, he raised up Robert's head. As he did this, our hero gave a groan and a shiver.
"Don't, don't hit me again," he murmured. "Don't!"
"I ain't hit ye," answered the old man. "How did ye git here?"
But Robert did not answer, having relapsed again into unconsciousness.
Not without considerable trouble did the old man bring some cold water and bathe Robert's face, and bind up the wound with an old towel. He carried the boy to the kitchen and set him down on a worn-out lounge.
"How do you feel?" he asked as Robert opened his eyes and stared around him.
"Where are they—the rascals?" asked Robert. He was completely bewildered.
"Who do you mean?"
"I mean the men who attacked me."
"I don't know anything about 'em. I found ye in the hallway in a heap."
"Two men attacked me and robbed me."
"Gee shoo! Did they git much?"
"Yes." Robert gave a groan. "They got my watch and over a hundred and fifty dollars."
At this announcement the eyes of Lemuel Branley almost started from their sockets.
"A hundred and fifty dollars!"
"Yes; and a watch worth twenty-five more."
"What was ye a-doing with so much money about ye?"
"I was expecting to use the most of it to buy something with. So you didn't see the men?"
Lemuel Branley shook his head.
"They couldn't have left so long ago."
"Then they didn't go out by the front door, for I was at the top of the alleyway quite a spell."
"Is there a rear way out?"
"Yes; and come to think of it, the back door was wide open when I first came in for the water."
"Then they went out that way."
There was a pause.
"Did you know them?" asked the old man, curiously.
"I knew one of them in a way. The other introduced himself to me while I was on my way over here."
And Robert related how he had fallen in with Jim Huskin, and how the sharper had gotten him to enter the tenement hallway.
"You're lucky to escape with your life," saidLemuel Branley. "You don't know how bad some of the criminals in Chicago are."
"I must try to get on their track. I can't afford to lose my money, nor the watch, either." And Robert's face grew serious. The watch was the one his father had given him, and without the money how was he to purchase the map Dick Marden was so anxious to possess?
"You'll have to hustle to find them rogues, to my way of thinking," said Lemuel Branley. "Like as not they'll quit Chicago just as soon as possible."
Robert stood up. He felt strangely weak and far from able to pursue anybody.
"Can you call a policeman?" he asked.
"Certainly."
Lemuel Branley made off, and while he was gone the boy brushed off his clothing and washed himself. Luckily he had a bit of court-plaster in his pocket, and this he plastered over the cut on forehead, thus doing away with the ragged towel.
By the time he had finished he felt a little stronger. Soon the old man came back, followed by a tall, heavy-set officer of the law.
"I saw you and one of the men a while ago," said the policeman, after our hero had told his story. "The man didn't impress me very favorably. I rather think I've seen his picture in the rogues' gallery."
"Then you would know him again?"
"I think I would."
"I wish you would try to hunt him up."
"I will. Will you go along."
Robert was willing, and they left the tenement by the back way, our hero first thanking Lemuel Branley for what he had done.
But nothing was to be seen of Andy Cross and Jim Huskin, and in an hour the policeman and the youth gave up the hunt. The officer directed Robert to the nearest station house, and here the particulars of the robbery were taken down. A large book of photographs was placed before Robert, and he soon found Jim Huskin's portrait.
"That's the man," he said.
"You are certain."
"Yes, I would know him out of a thousand."
Andy Cross' photograph could not be found, since he had not yet sat for the rogues' gallery, even though he richly deserved it.
The officer in charge took down Robert's address, and told our hero if anything was learned he would let the youth know.
With this small consolation Robert had to becontent. He left the station house much crestfallen.
"Everything seems to be going wrong," he mused. "I do hope those rascals are caught, and that very soon."
CHAPTER XXI.
ROBERT AND THE OLD LUMBERMAN.
It must be confessed that Robert was in no humor to hunt up Herman Wenrich.
"Even if I find him, what good will it do, if I can't offer him the money for the map?" was his mental comment.
Nevertheless, there seemed to be nothing else to do, and so, after a lunch, he started again for No. 238 Grandon Street.
