IN WHICH PHIL MEETS A SEEDY GENTLEMAN BY THE NAME OF FARRINGFORD.
Mr. Leonidas Lynchpinne, otherwise Lynch, had a small valise in his hand, and was sauntering leisurely along, as though earth had no sorrow for him, and he was not responsible in St. Louis for an infamous act done in Leavenworth. I wanted my money; in fact, I needed it. For Mrs. Greenough's remarks had assured me that my wardrobe was entirely inadequate to the requirements of civilized life.
"How do you do, Mr. Leonidas Lynchpinne?" I began, making towards him.
He glanced at me very contemptuously, and continued on his way. I had expected to astonish and confound him, but the result did not realize my anticipations. It was decidedly a look of disdain that he bestowed upon me, whichI thought was adding insult to injury. So far I was disgusted with his conduct; but I had no idea of abandoning the purpose I had in view.
"I want to see you, Mr. Lynchpinne," I continued, following him, and taking position at his side.
"Who are you?" he demanded, halting, and giving me another contemptuous look.
"Don't you know me, Mr. Lynchpinne?"
"My name is not Lynchpinne."
"Lynch, then. Don't you know me?"
"No."
"Yes, you do."
"You impertinent puppy!"
"O, yes! All that's very pretty, but I want my money."
"What money? What do you mean, you saucy young cub?"
"Perhaps I am saucy; so was Nathan when he said to David,'Thou art the man!' and that's just what I say to you."
"Go about your business," said he, angrily, as he resumed his walk.
"My business, just now, is to get back themoney you stole from me; and I'm going to stick to it, too."
"Stole! How dare you use that word to me?"
"Because I believe in speaking the truth, even when it is not pleasant to do so."
"Clear out, and don't come near me again."
"Hand over my money, and I shall be glad to do so."
"If you don't leave, I'll call a policeman."
"I wish you would. I should like to tell him my story. If you don't call one, I shall, as soon as I see him. I'll follow you till your legs or mine give out."
"You evidently take me for some other person, boy," said he, halting on Front Street, perhaps afraid that we might meet a policeman—a thing which has been known to happen.
"No, I don't; I take you for Lynch, the man that stole my money, and I want a policeman to take you for that, too."
"See here, boy; I can't be annoyed in this manner in the public street," he replied, in a kind of confidential tone. "What do you want of me?"
"I told you what I wanted—my money."
"I know nothing about your money. If youwant to see me, come to the Planters' Hotel at eight o'clock this evening, and I will meet you."
"I think not. I don't mean to lose sight of you, Lynch."
"If you don't clear out, I'll chastise you on the ground for an impudent puppy."
"Well, sir, when you get ready to chastise, you begin," I replied, as I glanced at his slender form. "If I don't keep up my end, you can have the money you stole."
"How dare you—"
But he checked himself, for two or three persons had already stopped; and their example was so contagious, in a populous city, that there was danger of collecting a crowd, to which my sensitive friend seemed to have very strong constitutional objections. He moved on, and I followed him into Market Street. I was anxious to meet a policeman, that I might state my case to him, and invoke his aid; but the officers, justifying all the traditions of their craft, were somewhere else, because they were wanted in Market Street.
Lynch quickened his pace, and turned into Fourth Street; but I kept close to his heels tillwe were near the Planters' Hotel. I concluded that he was going to this grand establishment, and that he expected to shake me off within its sumptuous walls. I did not believe he would, though the want of an officer was a sore inconvenience to me. Just as he was about to cross the street, a shabby genteel and very seedy gentleman confronted him.
"How are you, Lynch?" exclaimed the dilapidated individual, extending his hand.
"How do you do, Farringford?" replied Lynch.
Farringford! This must be the decayed steamboat owner of whom Lynch had before spoken to me. He was apparently about forty-five years of age, and he looked as though the world had used him very roughly.
"I'm glad to see you, Lynch," said Farringford. "I'm always glad to see an old friend. I'm hard up, and I want to borrow a dollar."
Lynch took two half dollars in silver from his pocket. Perhaps the present generation of young people never saw a half dollar; but it is true that there was a time when such a coin was in general use! He handed the money to the seedy gentleman, and then said something to him in awhisper, which I could not hear, though I had planked myself close by the side of the villain. Lynch then turned to cross the street, and I started to follow him.
Phil meets Leonidas Lynchpinne.Page 100.
Phil meets Leonidas Lynchpinne.Page 100.
"See here, my lad," said Farringford, grasping me by the arm.
"Let me alone!" I cried, struggling to escape, fearful that I should lose sight of Lynch.
"Hold still, my lad. I only want to speak to you," replied Farringford, in cheerful tones, though he did not relax his grasp. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. I've known you ever since you were a baby."
"Known me?"
I was startled by his words, for they seemed to have some relation to the mystery of my being.
"Certainly I have, Phil."
"Do you know me?" I demanded, forgetting, for the moment, all about Lynch and my hard money.
"Known you from your babyhood, my lad," said he, glancing towards the hotel.
This act reminded me of my business again. I turned my face towards the hotel. Lynch had disappeared.
"That's all, Phil; you can go now," said Farringford, laughing.
"What do you mean, sir?"
"That's all, my lad. I only stopped you to prevent you from following my friend."
"You said you knew me."
"Never saw you or heard of you before in my life," chuckled he, evidently pleased at the trick he had played upon me.
