Phil gets Lynch at a Disadvantage.Page 147.
Phil gets Lynch at a Disadvantage.Page 147.
"Come, hurry up," said Lynch, while I was passing these pleasant reflections through my mind. "That policeman will make trouble for us."
"I'm not afraid of him."
"But I am," replied my companion, sharply. "If you get me into a scrape, it will go harder with you than with me."
I did not see how that could be, but I was willing to meet the views of Lynch as long as no treachery was apparent in his conduct. If he wished to leave us, he could do so, for we had all his money. We reached the Planters' Hotel, closely followed by the policeman and the two strangers. When we were about to enter the bar-room, the officer stepped in front of us, and stopped our further progress.
"I learn that an assault was committed, under suspicious circumstances, near the levee," said the officer. "I should like to know about it."
"I was robbed of my purse and pocket-book," replied Lynch, promptly.
"Who did it?" demanded the officer, with energy.
"This man and this boy," answered Lynch.
"It is no such thing!" I protested, startled at the charge of my unprincipled companion.
"But that young fellow was holding him down," interposed one of the strangers. "He let him up just as Gray and I came out of Plum Street."
"That's so," added Lynch, in the tone and manner of a martyr. "They took from me all mymoney, and were going to take my watch when they were interrupted."
"It is a false and groundless accusation," said Mr. Farringford, vehemently.
"Ah, Farringford, are you in the scrape?" exclaimed Mr. Gray.
"I am not in the scrape. There is no scrape," replied my father, very much agitated, for he probably realized better than I did the nature of our proceedings.
"I will conduct you all to the police office, and we will look into the matter," said the official, as he took me upon one arm, and my father upon the other.
Lynch walked with the two gentlemen, one of whom, it appeared, was connected with the Metropolitan Police Department, which explained his interest in the affair. I heard him telling his story to them, and I had no doubt they were greatly edified by it. We arrived at the station, and were presented to a sergeant of police, who imposed upon himself the task of investigating the affair. Mr. Gray stated that he had found me holding Lynch upon the ground,while Farringford was looking into a pocket-book under the street lamp.
"What have you to say?" said the sergeant to Lynch.
"I was going across the levee to a steamboat, when this man and boy sprang upon me and knocked me down before I knew what they were about," replied Lynch. "They took from me my pocket-book, which contains over two hundred dollars, and my purse, with fifty or sixty dollars in it, mostly in gold."
"Do you know either of these parties?" asked the sergeant.
"I know Farringford—everybody knows him," replied Lynch. "I don't know the boy."
"I am sorry to see that Farringford has been reduced to anything of this sort," added Mr. Gray, glancing at the trembling inebriate.
"Gentlemen, I am willing to wait till this transaction can be investigated for the vindication of my character," replied Farringford, straightening himself up as much as his tottering limbs would permit.
"Give me your name, if you please," said the sergeant to Lynch.
"My name is Lynch."
"Full name, if you please."
"Samuel Lynch."
"AliasLeonidas Lynchpinne," I added; "the name he called himself by when I first saw him."
"Your business, if you please?" continued the official, as he wrote down the name.
"I have no regular business at the present time."
"That's so!" exclaimed Farringford. "His business is very irregular. In other words, he is a blackleg, at Forstellar's or on the river."
"No matter what he is; you can't knock him down and rob him in the streets of St. Louis," said the sergeant. "Have you either the pocket-book or the purse, Farringford?"
"I have the pocket-book," replied my father, producing it.
"Did you take this from Mr. Lynch?" asked the officer, as the pocket-book was handed to him.
"I did not."
"His son did," said Lynch, with a sneer.
"What do you mean by his son?" demanded Mr. Gray, with a smile.
"He told me the boy was his son."
"When did he tell you so?" asked the sergeant, quietly.
"After he had knocked me down," replied Lynch, wincing under the question, which was evidently put for a purpose.
"Then you talked over their relationship while the boy held you on the ground?" suggested Mr. Gray.
"No; Farringford only called the boy his son."
"What did he say to him?"
"He called him his son, and told him to hold me fast."
"Before he took your pocket-book from you?"
"No; afterwards, while he was looking to see what was in it."