He was careful where he went this time, and found the thoroughfare without further difficulty. It was fully eight blocks from the tenement where he had been robbed.
The number he was searching for was a block away, and as he walked toward it two men passed him whom he instantly recognized. The men were Jean Le Fevre and Oscar Hammerditch.
"Well, I declare!" muttered the boy. "Can it be possible that they have been calling upon Herman Wenrich?"
It certainly would seem so, yet Robert had noway of proving it. Both the Canadian and the Englishman were walking rapidly, and soon they passed out of sight around the corner.
Robert found No. 238 Grandon Street a modest dwelling set in the rear of a tiny garden of flowers. As he entered the garden a girl came out on the front porch and gazed up and down the street anxiously. She was probably fifteen years of age, and was pale and thin, as if just getting over a long sickness, which was the case.
"Does Mr. Herman Wenrich live here?" asked Robert politely, as he tipped his hat.
"Yes, sir," answered the girl.
"Is he in?"
"He is, but he is not very well."
As she spoke the girl eyed Robert sharply, wondering what he wanted.
"He doesn't look like one of these traveling agents," she thought. She had been bothered with agents a great deal lately.
"I am sorry to hear Mr. Wenrich is not well," said Robert. "I wished to see him on a little business."
"May I ask your name?"
"My name is Robert Frost. But he doesn't know me. You might tell him that I came here atthe request of Richard Marden, who is a nephew of Felix Amberton, of Timberville, Michigan. I wish to see him about a lumber tract up there."
"Why, that is what those two men came about!" cried the girl.
"You mean the two men I just met on the street?"
"I presume they are the same. The men left but a minute before you came."
"Can you tell me if they came for a map?"
"Why, yes, they——" The girl stopped short. "I do not know as I have any right to talk of these things, Mr. Frost. My father might not like it."
"So Mr. Wenrich is your father."
"Yes. My name is Nettie Wenrich."
Robert bowed. "I certainly would not wish to make any trouble for you," he said, with a smile. "But I would like to see your father."
Nettie Wenrich hesitated for a moment. "He looks like a nice boy," she thought. "I like him better than I did those men."
"Come into the parlor and I will tell father you are here," said she.
Robert found the parlor small but cozy. There were several covered chairs, some pictures and books, and in one corner stood a small organ. The youth sat down near a window and waited.
The girl was gone fully five minutes. When she returned her face bore a puzzled look.
"Father does not know what to make of this," she said. "You say you came because Mr. Amberton sent you?"
"Mr. Marden sent me. He is Mr. Amberton's nephew and has taken full charge, now that Mr. Amberton is sick."
"Father says Mr. Hammerditch, one of the men who just called, said Mr. Amberton sent him for the map."
"What!" cried Robert, leaping to his feet. "That cannot be possible."
"Why?"
"Because those men are enemies of Mr. Amberton. They wish to get some of his lumber lands away from him."
The girl studied Robert's honest face for a moment.
"I believe you. But it is a queer mix-up," was her comment.
"Perhaps I can explain some things, Miss Wenrich. But I would like to talk with your father first."
"Very well. But my father is quite sick, and I would not like to have you excite him."
"I will be careful. But I hope he didn't let them have the map."
"No, he is holding that. They made a proposition to him and he said he would think it over."
Nettie Wenrich led the way to the second story of the cottage, and to the front bedchamber. Here, on a snowy couch lay Herman Wenrich, feeble with age and a malady that had attacked his digestive organs.
"I do not wish to disturb you, Mr. Wenrich," said Robert, after introducing himself and shaking hands. "But I think it very strange that I should come here right after those two men I met outside."
"It is strange, lad," responded Herman Wenrich feebly. "I cannot understand it."
"I think I can safely say that Mr. Amberton never sent them and that he knows nothing of their coming," continued our hero.
"That makes the whole thing even more strange."
"They wish to get a certain map from you—a map of some lumber lands in upper Michigan."
"Yes, yes, there is but one map," cried Herman Wenrich. "I have kept it safely for years."