I left him, and rushed into the hotel. I looked for Lynch in all the public rooms, but I could not find him. I inquired at the office for him, and the clerks answered me, very curtly, that no such person was in the house. I asked a porter, who sat near the entrance, describing Lynch. He had seen the gentleman, but did not know where he was; he had not taken a room or registered his name, and had probably gone away again. It seemed to me that everything was going against me. I had to go home to dinner, as I could spend no more time in looking for him then; but I determined to renew the search in the evening.
As I walked down Fourth Street, I overtook Farringford, who had evidently spent a portionof the dollar borrowed of Lynch for liquor. I accosted him, for I thought that I might recover my money through his agency, as he evidently knew Lynch.
"Ah, my lad! You didn't find him," chuckled the toper.
"I did not. I have heard of you, Mr. Farringford, and I can put you in the way of making some money."
"Can you? Then I'm your man. Most distinctly, I'myourman," he replied with emphasis. "There's only two things in this world that I want, and those are money and whiskey. If I get the whiskey, I don't care for the money; and if I have the money, I can always get the whiskey."
"I should like to meet you somewhere this evening, for I am in a hurry now."
"I will be in the bar-room of the Planters' Hotel at seven o'clock this evening, if you have any money for me. But what's it all about? Can't you tell me now?"
"I haven't time now."
"Very well. Planters' Hotel—bar-room—seven o'clock. I'll be there if they don't turn me outbefore that time. If they do, you will find me in the street."
Although I was not very confident he would keep his appointment, it was the best I could do. If he failed to be there, he was evidently a character so noted, that I could easily find him. I hastened to my dinner, and reached Mrs. Greenough's rather late. I explained the reason of my tardiness, which was quite satisfactory. My landlady hoped that I should recover my money, and I hoped so too—a degree of unanimity which does not always exist between landlady and boarder.
I was on the work as the clock struck one, but I had to do some running that noon, in order to protect my reputation. Conant did not drive business in the afternoon as he had in the forenoon, when I think he intended to wear me out. We worked steadily, and I kept my end of the board up. I was not sorry to hear the clock strike six, for I was tired, though perhaps not more so than Conant himself. I went home, ate my supper, did my chores in the house, and at seven o'clock I was in the bar-room of the Planters' Hotel. It was no place for a boy, or a maneither, for that matter. No one was what could be called, in good society, disreputably drunk, unless it was the seedy gentleman whom I met by appointment; and even he was able to handle himself tolerably well. No doubt he would have been more intoxicated if he had not drank up the dollar he had borrowed; but his wits were not wholly stupefied.
"Well, my lad, you have come, and so have I," said Farringford, when I entered the room. "Both come, and that makes two of us, all told."
"Yes. I wanted to see you about—"
"Stop a minute, my lad," interposed he, putting his trembling hand upon my shoulder. "Let us go to work right. When I used to run steamboats, we had to put in wood and water before we could get up steam."
"When did you run steamboats?" I asked.
"Ten or fifteen years ago. I was a rich man then; but now I'm as poor as a church mouse with his hair all singed off. I am; but I'm jolly; yes, I am jolly. Let's proceed to business."
"Did you own a steamboat—"
"Stop, my lad; I owned half a dozen of them. But that's no matter now. Do you happen tohave a dollar in your pocket—one dollar, my lad."
"No, sir; I have not."
"Not a dollar?"
"No, I have not."
"Do you happen to have half a dollar in your pocket, my lad?"
"Not even half a dollar, sir."
"Your name is—somebody told me your name," said he, musing.
"Phil, sir."
"Phil, do you always speak the truth?"
"I always endeavor to do so," I replied.
"I hope so. Truth is mighty, and must prevail. You should always speak the truth."
"As you did, to-day, when you said you had known me from my babyhood."
"Boys must speak the truth, whether men do or not. Did you speak the truth when you said you had not even half a dollar?"
"I did."
"Have you any money?"
"I have thirty cents."
"Then lend me a quarter."
"It's all I have."
"We can't do any business till this little matter is attended to," said he, with tipsy solemnity. "You shall be paid, my lad; you shall be paid—when I pay the rest of my creditors."
Finding it impossible to proceed any farther without complying with his request, I reluctantly gave him the quarter; but I felt guilty in doing so. He went to the bar, drank, and returned to the corner where he had left me.
IN WHICH PHIL LISTENS TO A VERY IMPRESSIVE TEMPERANCE LECTURE.
Farringford was very chipper when he returned to me. He had drank half a tumbler of whiskey, and appeared to be prepared, to his own satisfaction, for any business which might be presented to him.
"Now, my lad, I'm ready. I'm refreshed. I'm invigorated. I'm inspired. In a word, I'm prepared for the consideration of the important matter you proposed to bring before me," said he.
"I am very glad to hear it, sir; I wish to tell you—"
"Stop a moment, my lad. You have a name, doubtless. Do you happen to remember what it is?"
"Very distinctly, Mr. Farringford. You may call me Phil."
Phil meets a seedy Individual named Farringford.Page 109.
Phil meets a seedy Individual named Farringford.Page 109.
"Phil; that is very good as far as it goes. Phil may stand for Philip, Phillimore, Philippians, Philosophy."
"It stands for Philip with me, sir."