"This is not the way robberies are usually committed," added the sergeant. "I never heard of one robber holding a man down while the other looked to see what the pocket-book contained."
"Did Farringford call you his son?" asked Mr. Gray, turning to me.
"Yes, sir, he did; but not while I held Lynchdown. It was while we were in Plum Street," I replied.
"What trick were you engaged in?" demanded Mr. Gray, rather sternly. "Why did he call you his son?"
"I am his son. He is my father," I answered.
Farringford looked at me with an expression of disapproval, as if to reproach me for the falsehood he believed I had uttered.
IN WHICH PHIL RECOVERS HIS MONEY.
"You don't mean to say that Farringford here, whom everybody in St. Louis knows, is your father—do you?" continued Mr. Gray, apparently amazed at the absurdity of the proposition, while his friend and the sergeant laughed heartily.
"That is precisely what I mean to say," I replied, in the most determined tone.
Farringford shook his head, and was apparently sorry that I had turned out to be such an abominable liar.
"What is your name?" inquired the sergeant.
"Philip Farringford."
I had taken especial pains not to give my full name to my father when he questioned me, and he doubtless supposed that I had invented the name for the occasion. He looked at me, andshook his head. Very likely, by this time, he was willing to believe I had deceived him, and that I had lost no money, for if I could lie about one thing I could about another.
"Do you justify this young man in calling you his father, Farringford?" said Mr. Gray.
"I am sorry to say I cannot. Gentlemen, I have endeavored to act in good faith," replied my father. "I have always found that the truth would serve me better than falsehood."
"Did you call him your son?"
"I did, but used the expression as a kind of harmless fib to carry my purpose with this Lynch, who had robbed the boy of nearly a hundred dollars."
"It is false!" exclaimed Lynch.
"Keep cool, if you please, sir," interposed the sergeant. "We have heard your story, and now we will hear the other side."
"Philip may have deceived me, but I believed that he had been robbed, and I did the best I could to get his money back, after he had pointed out to me the man who took it from him. Certainly he is not my son. I never saw him till yesterday; and I am sorry he hasthought it necessary to repeat my fib, or falsehood, if you please," continued Farringford.
"Nevertheless, I hope I shall be able to prove in due time that he is my father," I added.
"But, my lad, everybody knows that Farringford has no children," said Mr. Gray.
"Never mind that now. I want to know whether any robbery has been committed," interposed the sergeant, impatiently.
"Let the boy tell his own story," replied Mr. Gray.
"Here is Lynch's purse," I began, handing it to the sergeant.
"Then you did take these things from him?"
"I did; but he told me to put my hand in his pocket and take out the pocket-book and the purse."
"Very probable!" sneered Lynch.
"It's all true," said Farringford.
"Well, go on, young man."
"I was coming down the Missouri River in the steamer Fawn—"
"She arrived last Tuesday morning," interposed Mr. Lamar, the gentleman with Mr. Gray.
"Yes, sir. I was with Mr. Gracewood and his family."
"What Gracewood?"
"Henry."
"Is he a brother of Robert Gracewood of Glencoe?"
"I don't know. He had a brother in St. Louis," said Mr. Lamar, who was an elderly gentleman, and appeared to know everybody and everything.
"He bought a place at Glencoe a year ago."
"His wife's brother was a Mr. Sparkley."
"It's the same man. But he separated from his wife years ago, cleared out, and has not been heard from since."
I explained that the family had been reunited, and were on their way to St. Louis. I had endeavored to find Mr. Gracewood's brother, but without success, in order to inform him of what had occurred up the river. The fact that he had moved from the city explained why I had not found his name in the Directory. I continued my story, with frequent interruptions, much to the disgust of the sergeant, who was interested only in the criminal aspect of the case. I toldhow Lynch had robbed me at Leavenworth, how I had identified him in St. Louis, and followed him and Farringford from Forstellar's to Front Street.
"Every word of that story is true so far as it relates to me," said Farringford.
"I watched Lynch and Farringford, the former trying to get rid of the latter all the time, until at last he laid violent hands upon him," I continued. "I couldn't stand it any longer; I went up behind Lynch, threw my hands around his neck, and stuck my knees into his back till he went down. He begged me to let him up, and promised to restore my money if I would. Then, when I was not willing to let him up without some security, he told me to take his pocket-book and purse. That was just what was going on when these gentlemen came out of Plum Street."