"Papa, please do not excite yourself," pleaded Nettie Wenrich, coming to the bedside.
"I am not excited, my child."
"I do not know a great deal about the matter," continued Robert. "But I do know that those two men, Le Fevre and Hammerditch, are Mr. Amberton's enemies and not his friends."
"Can you prove that?"
For the instant the youth was nonplussed. Then he thought of Dick Marden's letter.
"Here is a letter I got from Timberville," he said. "You can read that."
"My eyesight is poor. Nettie, read the letter."
At once the daughter complied. Herman Wenrich listened attentively.
"Ah, yes, I remember this Marden now," he said slowly. "He was the son of Amberton's youngest sister. Where does he come from?"
"He belongs in California and is a rich miner. But he was brought up down east—in Vermont, if I remember rightly."
"Exactly—he is Grace Amberton's boy. A good fellow, too—if he takes after his mother. So Amberton is sick and has put Dick Marden in charge. Then what those two men told me is a—a string of falsehoods."
"You can see what I am authorized to offer you for the map," said Robert. "I started for here with the money in my pocket——"
"Stop, Mr. Frost. You do not understand old Herman Wenrich. I am not thinking to sell the map."
"But you are willing to see justice done to Mr. Amberton, are you not?"
"Yes, yes—full justice—for he deserves it. He could have had the map before, but it affected some land of mine—which I have since sold."
"Then you will let him have the map!" exclaimed Robert, much delighted. "I will pay——"
"Not a cent, my lad, not a cent. He can have it and welcome. But—but——"
"But what, sir?"
"I must be dead sure, as they say, of what I am doing. You look honest enough, but so did those men."
"Those men didn't look very honest to me," came from Nettie Wenrich, who had taken a strong liking to Robert, and it must be admitted that the feeling was reciprocated. "I could not bear that Englishman."
"I cannot blame you for being suspicious," said Robert gravely. "I wish I had been so this morning. I might have saved my watch and some of my money." He did not feel called upon to state that he had lost the amount which wasto be paid over to Herman Wenrich for the map.
Of course he had to tell his story—or, at least, a part of it. Nettie Wenrich was quite affected.
"It was too bad!" she cried. "I hope you get your watch and money back and succeed in sending those bad men to prison."
"I will tell you what I will do," said Herman Wenrich, after several minutes of silent thinking. "Let Felix Amberton send me a written order to deliver the map to you and I will do so."
"That is fair," said Robert. "No honest person could ask more at your hands. But what of those two men? They are to call again, I believe."
"I will put them off, for, say three days. You ought to be able to get your order by that time."
"Perhaps I can get it sooner, but I wish you would make it four days. There may be some delay, especially if Mr. Amberton is very ill."
"Very well, we will make it four days then," said Herman Wenrich, and thanking him for his kindness Robert withdrew and followed Nettie Wenrich downstairs.
"Do your father and you live here alone?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I hope he gets well soon," said the youth gravely, and his voice was full of a sympathy which went straight to the girl's heart.
"I am afraid he will never get well," answered Nettie, and the tears sprang into her eyes.
He took her hand and shook it warmly. "You must hope for the best," he said. And then, as she looked straight into his clear, honest eyes, he added, "If I can ever be of service to you don't hesitate to call upon me."
And a minute later he was gone.
CHAPTER XXII.
A CLEVER CAPTURE.
As Robert was approaching his boarding house he ran into Livingston Palmer, valise in hand, bound for the theater.
"I'm off," said Palmer. "Our company leaves town to-day."
"Well, I wish you every success."
"Have you struck anything yet?" asked Palmer curiously.
"I have and I haven't. I've got a letter from Mr. Marden requesting me to come to Timberville in Michigan."
"It wouldn't suit me to bury myself in such a hole."
"I don't know that I will stay there any great length of time. I am to go up on a little private business."
"I see. Well, I must hurry. What time have you?"
"No time at all. My watch is gone."
"Hullo! Do you mean to say you've had topawn it already. I thought you were one of the saving kind, to look out for a rainy day."