"Philip; I had a brother once of that name, but he is no longer living. If he were, he would blush to own his brother. But no matter; that is all past and gone. You can proceed with your business, Philip."
Placing his elbows upon the little table between us, he rested his chin upon his trembling hands, and fixed his gaze upon me. He was a singular man, and, tipsy as he was, I was deeply interested in him.
"You know Lynch, the person you met opposite the Planters' Hotel to-day noon."
"I know him, Philip; but, in a word, I don't know any good of him. Go on."
"That man robbed me of all the money I had, except thirty cents—nearly a hundred dollars."
"Philip, you told me you were in the habit of speaking the truth; or rather that you endeavored to speak the truth."
"Yes, sir; I do endeavor to speak the truth. Iam willing to go a point farther, and say that I have thus far been very successful."
"The statement that Lynch robbed you of nearly a hundred dollars implies the statement that you had nearly a hundred dollars," said he, with his tipsy solemnity, which was amusing. "It is self-evident that he could not have robbed you of this money, if you had not had it."
"Certainly not sir. I did have it."
"Where and by what means should a boy of your tender years obtain nearly a hundred dollars? In a word, Philip, where did you get your money?"
"It was a part of what was left me by my foster-father, who died last spring. I had it with me to pay my expenses till I could get into business and pay my way. I expect my friends will be in St. Louis in a few days, and then I shall be able to prove all I say. In the mean time I refer to Captain Davis, of the steamer Fawn."
"That's all straightforward, Philip, and for the present I accept your statement as true. You were robbed of nearly a hundred dollars by this man, Lynch, of whom I know no good thing, except that he lent me a dollar to-day, which I shallreturn to him when I pay the rest of my creditors."
"Could you find this man, Mr. Farringford?" I asked.
"Doubtless I could. He may be seen, almost any night, at the gambling-houses."
"Will you help me get my money back?"
"Wherefore should I soil the dignity of a gentleman by becoming a thief-taker?"
"Because you will do me a favor, and promote the ends of justice by doing so."
"Very true, Philip; you rightly apprehend the character of the gentleman you address. Whatever I may seem to be, no man can say that Edward Farringford ever soiled his soul by a dishonorable or a dishonest act."
"If you can induce Lynch to give me back my money, I will pay you twenty-five dollars."
"Twenty-five dollars!" exclaimed he. "Two hundred and fifty drinks! Philip, I will do the best I can for you; not for the sake of the money, but to subserve the ends of justice, and to save a deserving young man from want and hardship. The cause is a good one."
"It is, sir. If you do not succeed, I shall call upon the police as soon as my friends arrive."
"It is well, Philip. Lynch will return the money rather than be driven from St. Louis."
"You understand that he must pay the money to me," I added, as it occurred to me that I should never see it if it came into the hands of the dilapidated gentleman before me.
"Wouldn't it be just as well that he should pay it over to me, and I will pass it to you?"
"Just as well, sir; but he will want some assurance from me that this is the end of the matter. I prefer that he should pay it to me."
"You are right, Philip. It shall be paid to you. Stop!" exclaimed he, with a sudden start.
"What is the matter, Mr. Farringford?"
"This business is wrong."
"Wrong?"
"Wrong! No living man has been, or shall ever be, able to say that Edward Farringford stained his soul with a foul, dishonorable act."
"Do you think it would be wrong, sir?"
"It would be compounding a felony," he added, solemnly.
I did not know what he meant by this technicalphrase, but I could not see that it was wrong for me to get my money if I could. Mr. Farringford asked me when, where, and in what manner I had been robbed; and I related my adventure on the night I was at Leavenworth.
"You are the only witness, Philip, and it would be difficult to prove the crime. I will see Lynch. I will charge him with the base deed, and be governed, in my further proceedings, by the circumstances of the case. Where do you live, Philip?"
I gave him the address of Mrs. Greenough, and told him where I was at work. I was satisfied that the promised reward would stimulate him to great activity in the pursuit of Lynch, and I had some hope that he would be successful. Having disposed of the important part of my business with my seedy companion, I was rather curious to know more about him. I almost dared to believe that he could give me some information in regard to the steamer which had been burned on the upper Missouri, and from which I had been saved by my foster-father.
That steamer had borne the name of this man, and he had been her owner. Of course he knewall about her, and it was possible, even probable, that he knew who had lost a little child in the fearful calamity. I actually trembled when I thought of it, when I considered that, at the opening of this singular man's lips, I might be told who and what my father was, and whether my parents had perished or not. It was an anxious moment, and my heart was in my throat. I had not the courage to ask the momentous question, and Farringford rose unsteadily from his chair, to leave me.
"Stop a moment, Mr. Farringford, if you please," I interposed; and he dropped back into his chair.
"Isn't our business finished, Philip?"
"Yes, sir; but I have been told that you were formerly a large steamboat owner."
"Who told you so?"
"You did, for one. If you don't object, I should like to ask you something about those steamers," I continued, with much embarrassment.
"Do you wish to go into the steamboat business, Philip? If you do, some of my old captains are still on the river, and I can get you a situation.But I must have one more drink before I say anything."
"I wouldn't take any more, sir," I ventured to say.
"It is a necessity of my being, Philip."
He rose from his chair, and went to the bar. I saw him drink another half tumbler of whiskey. He tottered back to the table where I sat. Such a wreck of a man I had never seen. Though his step was unsteady, he was not overcome by the potions he had taken. His nerves, rather than his brain, seemed to be affected.