"Then you did not knock him down till he laid hands upon Farringford?" added the sergeant.
"No, sir; I did not till he took hold of my father."
"Your father!" exclaimed Mr. Gray. "Therest of your story is so straightforward that I hoped you would abandon that fiction."
"It is no fiction."
"It matters not to me whether it is fact or fiction," interposed the sergeant. "I only wish to know whether or not a crime has been committed in St. Louis. If the boy knocked this Lynch down in order to save Farringford from injury, it is no crime, whether father or not."
"I cried, 'Police!' as loud as I could, as soon as we struck the ground," I added.
"Can you identify your money?" asked the sergeant.
"Not every piece of it; but there was a five-dollar gold coin, with a hole through the middle, dated 1850. The clerk of the Fawn would not take it for my passage for five dollars."
The officer poured the gold from the purse upon the table, and instantly picked out the coin I had described, which Lynch had perhaps found it as difficult to pass as I had. He looked at the date, and declared it was 1850.
"That is very good evidence, my boy," said the officer, bestowing a smile of approval upon me. "Can you give me any more."
"If you can find Captain Davis, of the Fawn, he will say that I left the boat with Lynch."
"Where is he?"
"He has gone up to Alton with the Fawn. When Mr. Gracewood comes, he will tell you the same thing."
"Your witnesses are not at hand. In what boat did you come down the river."
"In the Fawn."
"And you, Mr. Lynch?"
"In the Daylight."
"Where from?"
"St. Joe."
The sergeant continued to question and cross-question Lynch for half an hour. His statements were confused and contradictory, and being based upon falsehoods, they could not well be otherwise. It appeared that the Daylight, in which he had arrived, came down the river immediately after the Fawn, which made my story the more probable.
"I do not see that any crime has been committed in St. Louis," said the officer, after his long and patient investigation.
"Then you don't call it a crime to knock a mandown, and take his purse and pocket-book from him?" added Lynch, in deep disgust.
"I believe the young man's story," replied the officer. "If your money had been taken from you by force, you would not have walked quietly through the streets with those who robbed you, passing an officer on your way without hinting at what had happened. The young man's story is straightforward and consistent, except as to his relations with Farringford, which is not material. I am of the opinion that you commenced the assault upon Farringford."
"Not so."
"Both Farringford and the young man agree in all essential points."
Lynch growled and protested, but finally declared that he was satisfied to let the matter drop where it was. He had recovered his money, and he could not complain.
"But I have not recovered mine, and I am not satisfied," I added, feeling that the discharge of Lynch was total defeat to me.
"You were robbed in the territory of Kansas, and not in the city of St. Louis," replied the officer.
"Must I lose my money for that reason?"
"Certainly not; but the complaint against Lynch must be made at Leavenworth, and a requisition from the governor of the territory must be sent here."
The case was full of difficulties, and Lynch, in charge of a policeman, was sent out of the room to enable us to consider the best means of proceeding. I could not go back to Leavenworth very conveniently, and it would cost me more than the amount of money I had lost. We decided to let the matter rest till the next day, and Lynch was called in again.
"I propose to detain you till to-morrow, when Farringford will complain of you for an assault," said the officer.
"I would rather give a hundred dollars than be detained," said Lynch.
"We don't settle cases in that way. Of course we intend to reach the robbery matter in some manner."
"I will give the boy the money he claims to have lost," added the culprit.
"If you wish to restore the money, you can," replied the sergeant.
"I do not admit the truth of his story."
"Then you shall not give him any money. You shall not be swindled here."
"If I admit the—"
"Don't commit yourself unless you choose to do so. Whatever you say may be used as evidence to convict you."
"You put me in a tight place," said Lynch. "If I commit myself, you will prosecute me. If I don't commit myself, I cannot give the boy the money."
"I did not say I should prosecute you. The crime, if any, was committed beyond the limits of this state. I cannot enter a complaint. The young man may do so if he thinks best."