"The watch was stolen from me."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, and some of my money went with it."
"That's too bad, Robert," and Palmer's face was full of real sympathy.
"It is bad."
"I would loan you some money if I had it. But the truth is, I'm broke excepting for a couple of dollars that Jack Dixon advanced me on my salary."
"Thank you, Livingston, but I am not quite broke, even if I have been robbed."
"I'm glad to hear it. Now I am off, or I will be left behind."
And with a hearty grasp of Robert's hand the would-be actor hurried down the street. Robert gazed after him meditatingly.
"I hope his engagement proves all he wishes," he thought. "But I am afraid he is running up against a tremendous disappointment."
Retiring to his room, Robert wrote a long letter to Dick Marden, telling of the receipt of the money orders and of his interview with Herman Wenrich. He also mentioned Le Fevre and Hammerditch and asked for the order from FelixAmberton for the map. At first he thought to put in about the stolen money and the watch, but then reconsidered the matter.
"I'll wait, since the map is not to be paid for," he said to himself. "Perhaps the police will catch the sharpers. If the worst comes to the worst I guess I can scrape up enough money to take me to Timberville without applying to Mr. Marden for more."
The letter finished, Robert went down to the post-office to post it. There now seemed nothing to do but to wait, and he returned to his boarding house worn out with the exertions of the day.
A good sleep made the youth feel much better, and while he was eating his breakfast he began to deliberate upon what to do during the time in which he would have to wait for an answer from his miner friend.
The front door bell rang, and presently he heard somebody ask to see the landlady of the house.
"Please, mum, a gentleman to see you," said Mary, coming into the dining room.
Mrs. Gibbs, the landlady, went into the parlor at once, thinking the newcomer might be somebody for board.
"This is the landlady?" asked the man, bowing.
"Yes, I am Mrs. Gibbs."
"I am looking for a nice, quiet boarding place," went on the newcomer. "Have you any vacant rooms?"
"I have one room vacant, but it is on the third floor."
"Is it a nice, quiet room?"
"It is in the rear and looks out on a small private garden. I think you will find it quiet enough."
"I cannot stand a noise. I used to board on the other side of the city, but there was a factory in the neighborhood and the rumble set me wild."
"We have no noises of that kind here."
"And what do you ask for board and room?"
"With one person in the room my charges are ten dollars per week. If two gentlemen take the room together the rate is eight dollars each."
"I prefer to be alone, madam."
"I will show you the room," said Mrs. Gibbs, moving toward the door. "I am sure you will find it as nice as any for the price."
"I think so myself—for the house shows it," replied the man, with a glance around at the well-kept parlor.
Mrs. Gibbs led the way into the hall. As she did so Robert came out of the dining room.
The man glanced carelessly at our hero and then fell back as if he had received a shock.
Then Robert uttered a cry of amazement.
"You!" he gasped, and rushing forward caught the man by the arm.
"Let go of me, young man!" cried the man savagely.
"I will not," answered Robert firmly. "I know you, and I am going to hand you over to the police."
At these words Mrs. Gibbs uttered a little shriek.
"Oh, Mr. Frost, what can this mean?" she demanded.
"It means that this man is a thief," declared Robert. "I met him in the post-office yesterday, where he saw me cash several money orders. After that he and a confederate robbed me of both money and my watch."
At these words the face of Andy Cross—for it was really he—became a study.
The sharper had not dared to go back to his former boarding house. He had calculated to find some new victim and to keep "shady" by pretending to be too ill to leave his room for several days. Now his little game was knocked completely in the head.
"He is a thief?" ejaculated the landlady. "Oh, my! and to think I was going to take him in to board!"
And the good old lady appeared ready to faint.
"There is some strange mistake here," said Andy Cross. "Young man, how dare you call me a thief!"
"I dare to because it is the truth."
"Do you know who I am?"
"You are what I just called you."
"I have a strong inclination to knock you down, but I will try to curb my temper, as all Christian people should. I am Ralph Goodwill, the son of the Reverend Amos Goodwill, of Denver. I have come to Chicago to complete my studies for the ministry."