"I haven't drank much to-day, Philip. I wasted half the dollar I borrowed in getting something to eat," said he, dropping into his chair. "It is a bad habit, my boy. Never take any whiskey, Philip: in a word, never begin to drink liquor, and you will never have to leave off; for it is a great deal harder to leave off than it is to begin. This is disinterested advice: in a word, it is the counsel of one who knows all about drinking."
"I would stop it if I were you, Mr. Farringford."
"If you were Edward Farringford, you could no more leave off drinking liquor, and drinking allyou could get, than you could leave off eating. I can live without eating much, but I can't live without drinking."
"I think you can leave off, sir; I hope you will try."
"You speak like a boy. You never drank any whiskey. You don't know what a fiend it is. You don't know what a horrible necessity it is to a man whose nerves are shaken, only to be steadied by this liquid fire; whose stomach, chilled and frozen, can only be warmed by this blast from Tartarus. You don't know anything about it. I hope you never will. Philip, I hope you never will."
He covered his face with his hands, and when he raised his head, I saw that he had been weeping. His eyes were filled with tears, and I pitied him from the deepest depths of my heart.
"Beware, Philip! Beware!" said he, solemnly. "Never touch a drop of whiskey, wine, or even ale,—not the tenth part of a drop,—if you are dying for the want of it. Die, but don't touch it."
"I hope I never shall."
"Hope! Don't hope! Sign the pledge; swear on the Holy Bible; go down on your knees, everymorning and every night, and pray that Almighty God will help you, and save you from the curse. Don't trifle with it, Philip. Be in earnest, and when you feel weak, commend yourself to God, and think of Edward Farringford."
He covered his face with his hands again, and wept so bitterly, that the little table danced under the convulsive agony which shook his frame.
"Look at me, Philip!" said he, raising his head again. "Behold the wreck of a man! If there had been no whiskey in the world, or if I had never tasted it, I could have welcomed you to the most elegant mansion in St. Louis. I could have pointed you to a dozen steamers, on the Missouri and Mississippi, which were all mine. I could have presented you to my wife, the most beautiful and accomplished woman in the city, now driven out from my presence. More than this, Philip, I could have pointed you to my boy, my son, my only child, who perished in the cold waters of the Missouri, because I was too drunk to save him!"
I need not say how startled, how thrilled I was by this agonizing narrative. The bar-room was crowded, and noisy with the violent debates ofexcited politicians, and the gabble of men warmed by their cups into unusual hilarity, so that no one appeared to notice Farringford, though he uttered his impressive warnings in a loud tone. But I was too much moved and thrilled myself to heed what others said or did. The toper wept, and then tried to shake off the remembrance of the past.
"Where was your son lost, Mr. Farringford?" I asked, choking with emotion.
"On the upper Missouri. He was a child under three. His name was Philip, like yours. He was named after my brother, who died ten years ago. Enough of this. I am almost crazy When I think of it."
The broken-down toper was my father!
IN WHICH PHIL TAKES HIS FATHER TO HIS NEW HOME.
My father! I had found him; but the finding of him in such a miserable, degraded, besotted being as he who was before me seemed to be the greatest mishap, the most overwhelming misfortune, that could possibly have overtaken me. He was the first white man I had ever seen really intoxicated. I was mortified and disheartened as I looked at his pale, thin face, and regarded his trembling limbs.
What should I do? I could not tell him that I was his son. I could not throw myself into his arms and weep tears of joy, as I had imagined the impressive scene, in case I should ever find either of my parents. I wanted to weep; I wanted to give myself up to a transport of grief, if not despair, as I realized the terrible truth that the degraded being before me was my father.
"Philip, I've told you more than I ever uttered before. You looked into my face, and seemed so interested that I was tempted to tell more than I intended," said he, wiping away with his coat sleeve the tears that stained his sunken cheeks. "No matter; we will be jolly now. I can get another drink in a cheap grog-shop for the half dime I have in my pocket."
To my surprise he laughed as easily as he had wept, and shook off, with astonishing facility, the burden which had weighed him down. He rose from his chair, and tottered towards the door. I followed him out into the street.
"Where are you going now?" I asked.
"Going to get a cheap drink," he replied, with a kind of chuckle. "I shall be all right then; and we'll go and look for Lynch."
"Don't drink any more to-night, Mr. Farringford," I pleaded, taking his arm.
"I must!" said he, vehemently. "I might as well tell you not to eat after you had beenwithout food for a week, as you tell me not to drink. I must have whiskey, or die."
"Then die!" I added, using his own words.
"Die?"
"That's what you said to me."
"I might do that, Philip," he replied, stopping suddenly in the street, as if the idea impressed him favorably.
"Of course I did not mean that, sir," I interposed.
"But it would be better to die than live as I live. I have only one cheap drink left—one glass of camphene whiskey, which seems to burn my very soul. In a word, it is better to die than to live, for such as I am."
"No; there is hope for you," I pleaded, leading him along through the street.
"Hope? No more than for a man who is already dead, Philip. I shall take my cheap drink, and then I shall be penniless again. It may be twenty-four hours, perhaps forty-eight, before I can raise another dollar or another drink. Then I shall suffer with horrors I cannot describe, till I can get more whiskey."
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere."
"Where do you board?"