"Can I make Phil a present of a hundred dollars?" demanded Lynch, desperately.
"You can do as you please with your own money," answered the officer.
The robber counted a hundred dollars from his pocket-book, and handed it to Mr. Lamar, who declared that the amount was right, and the bills were good. It was passed to me; but I declined to receive any more than I had lost,and changing a bill, I returned two dollars and a half.
"I will make no complaint for assault now," said Farringford.
"Then I cannot detain him. If the young man chooses to complain of Lynch in Leavenworth, he is still liable to prosecution."
"I will risk that," said Lynch, more cheerfully.
"You can leave," added the officer.
The rascal promptly availed himself of this permission, and left the office.
"I am sorry to have a case settled in that manner. I know that man as a notorious blackleg," continued the officer.
"I don't see that it could be settled in any other way now," replied Mr. Gray. "We have done nothing to prejudice the interests of justice. The young man can prosecute now."
"I can't afford to go to Kansas to do so," I replied.
"We will keep watch of him," said the sergeant.
We all left the office together. The two gentlemen who had manifested so much interest in the affair were unwilling to part with Farringford and me. Mr. Gray asked me what had induced me to say that Farringford was my father.
"It's a long story, gentlemen; and I have to convince him as well as you of the truth of what I say. If you will go to my boarding-house I will do so."
I told them where it was, and they consented to accompany me. When we reached the house, Mrs. Greenough was astonished at the number of my visitors, but I conducted them all to my chamber.
IN WHICH PHIL PRODUCES THE RELICS OF HIS CHILDHOOD.
Having seated my party in my chamber, I told the last part of my story first. I began by saying that I had been brought up on the upper Missouri, by Matt Rockwood, relating all my experience down to the present moment, including the history of the Gracewoods.
"That's all very well, Phil; but where were you born?" asked Mr. Gray. "You left that part out, and told us everything except that which we wished to know."
"I don't know where I was born. You must ask my father?"
"Do you still persist in saying that Farringford is your father?"
"I still persist."
"But he has no children."
"I had one child," interposed Farringford, trembling with emotion, as well as from the effects of inebriation.
"I remember," said Mr. Lamar. "You lost that child when the Farringford was burned."
"Yes," replied my father, with a shudder.
"Will you state precisely how that child was lost, sir?" I continued. "I would not ask you to do so if it were not necessary, for I know the narrative is painful."
"I suppose you claim to be this child, which, if I remember rightly, was a girl," added Mr. Lamar.
"No; it was a boy," responded Mr. Farringford.
"Gentlemen, I shall leave you to draw your own conclusions, after you have heard the rest of the story."
"Can it be possible that you are my lost child, Philip?" said my father.
"Let us see the evidence before we decide," I replied. "Now, how was the child lost?"
"My wife's brother, Lieutenant Collingsby, was stationed at a fort on the upper Missouri. My wife was anxious to see him, and we started in one of the steamers I owned then, with our littleboy two years old," Mr. Farringford began. "The boat had our family name, and was the finest one I owned. We enjoyed the trip very much. I didn't drink very hard at that time, gentlemen, though I occasionally took too much in the evening, or on a festive occasion. On the night the steamer was burned, we were within thirty miles of the fort to which we were going, and where we intended to remain till the Farringford returned from her trip to the mouth of the Yellowstone. I know my wife did not undress the child, because we hoped to reach the fort, and spend the night at the barracks.
"Expecting to part with the passengers that evening, we had a merry time; and I drank till I was, in a word, intoxicated. I supplied whiskey and champagne for everybody on board, not excepting the officers, crew, and firemen, who would drink them. Even the two or three ladies who were on board partook of the sparkling beverage. Wishing to reach the fort as early as possible, I told the firemen and engineers to hurry up when I gave them their whiskey. They obeyed me to the letter, and the furnaces were heated red hot. I do not know to this day howthe boat took fire; but I do know that a barrel of camphene, belonging to some army stores on board, was stove, and its contents ran all over the forward deck.