"You'll have to turn over a new leaf before you become a minister," answered Robert.
"Evidently you do not believe me."
"Why should I? You are a thief, and you cannot humbug me into believing otherwise."
"Mr. Frost, there may be some mistake," put in the landlady timidly.
"There is no mistake, Mrs. Gibbs. Did youever see a seminary student sporting such a suit of clothing."
"Well—er—I don't know as to that."
"The suit is one I picked up in the slums," said Andy Cross glibly. "I have been doing some work there, assisted by some Salvation Army people. You can work better among the poor, lost ones if you are dressed like them," he added softly.
"Yes, yes, I presume that is so," said Mrs. Gibbs, who was somewhat interested in slum work herself.
"He is an out and out fraud," said Robert, as firmly as ever. "Mrs. Gibbs, will you send Mary to call a policeman? I will be responsible for the arrest."
"But if there is a mistake——"
"Haven't I said that I will be responsible? I am not going to let him escape if I can help it."
At that moment the front door opened, to admit one of the lady boarders. Robert stepped back to let her pass, and as he did so Andy Cross wrenched himself free and leaped for the door.
"Stop!" cried Robert. "Stop!"
"Go to blazes!" snarled the sharper, and pulling the door back, he leaped out on the piazza.
Our hero's blood was up and he was determined that Cross should not escape him again.
He, too, leaped for the doorway, and as the sharper gained the piazza Robert put out his foot to trip him up.
The movement was far more successful than anticipated.
Down went Andy Cross on his knees, and before he could recover he went down the steps, bump! bump! bump! to the sidewalk.
The wind was knocked completely out of him, and he was sadly bruised about the head, while the blood spurted from his nose in a stream.
"Oh! oh! I'm killed!" he moaned, as he sat up.
"If you were, you wouldn't be able to groan over it," answered Robert. "Stay where you are, if you know when you are well off."
"Don't have me arrested," pleaded the sharper. The unexpected fall had taken all his self-possession from him.
At that moment a policeman showed himself at the corner, and Robert called to him to come up.
"What's the trouble?" demanded the officer of the law.
Seeing to it that Andy Cross did not get away, Robert told his story.
"Yes, I have the report of the robbery," said the policeman. "You were lucky to fall in with him."
In vain the sharper protested that he was innocent. The policeman marched him off to the nearest station house.
Here he was examined and searched, and fifty dollars of Robert's money was found in the envelope which our hero had obtained at the post-office.
"What of the rest of the money and the watch?" asked Robert.
Seeing there was no help for it, Andy Cross made a confession. He stated that Jim Huskin had kept both the timepiece and the rest of the money, and left Chicago the night before.
"And where did he go?" asked Robert.
"He took a steamer for Muskegon, Michigan," answered Andy Cross.
"Muskegon!" cried our hero. And then he said no more. But he was filled with interest, for he had thought to journey to Timberville by way of a steamer to the town named and then by railroad for the balance of the journey.
"We will look this matter up and telegraph to the authorities at Muskegon," said the officer whowas examining Cross. "If we learn anything we will let you know."
This ended the matter for the time being, and Andy Cross was locked up. Robert returned to his boarding house, feeling lighter in both heart and mind than he had a couple of hours before.
CHAPTER XXIII.
PALMER'S UNFORTUNATE DEBUT.
It had made James Talbot feel very bitter to think that should his wife die the Frost fortune would go entirely to his step-son.
"He doesn't deserve a cent of it—with his impudence to me and his running away from home," he said to himself. "The money ought to come to me."
The more he thought over the matter the more bitter did he become. He tried to think of some way by which he could alter the conditions of Mr. Frost's will, but nothing came to his mind that was satisfactory.
Of course he did not dare show his wife his real feelings. She was still angry over the lost letter, and he was afraid of causing an open rupture.
He concluded to do everything he could to win her good graces, and then question her again about the will and the property. Perhaps he might be able, he thought, to get control of themoney lying in the bank, which amounted to about thirty thousand dollars.