"I don't board," he replied, with his usual chuckle.
"Where do you sleep?"
"Wherever I happen to drop. In the police station; on board a steamboat; in a shed; anywhere or nowhere."
"But where were you going to-night?" I asked, shocked at this revelation of misery, so horrible and strange to me.
"I was going to the gambling-houses to find Lynch."
"But after that?"
"Anywhere that my fancy leads me."
"Come with me," said I, unwilling to abandon him.
"Where?"
"To my house—where I board."
"No, Philip."
"You shall sleep with me to-night."
I knew that Mrs. Greenough would not wish such a lodger as he, but I was determined to do what I could for him; and, if she would not permit him to sleep with me, I would go outwith my miserable parent. I wanted to see him when he was sober. He had told me that his wife had deserted him, and I wished to learn more about her. I could not allude to a theme so sacred while he was in his present condition. Hopeless as the task seemed to be, I intended to use all the powers which God had given me in reforming him.
I led him in the direction of my boarding-house, and he seemed to be as willing to go one way as another. After he had delivered himself of the emotions which crowded upon him at the bar-room, he spoke lightly of his misfortunes, and chuckled whenever he alluded to any circumstance which was particularly degrading in his condition.
"Where do you obtain your meals, Mr. Farringford?" I asked, as much to keep his attention occupied as to gratify my own curiosity.
"I don't obtain many," he replied, lightly.
"But you must eat."
"Not when I can drink. I don't average more than one meal a day. I can't afford to waste my money, when I have any, in eating."
"Do you live on one meal a day?"
"I don't get that always."
"Where do you get that one?"
"Anywhere I can. They have meals on board the steamers lying at the levee and waiting to start. They never turn me off when I sit down to the table. If I'm very drunk, they give me my meal at a side-table; but that don't happen often, for I don't want to eat when I can get plenty to drink."
How insufferably miserable and degrading was the life he led! And he was my father!
"How long have you led such a life?" I inquired, with a shudder.
"Not long, Philip. Do you know, my lad, that I'm telling you all this to save you from whiskey? I'm not drunk now. I know what I'm about; and I would go ten miles to-night to save any fellow-creature, even if it was a nigger, from being as bad as I am. I would, Philip; upon my honor and conscience I would."
"That proves that you have a kind heart," I replied; and even as he revelled in his shame and misery, I was glad often to observe these touches of fine feeling, for they assured me that,in his better days, he had been a noble and generous man.
Phil introduces the elder Farringford to his Landlady.Page 130.
Phil introduces the elder Farringford to his Landlady.Page 130.
"My heart is right, my boy. Like all drunkards—Yes, Philip, I'm a drunkard. I know it; and I call things by their right names. Like all drunkards, I've been growing worse and worse; but it's only a few months since I went into the street, and had no home, no place to lay my head at night."
I led him to Mrs. Greenough's house. He said nothing more about the "cheap drink," for I had kept his mind busy on the way. I had a night key, and I admitted him to the entry, where I asked him to wait until I spoke with my landlady. In as few words as possible I informed her of the discovery I had made, and distinctly added that my father was intoxicated.
"Will you allow me to take care of him in my room, Mrs. Greenough?" I asked.
"Yes, indeed!" she replied, with unexpected readiness. "Bring him into the kitchen, and I will do everything I can for him."
"Thank you, Mrs. Greenough. You are very kind. I had no right to expect this of you."
"I know how to pity such poor people, Phil," said she, shaking her head sadly; and I afterwards learned that her late husband had been a drunkard for a number of years, and had been saved by the great Washingtonian movement.
"My father does not yet suspect that I am his son. Will you be so kind as not to mention the fact to him?" I continued.
"Just as you wish, Phil," she answered, as I hastened down stairs.
Mrs. Greenough held the lamp in the entry while I conducted my tottering companion up the stairs. I introduced him in due form to her.
"Madam, I am your very obedient servant," said he. "I am happy to make your acquaintance—more happy than you can be to make mine."
"I'm very glad to see you; come in," she added, placing her rocking-chair before the fire for him.
He seated himself, and glanced around the room. Mrs. Greenough asked if he had been to supper. He had not, and he did not wishfor any; but the good lady insisted that he should have a cup of tea. In spite of his answer, he ate heartily of the food set before him, and seemed to be refreshed by it. For an hour he talked about indifferent subjects, and then I took him to my room. Mrs. Greenough gave me some clean clothes for him, which had belonged to her husband, declaring that she was glad to have them put to so good use. He intimated, as he glanced at the neat bed, that he should like to wash himself. I carried up a pail of warm water, and leaving him to make his ablutions, I went down to the kitchen again.
"I hope you will excuse me for bringing him here, Mrs. Greenough," said I, feeling that I had been imposing upon her good nature.
"You did just exactly right, Phil. You had no other place to take him to; and you didn't want to leave the poor creature in the street. I will do everything I can for him."
"I am very much obliged to you, and as soon as Mr. Gracewood comes, I will have something done for him."
"Are you sure he is your father?"
"I have no doubt of it, Mrs. Greenough. What he said assured me of the fact; but he thinks I am dead."
"Where is your mother? Was she lost?"
"No; he says she was driven away from him by his bad conduct. I don't know where she is."