"All hands worked hard to save the boat; but they worked in vain. The pilot finally ran her ashore. I pulled down a door, and carried it to the main deck aft, while my wife conveyed the child to the same point. The fire was forward, so that we could not leave the boat by the bow, which had been run on shore. I placed my little one upon the door, wrapped in a shawl, with a pillow on each side to keep it from rolling into the water. The captain was to help my wife, while I swam behind the door, holding it with my hands. In this position, partially supported by the raft, I expected to be able to propel it to the shore. My plan was good, and would have been successful, without a doubt, if I had not been intoxicated.
"When I was about to drop into the water, the stern of the boat suddenly swung around, and I lost my hold upon the raft. I had been lying upon the edge of the deck, with my leg around a stanchion, my head hanging over thewater; and I think my position, in addition to the fumes of the liquor I had drank, made me dizzy. I lost the door, and I think I partially lost my senses at the same time. The steamer, as she swung around, slipped from the abrupt shore which held her. This movement created a tremendous excitement, amounting to almost despair, among the passengers and crew. The door was carried away from the steamer, and I lost sight of it. When I was able again to realize my situation, I tried to discover the door, but in vain. I threw a box, which the captain had prepared to support my wife, into the water, and leaped in myself.
"The current swept the steamer down the river. I paddled my box to the shore, and landed."
"On which side did you land?" I asked.
"On the north side. I ran on the bank of the river, looking for my child. The glare from the burning steamer lighted up the water, but I could see nothing floating on the surface. I was the only person who had left the boat so far, and I followed her till, two or three miles below the point where I had landed, one of her boilersexploded, and she became a wreck. About one half of the passengers and crew were saved on boxes, barrels, and doors. By the aid of the captain my wife was brought to the shore. I shall never forget her agony when I told her that our child was lost. She sank senseless upon the ground; but she came to herself after a time. I wished that I had perished in the flood when I realized the anguish of losing my only child. I could not comfort her; I needed comfort myself. I spent the long night in walking up and down the banks of the river, looking for my lost little boy. Below the place where most of the passengers landed I found many doors and other parts of the boat; but I could not find my child.
"I reasoned that the current would carry the raft which bore up my child to the same points where other floating articles were found, and I was forced to the conclusion that my darling had rolled from the door and perished in the cold waters. I shuddered to think of it. Before daylight in the morning another steamer appeared, coming down the river. We hailed her, and were taken on board. She proved to be one ofmy boats, and I caused the most diligent search to be made for my lost little one. About a mile below the point where the Farringford had been run ashore we found a door, with one pillow upon it, aground on the upper end of an island. This discovery was the knell of my last hope. Of course the child had rolled from the door and perished. I wept bitterly, and my wife fainted, though we only realized what seemed inevitable from the first. We discovered this door about daylight, and it was useless to prolong the search. The evidence that my child was lost was too painfully conclusive.
"My wife wished to return home. We were going on a pleasure excursion, but it had terminated in a burden of woe which can never be lifted from my wife or from me. I drank whiskey to drown my misery. I was seldom sober after this, and I lost all my property in reckless speculations. I became what I am now. My wife never would taste even champagne after that terrible night. She in some measure recovered her spirits, though she can never be what she was before. After I had lost everything, and could no longer provide a home for her, shereturned to her father. I have not seen her for five years; but I do not blame her. She was a beautiful woman, and worthy of a better husband than I was. You know the whole story now, Philip. These gentlemen knew it before."
"Not all of it," added Mr. Lamar. "And now we can pity and sympathize with you as we could not before."
"No; I deserve neither pity nor sympathy," groaned my poor father, trembling violently. "If I had not been drunk I should have saved my child."
"Perhaps it is all for the best, since the child was saved," said I.
"It is impossible!" exclaimed Farringford. "I cannot believe it. There was no one in that lonely region; and, if my child had reached the shore, it must have perished more miserably of starvation than in the water."
"You say your wife did not undress the child, because you expected to reach the fort that evening," I continued. "Do you know what clothes it had on?"
"I ought to know, for I have tearfully recalled the occasion when I last pressed it to my heart,after supper that awful night. It wore a little white cambric dress, with bracelets of coral on the shoulders."
"Anything on the neck?"
"Yes; a coral necklace, to which was attached a locket containing a miniature of my wife."