"Once I get control of that," he told himself, "Robert can whistle for his share. I'll run away to Europe before I'll give it up."
The first thing he did was to buy Mrs. Talbot a new bonnet, since he had heard that a woman will be pleased over a new bonnet, if over nothing else. The lady, however, received the gift rather coldly.
"It is very nice," she said. "But I do not need it, James."
"Never mind, my love, I want my wife to look as good as or better than any lady in Granville."
"Thank you, but I never tried to set the fashion."
"I know that. But you should—with so much money behind you."
"The money is for Robert, not for me." And Mrs. Talbot sighed as she thought of her son, and wondered how he was faring.
"Always the boy," thought James Talbot savagely. "Will she never forget him?"
"There is going to be a play at the opera house to-night," he said sweetly. "I would like you to go. You can wear the new bonnet, if you will."
"Thank you. What is the play, James?"
"'All for Love,' a romance of high life in New York. The newspaper says it is a good play."
"The newspapers cannot always be depended upon. Do you know anything of the company?"
"It is the Dixon Combination Comedy Company of Chicago."
"I never heard of it."
"I am afraid, my love, that you do not keep very good track of theatrical affairs."
"I like to read about the good ones in the papers."
"This company has some very good advertising. One of the bills says they carry ten star actors and actresses. I am sure you will like the play."
"I will go if you wish me to," answered Mrs. Talbot, although she was doubtful if she would enjoy the performance. During the time Mr. Frost had been living, husband and wife had gone to both the theater and to the concert, but only to the very best. But Mr. Talbot had no taste for such things, and an ordinary performance pleased him about as well as one which was far superior.
There had been no show in Granville for overtwo weeks. Consequently when the doors of the opera house were opened that night, the fair-sized hall became crowded in short order.
The Dixon Combination Comedy Company was entirely unknown, and for good reason—it had never existed until two weeks previous to the opening at Granville.
Jack Dixon, the manager, had been a "hanger-on" among theatrical people for several years, and having received several hundred dollars through the death of a rich aunt, had at once set to work to put a company of his own on the road.
The man meant well, but he knew very little about the business, as was proved by his hiring Livingston Palmer and several others who were no better actors.
Rehearsals had been backward and unsatisfactory from the start, and the combination would have done much better had it held back for another week for practice before appearing in public.
But everyone was anxious to make a hit, and nobody thought failure possible.
"We will carry the town by storm," said the leading man, a fellow by the name of Caster. He had been on the boards for several years, buthad never before risen to a position higher than that of being a member of a stock company attached to a dime museum.
"Yes, we will show them what real acting is," answered Livingston Palmer. "To-morrow the newspapers will be full of complimentary notices."
At quarter to eight the orchestra, consisting of a piano player, a violinist, a flutist, and a cornetist, struck up on the overture, and at eight o'clock sharp the curtain went up on the first act of "All for Love."
The scene represented Fifth avenue, in New York—at least, so the programme said,—although it is doubtful if anybody living on that fashionable thoroughfare would have recognized the locality. People were coming and going, and doing this as if their lives depended upon it, the same person appearing and disappearing every half minute or so.
In the crowd was a girl who was supposed to be a companion to a rich old lady. As she stood waiting for something, the villain of the play, a fashionably-dressed man, came up and tried to tempt her into stealing the rich lady's jewels. While this was going on the butler of the lady's mansion appeared and overheard the plot.
The acting was crude from the start, but at the opening of a play few people pay much attention, and it was not until Livingston Palmer appeared as the spying butler that the audience began to grow attentive.
"Ha, what is this I hear!" cried Palmer, as he peered forth from behind a dry goods box set up against a building marked Hotel. "She is plotting to rob my mistress. Base woman that she is, I will—will—will——"
Palmer should have said, "I will expose her to Mrs. Ulmer and have her arrested," but the words would not come, for he had caught sight of the hundreds of faces in the audience and become stage-frightened in consequence.
"I will—will—I will——" he stammered, trying again.
"Will you?" came a voice from the gallery. "All right, Willie!"