My landlady was willing to take care of the sufferer for a few days, if he could be induced to stay at the house; and we talked about the matter till I thought he had gone to bed, when I went to my room. By this time the effects of the liquor he had drank were hardly perceptible; but his nerves were terribly shaken. Mrs. Greenough had given me a dose of valerian, which she said would do him good. He drank it without an objection, and soon went to sleep. I was tired enough to follow his example, after I had put the room in order.
When I awoke in the morning, my father had dressed himself, and was pacing the room, in the gloom of the early morning. He was entirely sober now, and his frame shook as though he had been struck with palsy. I was alarmed at his condition. He told me he musthave whiskey, or he should shake himself to pieces.
"Don't take any more, sir," I pleaded.
"Nothing but whiskey will quiet my nerves," said he, in trembling tones.
"You shall have some strong tea or coffee; or perhaps Mrs. Greenough can give you something better."
"I don't want to drink, Philip; no, I don't," he replied, in piteous tones; "but you cannot understand the misery of my present condition. It is worse than death."
"But you will be better soon if you let liquor alone."
"I can't let it alone. Every instant is an hour of agony. Have you any money?"
"Only five cents."
"I have five cents. I will get a cheap drink."
"No, don't!" I pleaded. "Wait here a little while. I will make a fire, and see what can be done for you."
I went down stairs, and by the time I had made the fire Mrs. Greenough appeared. I told her how much my poor father was suffering. She seemed to understand the case exactly; and as soon as the tea-kettle boiled, she made some strong wormwood tea, which I gave to our patient. I had some hope when he declared that it had helped him. He ate a very light breakfast, and appeared to have no appetite. My good landlady spoke words of hope to him, and said she had taken care of one who was precisely in his condition. If he would only be patient, and trust her, she would cure him. He promised to stay in the house during the forenoon; and I went to my work, hoping, but hardly expecting, to find him there when I came home to dinner.
IN WHICH PHIL LISTENS TO A DISCUSSION, AND TAKES PART IN A STRUGGLE.
My work on the building was no lighter than it had been the day before; but I had done so much hard labor in the field and forest that it did not wear upon me. I observed everything that was done by the skilled workmen, and endeavored to profit by what I saw. I felt that I was learning something every hour, and I was pleased to know that Mr. Clinch was entirely satisfied with me. At noon I hastened home, anxious to know the condition of my father.
"How is your patient, Mrs. Greenough?" I asked, as I entered the kitchen where she was cooking the dinner.
"I am sorry to tell you, Phil, that he is gone."
"Gone!"
"Yes; I had to go over to the provision storefor something for dinner. Mr. Farringford promised faithfully to remain in the house; but when I came back he had left. I was not absent more than fifteen minutes."
"I am very sorry for it; but it can't be helped," I replied, sadly.
"I am to blame, Phil. I ought to have locked the door, and taken the key with me."
"Don't blame yourself at all, Mrs. Greenough," I interposed. "You have been very kind to him and to me, and I am greatly obliged to you."
"Perhaps you will be able to find him again."
"I will try this evening. I'm sorry I have not more time to take care of him."
"If you will get him back again I will do the best I can, and when I go out I will lock the door."
"Perhaps it is no use to try to do anything for him," I added.
"He is your father, Phil; and you must do and keep doing for him. Let us hope and pray that he may be saved."
After dinner I went to my work again; and that afternoon we finished boarding the building.
"Can you lay shingles, Phil?" asked Mr. Clinch.
"I never did lay any, but I know I can after I have seen how it is done."
"Conant shall show you how," he added.
I went upon the roof with my fellow-workman. As, in the short time I had worked with him, I had carefully observed all his instructions, and been obliging and respectful to him, Conant was very willing to show me how to work. But the operation of laying shingles is very simple, though it requires considerable care and skill in breaking joints, so that the water shall not work through. I saw how it was done, and, though I worked rather slowly at first, I was soon able to lay the shingles to the satisfaction of my instructor. As I got the "hang of the thing" I worked more rapidly, and before night I could lay as many as Conant. We lined the length of the roof, and while he began at one end, I began at the other. At first we came together pretty near my end, but I gradually increased the distance until we met in the middle, showing that I did as much work as my instructor.
"Well, Phil, how did you get along shingling?" asked Mr. Clinch, when I went down the ladder at six o'clock.
"Pretty well, I think, sir," I replied. "I shall learn how in time."
"Learn how!" added Conant; "he can lay as many shingles in a day as I can."
"If I can it is all because Conant showed me so well that I couldn't help doing it," said I, wishing to acknowledge my obligations to my kind instructor.
I saw that he was pleased with the compliment; and I have always found that a pleasant word, even from a boy, helps things along amazingly in this world. It was better and fairer to attribute a portion of my success to Conant's careful and patient teaching than to claim all the credit of it myself. It was doing justice to him without injuring me, and was a cheap way to make a strong friend.
"I'm glad to have a fellow like you to work with, Phil," said Conant, as we walked up the street together. "Clinch put that Morgan Blair into my charge to show him how to work; but he knew so much more than I did that I couldn't teach him anything. His head is made of wood."
"I'm always very thankful to any one who will show me how to do anything."
"I see you are, Phil, and it's a real pleasure to teach you anything."
"Thank you; I think we shall agree together first rate."
"So do I; but I don't like these boys who know more than the law allows."