"In what kind of a shawl was it wrapped when you placed it on the door?" I asked, as I unlocked the bureau drawer in which I had placed the precious relics of my childhood.
While he was describing it I took the shawl from the drawer.
"Is this it?"
Farringford trembled in every fibre of his frame as he glanced at the article.
"It looks like it. I do not know whether it is the same one or not."
I trembled almost as much as the poor inebriate in the excitement of the moment.
"I should hardly consider that sufficient evidence," said Mr. Gray. "There are thousands of shawls just like that."
"I intend to furnish more evidence," I replied, producing the stained and mildewed dress I hadbrought from the settlement. "Do you know that dress, Mr. Farringford?"
"It certainly looks like the one my child wore."
It was examined by the gentlemen; but they thought the evidence was not yet conclusive, and I took the bracelets from the drawer.
"Did you ever see these before?" I asked, handing them to the palsied drunkard. "You will see the initials P.F. on the clasps."
"I have seen these, and I know them well. They were given to my child by my brother Philip," replied he, with increasing emotion.
"There may be some mistake," suggested Mr. Lamar. "Hundreds and thousands of just such trinkets have been sold in St. Louis."
"But these have the initials of my child upon them."
"P.F. may stand for Peter Fungus, or a dozen other names," replied Mr. Gray. "The evidence is certainly good as far as it goes, but not conclusive."
"What should you regard as conclusive, sir?" I asked, rather annoyed at his scepticism, which I regarded as slightly unreasonable.
"Evidence, to be entirely conclusive, must besusceptible of only one meaning," added Mr. Lamar. "The articles you have produced may have belonged to some other person, though it is not probable."
"I don't know that I shall be able to satisfy you, but I will try once more," I replied, taking the locket from the drawer.
I handed the locket to Farringford. He grasped it with his shaking hands, and turned it over and over. He examined the necklace with great care, and then tried to open the locket. He trembled so that he could not succeed, and I opened it for him. He glanced at the beautiful face upon which I had so often gazed by the hour together.
"My wife!" exclaimed he, sinking into his chair, and covering his face with his hands, sobbing convulsively like a child. "You are my son!"
"Perhaps not," interposed Mr. Lamar, very much to my disgust.
But my poor father was satisfied, and sprang forward to embrace me. The excitement was too much for his shattered nerves, and he dropped fainting into my arms. We placed him upon the bed, and I went for Mrs. Greenough.
IN WHICH PHIL STRUGGLES EARNESTLY TO REFORM HIS FATHER.
The skilful ministrations of Mrs. Greenough soon restored my father to himself. He had probably eaten nothing since he took his breakfast with me early in the morning, and his frame was not in condition to bear the pressure of the strong emotions which had agitated him.
"My son!" exclaimed he, as the incidents which had just transpired came back to his mind.
"My father!" I replied.
He extended his trembling hand to me, and I took it. It would have been a blessed moment to me if I could have forgotten what he was, or if I could have lifted him up from the abyss of disgrace and shame into which he had sunk. I hoped, with the blessing of God, that Ishould be able to do this in some measure. I determined to labor without ceasing, with zeal and prayer, to accomplish this end.
"I pity you, my son," said my father, covering his eyes with his hands. It can be no joy to you to find such a father."
"I should not be sincere, father, if I did not say I wished you were different."
"Philip,—if that is really your name,—I will reform, or I will die," said he, with new emotion. "I have something to hope for now. The good God, who, I believed, had deserted me years ago, has been kinder to me than I deserved."
"He is that to all of us, father."
"Where did you get this locket, young man?" asked Mr. Lamar, who evidently believed there was still a possibility that a mistake had been made.
I replied that I had found it in the chest of Matt Rockwood, who had taken me from the door in the river; and I repeated that part of my narrative which I had omitted before.
"You need not cavil, gentlemen," interposed my father. "I am satisfied. I can distinguish the features of my lost son. If you knew mywife, you can see that he resembles her. Look at the portrait, and then look at him."
"I have seen Mrs. Farringford, but I do not exactly remember her looks," added Mr. Lamar.
"Matt Rockwood is dead; but there is a living witness who saw the child he found only a day or two after it was picked up," I continued.
"Who is he?"