There was a laugh and then a hiss.
"I will expose her," whispered the prompter, who stood in the prompter's box with the book of the play in his hand.
"I will—will expose her!" burst out Livingston Palmer. "I will expose her, base—I mean—I will expose her to be arrested—to—by—I mean—Mrs. Ulmer shall arrest her!" andthen he fell back out of sight, and all but overcome.
At once the prompter ran up to him.
"You fool!" he whispered wildly. "That wasn't right. You've ruined the scene."
"Have I?" asked Palmer, in awe-stricken tones. "Oh, I—I—something slipped my mind. But—but I'll be all right in the next scene."
"I hope so. Better study your lines before you go on."
"I will," answered the would-be actor, and began to study as never before.
In the meantime the scene went on, the actors reciting their lines without a break, but with so little dramatic action that scarcely anyone in the audience was interested.
"Do you like it, my love?" asked James Talbot, who sat beside his wife in one of the orchestra rows.
"No, it is very stupid so far," answered Mrs. Talbot.
"The next act may be better, Sarah. The best plays rarely start well."
"That young man missed his part entirely," was Mrs. Talbot's comment.
The second act of the play represented the drawing room of Mrs. Ulmer's mansion. Therewas at first a love scene which promised very well. But the lover in the play was as nervous as he might have been in real life, and when he started to kiss his lady-love good-by, he smacked her so warmly that his false mustache fell off into her lap.
"Oh!" she cried, and there was a roar of laughter from the audience.
The lover snatched the mustache up in a trice and hurried off as if he was leaving an enemy, instead of her whose heart he was supposed to have won.
The rich old lady came in, supported on the arm of her nephew, a captain of the regular army. The captain was wearing his sword, but he was not used to the weapon, and it got tangled up between his legs more than once, and came near to upsetting him.
"Take it off!" cried a voice from the gallery. Of course a laugh followed the bit of advice.
The captain was about to conclude an important interview with his rich aunt, when the butler walked in with a tray, on which were a bottle supposed to contain wine, and two glasses.
"Be careful there, Willie, or you'll drop the tray!" cried the voice from the gallery.
"Will—he?" said another voice, with an attempt at a pun.
"Ah, so this is honest John!" exclaimed the captain, turning to the butler. "John, what have you to say to the captain who used to go horseback riding on your foot?"
"I'm glad to see you, sir," said Livingston Palmer. "Very glad, sir." Then he took a deep breath, and started again, so that his next lines might not escape him. "Mrs. Ulmer, Ihavea secret to tell." He meant, "I have a secret to tell," but some of his words ran one into another.
"A secret, John. What can it be?"
"You'retoberobb'd, yes, madam, youretobe robb'd."
"Robbed!"
"Yes, madam, robb'd. Oneyou have fondly robbed intendsto loveyou."
A shout went up at this, a shout that speedily became a roar. Of course Palmer meant to say, "One you have fondly loved intends to rob you," but he was hopelessly bewildered, and hardly knew what he was doing. For once his self-confidence had entirely left him.
"Go! I will not believe it!" cried the rich lady. "Leave my sight!"
"Yes, madam, Iwillgo, but—but——" Livingston Palmer stared around wildly. He wanted to add, "I can prove what I have to say," but the words became mixed as before. "Icansay—whatIcanprove—I mean, I provetosay what I can—I can say what Icansay——"
"Then go and say it!" yelled somebody from the gallery. "Say it, and give somebody else a chance to talk."
"Say, but this is a bum company," added somebody else.
"Worst I ever saw!" came from a third party. And then followed a storm of hisses. In the midst of this Palmer hurried from the stage. At once Dixon collared him.
"Palmer, what do you mean by this?" demanded the manager. "Have you lost your wits?"
"No, but—but—it's awful to have so many folks staring at you, and cat-calling, too."
"You spoiled both acts."
"I did my best," pleaded Livingston Palmer.
"Then you'll never make an actor if you live to be a hundred years," responded Jack Dixon, and with this cold cut he walked off, leaving Palmer the picture of misery and despair.