We parted at the corner of the next street, and I went home to supper. My father had not returned to the house, and I did not expect he would do so. I was sorry I had not inquired about my mother when he was with me; but I had no good opportunity, and was confident that I should see him again. After supper I left the house, and went to the Planters' Hotel, where I expected to find him; but it was only when he had a dollar or two that he went there.
"Have you seen Mr. Farringford to-day?" I timidly asked one of the bar-tenders, who was disengaged.
"He has been here two or three times to-day," replied the man.
"Do you know where he is now?"
"I haven't the least idea. He hangs round Forstellar's, I think."
"Where is that?"
"It is a gambling-house," he added, giving me the street and number.
"What does Mr. Farringford do?" I asked, rather startled at being directed to a gambling-house.
"Do? Nothing," said the man, contemptuously. "He used to be a runner for a gambling-house, and followed this business as long as he could keep sober enough to do it."
"What is a runner?"
"One that ropes in customers to a gambling-saloon," laughed the bar-tender. "Farringford used to make money enough to pay for his liquor at it; but lately he keeps so drunk that no one will go with him. What do you want of him?"
"I wanted to see him."
"Do you know him?"
"I did not know him till yesterday. He knows a man who has some money that belongs to me," I replied.
But I was thankful that a customer came to prevent him from asking me any more questions. I was shocked to hear that my father had been connected with a gambling-house. He evidently did not think that the business of a "runner" wasdisreputable, when he assured me that no one could accuse him of a dishonest or a dishonorable deed. But he was only the wreck of a man, and it would have been strange indeed if his moral perception had not been impaired by his long course of dissipation. I hastened to the place which had been described to me by the bar-tender. The establishment had a bar-room on the lower floor, with a private staircase to the apartments above, where games of chance were played.
I went into the bar-room, and saw well-dressed gentlemen passing through the private door to the stairs. I looked about the place a short time. If my father was in the building, he was up stairs, and I decided to attempt the passage. At the foot of the stairs a man stopped me, and told me that no boys were allowed in the rooms above. I was willing to believe that, considering the character of the house, this was a very wholesome regulation; but I wished to find my father. I asked the sentinel if Mr. Farringford was up stairs. He did not know; if he was I couldn't see him. I inquired for Lynch then, but could obtain no satisfaction. I insisted upon seeing one or both of these men with so much zeal that theinside sentinel ordered me to leave the premises. I gently and respectfully remonstrated; but the fellow took me by the arm, and walked me out into the street. As I had no rights there, I did not resist.
I was rather indignant at this treatment, though I ought not to have expected decent conduct on the part of the officials of such an establishment. I decided not to abandon my purpose, though any satisfactory result was rather hopeless just then. I planted myself on the opposite side of the street, and watched the house, taking note of every one who went in or came out. I meant to stay there till midnight if necessary, for I judged from the answers of the inside sentinel that the persons for whom I had inquired were there.
My patience held out till the clock struck eight, when a policeman, by some strange fatality, happened to pass the place. He was on the other side of the street, and glanced into the bar-room as he passed. I determined to walk at his side, and tell him my story, so far as it related to the loss of my money. I crossed over for the purpose of joining him, hoping to induce him to enter the gambling-house with me. As I reached thefront of the establishment, two men came out, both of them making use of rather sharp language. Their voices attracted my attention.
One of them was Lynch, and the other was Farringford.
"I will not have my steps dogged by such a fellow as you are?" exclaimed the former, angrily.
"Don't make a noise, Lynch," said Farringford. "If you do, I'll refer the matter to a policeman, and send for the boy."
"Nonsense! I've told you I know nothing about the boy or his money," added Lynch, moving down the street in the direction of the river.
Deeply interested in the discussion, I followed the parties closely enough to hear every word they spoke. From what Lynch said I learned that they had already discussed the subject at the gambling-house; and I judged that the robber had fled in order to escape the importunity of the other.
"The boy speaks the truth, and if you don't give his money back I will make St. Louis toowarm for your comfort," retorted Farringford, warmly.
"I don't want to be bored with this matter any more," said Lynch. "If you will clear out I will give you a dollar to get drunk upon."
"I ask no man to give me anything. That won't do; I want the money for the boy."
"Why should you bother your head about the boy?"
"He's my boy, and I won't see him wronged by any one."
"Your boy!"
"Yes, my boy! He's my son," persisted Farringford.
"Nonsense! You have lost your wits."
I thought I had lost mine too. I could not believe that Farringford intended to speak the truth when he said I was his son. He could not possibly have known that I was his son. But my heart leaped up into my throat when it flashed upon my mind that my father had opened the bureau drawer in my room, where I had placed the locket and the little clothes I had worn when I was picked up on the Missouri River. Yet this was not probable, for I had locked thedrawer, and put the key in a safe place. I was more inclined to think that Farringford called me his son in order to explain his interest in my affairs. I followed the two men to the levee, where they suddenly halted near a street lamp. I dodged out of their sight, and kept walking back and forth near them; but, as I was a boy, they did not seem to notice me, or at least to consider my presence of any importance.
"I am willing to get rid of you, Farringford, at any reasonable price," said Lynch. "I will not be dogged another foot farther."
"Then give me back the ninety-seven dollars and a half you stole from my boy," added Farringford.
"Don't say that thing again to me. I will give you five dollars if you will bore me no more."
"No; I want the whole."
"Once for all, then, will you clear out, or not?"
"Once for all, I will not till you give up the money you stole from my boy."
"Then take the consequences," said Lynch, as he sprang upon the tottling Farringford.
My blood boiled then, and leaping upon Lynch, I bore him to the ground. He released his hold upon my father when he felt my grasp upon him.
"Police!" I shouted, as I lay upon my victim.
He struggled to shake me off; but I held on, for I knew that I must keep the advantage or lose my man.
IN WHICH PHIL HAS ANOTHER MISHAP, AND IS TAKEN TO A POLICE STATION.
Ihad measured the form and estimated the muscle of Lynch before I paid my respects to him. He had threatened me when I met him on the preceding day, and I came to the conclusion that, after passing through one Indian campaign, I should not run away from such a puny fellow as he was. As a boy I was strong, as a man he was weak, and having him under me I had all the advantage. He struggled but a moment, and then changed his tone.
"Don't make a row, Phil," said he, panting under the exhaustion of his efforts.
"You do know me, then," I replied, puffing not less than he.
"I do. Let me up, Phil, and I will give you your money."
"I don't think I shall take your word again," I added, with a candor becoming the exciting occasion.
"Let me up, Phil; there will be a crowd around us in a moment."
"No matter; I won't let you up till you give me some security for your good behavior."
"Better let him up as quick as possible," interposed Mr. Farringford. "There are some men coming down the street."
"I will hold on to him till he makes it safe for me to let him go," I replied.
"Put your hand into my breast pocket, and take out my pocket-book. It contains over two hundred dollars," said Lynch.
I followed his directions; but I was not satisfied in regard to the contents of the pocket-book. It might be stuffed with brown paper for aught I knew, for I had read about some of the tricks of swindlers in great cities, in the newspapers, since I came to St. Louis.
"Take it, Mr. Farringford, and see what is in it," I added, handing it to my father.
"Let me up, Phil," pleaded Lynch.
"Not yet, Mr. Lynchpinne."
"If you are not satisfied, take the purse out of my side pocket. It contains fifty or sixty dollars in gold."
I took the purse from his pocket, and it was heavy enough to be filled with gold.
"Now let me up, Phil. Don't get up a row here."
I was not quite satisfied that we had a sufficient security for the money I had lost, and I wished my father to examine the purse after he had reported on the contents of the pocket-book.
"What's the row?" demanded a couple of men coming out of the street by which we had reached our present position.
"Let me up, Phil," said Lynch, in a low tone.
"Let him up," said my father, in a tone so earnest that I could not disregard it.
Lynch sprang to his feet, and began to brush the dirt from his clothes.
"What's the trouble?" repeated the two strangers.
"No trouble," replied Lynch. "Come, we will go up to Forstellar's and settle the matter."
Without waiting to have the matter discussed, Lynch started at a rapid pace, and my father and I followed him. The two strangers, who manifested a strong interest in the proceedings, again demanded an explanation; and as they received none, they came up the street after us.
"I'm not going to any gambling-house to settle the matter," said I, placing myself at the side of Lynch.
"Where will you go?" demanded he, impatiently.
"Come to my boarding-house."
"No; I am not going to be led into any trap."
"There is no trap about it. You will see no one but a woman."
"I don't care about going to a private house."
"And I don't care about going to a gambling-saloon."
"You have all my money. Do you mean to keep the whole of it?"
"If I should it would be serving you right; but I don't intend to take any more than belongs to me. Will you go to the Planters' Hotel?" I asked.
"Why not go to Forstellar's? It is nearer, and I am in a hurry."
"I won't go into such a place if I can help it."
"You need not go up stairs—only into the bar-room."
"No; I won't go where you can call in the aid of your friends."
"Very well; I will go to the Planters' Hotel," he replied.
As we were walking up the street we passed a policeman. I had come to feel a peculiar interest in this class of men; and from the fact that I had met two of them in the same evening, I concluded that the traditions stored up against them were false. It is not quite possible for a police officer to be everywhere at the same instant; and, as there are a thousand places within his beat where he cannotbe, to the one where he is, the chances are altogether against his being always where he happens to be wanted. I say that, having seen two policemen in the same evening, I felt a renewed respect and regard for the order, and I naturally looked behind me as I passed the second one, in order to obtain a good view of the man.
I was not exactly pleased to notice that the two men who had followed us from Front Street stopped him, or rather induced him to join them; and the three followed us. I had no doubt the inquisitive strangers made our little party the subject of a familiar conversation with the policeman, as they walked up the street. However, I did not feel much concerned about the circumstance; for, having been brought up beyond the practicable reach of the law, I had no suspicion that I had done anything wrong; and a new mishap was necessary in order to convince me of the error of taking the law into my own hands.
I mentioned the fact to Lynch that a policeman was following us. He did not take the matter so coolly as I did, and I am not surehe did not regret that he had taken the trouble to relieve me of my shot-bag. I was very well pleased with myself, and thought I had managed my case remarkably well. I had full security for the money I had lost, and ten minutes in the hotel would enable me to recover possession of my funds. The next day was Saturday, and I intended to purchase some new clothes, so that I could go to Sunday school, to church, and to the prayer-meeting on the evening of the holy day. All these things were new to me, and the anticipation of them was very pleasant. I meant, with my money, to put my wardrobe in a condition that would satisfy Mrs. Greenough, who had promised to go with me to the Sunday school, and to all the meetings.