But the scene was not yet ended, and scarcely had Dixon turned away when there came anotherroar and a hiss. The unfortunate captain had fallen down with his sword between his feet. In trying to pick himself up he had upset a small table, scattering the books thereon in every direction. His wig came off, and when he managed to gain his feet once more it was found that his coat was split up the back for a foot and over.
"They are a disgrace to the opera house!" came the cry.
"They are no good!"
"Let us give 'em something to remember us by!"
The last suggestion was greeted with a wild assent, and soon half a dozen different articles landed on the stage, including the core of an apple and a half-decayed orange. In the midst of the uproar a number of the audience started to leave and the drop curtain came down with a bang.
CHAPTER XXIV.
PALMER CALLS UPON ROBERT'S MOTHER.
Among the first to leave the opera house were Mrs. Talbot and her husband.
"I have had quite enough of this," said the lady to James Talbot. "The company and the play are both very poor."
"Perhaps you are right," he admitted. "I must say I looked for something much better myself. That poor butler couldn't act at all."
"He was dumstruck," said Mrs. Talbot, and felt compelled to laugh. "Poor fellow, he ought to go at some other line of work."
They were soon on the way home. Mr. Talbot had ordered a carriage to come for them when the performance was over, but this was not at hand, so they were forced to walk.
"I didn't make much by taking her out to-night," said the schemer to himself. "Next time I'll have to make sure that I am taking her to something that is really first-class."
When the pair reached home James Talbotwished his wife to come into the sitting-room, to talk over their business affairs. The fact of the matter was, he was running short of money, and he desired his wife to make him an advance.
"I have something of a headache, James," she said. "I think I had better retire early."
"I will not detain you long, my love," he answered.
Soon they were in the sitting-room and the lady dropped into an easy chair. He could not sit down, but began to walk up and down nervously.
"I hate very much to mention the matter to you, Sarah," he began, "but the fact is, a remittance from a man in Chicago who owes me quite some money has been delayed, and this has cut me short."
"Do you want money?"
"If you can spare it, I would like to have a hundred dollars or so until the remittance comes."
"Very well, you can have it in the morning," answered Mrs. Talbot quietly.
James Talbot had told her before they were married that he was fairly well-to-do, but since they had become man and wife she had not seen a dollar of his money.
It was true, he had a little money, or had had it, but the amount was less than a thousand dollars, and it was now tied up in a speculation that promised little or no return. James Talbot had no head for business, and even his wife was beginning to find that out. He could be miserly, but miserliness is not true economy. He pretended to deal in real estate, but he was too shiftless and lazy to apply himself to steady work.
"I will be all right as soon as the money comes," went on Talbot cheerfully. "After this I trust I shall never have to trouble you again."
"How is the real estate business progressing?" she asked.
"Fairly well. Granville is not a booming town."
"I know that."
"I am half of a mind to try my luck in Chicago. That is where they make fortunes in real estate every year."
"Perhaps; but they have to have a large capital to start on."
"Exactly, my love. But with a large capital it is a dead sure thing, for it cannot burn up, cannot be stolen from you, and constantly increases in value. What do you think of my plan to start in Chicago?"
"I am sure I have no objection, although I am comfortably situated here."
"You could keep this home if you wished—at least, at first, and I could come out every Saturday afternoon and remain until Monday. The trouble is, the venture would require quite some capital."
"I presume it would."
"If I had five or ten thousand dollars to spare, I would start at once."
"Haven't you that much, James?" she asked, with interest.
"Not in ready money. My cash is tied up in investments. But you could loan me the amount, couldn't you, my love?"
Mrs. Talbot's face flushed, and her eyes sought the floor. She had been afraid that this was what was coming.
"I—I suppose so," she faltered, hardly knowing what to say.
"Of course you would be secured. I would see to that."
"Yes, James, I would want that. For the money is to go to Robert, you know."
His face fell. "The boy always!" he thought. "Oh, I wish he would never be heard from again!"
"But if I make a barrel of money out of my investments, that must go to you," he said aloud.