"Kit Cruncher; he is at the settlement now, and has known me for eleven years. Mr. Gracewood, whom I expect in St. Louis soon, has known me for six years, and has heard Matt Rockwood tell the story of finding the child."
"If I am satisfied, no one else need complain," said my father. "There are no estates, no property, nor a dollar left, to which any claim is to be established. I am a beggar and a wretch, and an inheritance of shame and misery is all I have for him."
"But you forget that your wife is still living, Farringford," added Mr. Lamar. "Her father is a wealthy man, and his large property, at no very distant day, will be divided among his three children."
"Very true; I did not think of that. I haveso long been accustomed to regard her as lost to me that I did not think my boy still had a mother," answered my father, bitterly. "But when she sees him, she will not ask that any one should swear to his identity. She will know him, though eleven years have elapsed since she saw him."
"But where is she?" I asked, anxiously.
"I do not know, Philip."
"When did you see her last?"
"It is four or five years since we met."
"But haven't you heard from her?"
"Once, and only once. After she left me, and went back to her father, I tried to see her occasionally, for I have never lost my affection and respect for her. I annoyed Mr. Collingsby, her father, trying to obtain money of him. Three years ago the family moved away from St. Louis, partly, if not wholly, I know, to avoid me, and to take my wife away from the scene of all her misery."
"Where did they go?"
"To Chicago, where Mr. Collingsby was largely interested in railroad enterprises."
"Is the family still there?"
"I do not know."
"They are," added Mr. Gray.
"But my wife is not there," said my father. "Some one told me, a year ago, he had met her in Europe, where she intended to travel for three years with her brother and his wife. Really, Philip, I know nothing more about her. I wish I could lead you to her."
I was indeed very sad when I thought that years might elapse before I could see her who had given me being.
"I will make some inquiries, Phil, in regard to the Collingsbys," said Mr. Lamar.
"Are you satisfied, sir, that I am what I say I am?" I asked.
"I have no doubt you are, though perhaps your case is not absolutely beyond cavil. The old man who died might have found the body of the child, and taken the clothes and trinkets from it; but that is not probable."
"But I can produce a man who has known me from my childhood," I replied.
"You can, but you have not," added he, with a smile.
"I will produce him if necessary. I hope you will see Mr. Gracewood when he arrives."
"I will, if possible. But, Farringford, was there no mark or scar of any kind on the child which will enable you to identify him?"
"I know of none. Perhaps his mother does," answered my father. "But I tell you I am satisfied. I ask for no proof. I know his face now. It all comes back to me like a forgotten dream."
"Very well; but, Farringford, you have something to live for now," added Mr. Lamar.
"I have, indeed," replied the trembling sufferer, as he glanced fondly at me. "I will try to do better."
"When you feel able to do anything, we shall be glad to help you to a situation where you can do something to support your boy," said Mr. Gray.
"I can take care of myself, gentlemen. I am getting three dollars a week now, and I hope soon to obtain more," I interposed.
"Three dollars a week will hardly support you."
"I shall be able to get along upon that sum for the present. Mrs. Greenough is very kind to me."
The two gentleman said all they could to inspire my poor father with hope and strength, and then departed. I was very much obliged to them for the interest and sympathy they had manifested, and promised to call upon them when I needed any assistance.
"I am amazed, Philip," said my father, when our friends had gone.
"I knew that you were my father when we met in the evening at the Planters' Hotel," I replied. "You remember that you told me you had lost a child on the upper Missouri."
"I did; I was thinking then what a terrible curse whiskey had been to me. You looked like a bright, active boy, and I desired to warn you, by my own sad experience, never to follow in the path I had trodden. I did not suspect that I was talking to my own son; but all the more would I warn you now."
"You thrilled my very soul, father, with your words, and I shall never forget them. I shall pray to God to save both you and me from the horrors of intemperance."
"Philip, I have resolved most solemnly, a hundred times, to drink no more; but I did not keep my promise even twenty-four hours."
"Is your mind so weak as that?"
"Mind! I have no mind, my son. I haven't a particle of strength, either of body or mind."
"You must look to God for strength," said Mrs. Greenough, who had listened in silence to our conversation.
"I have, madam; but he does not hear the prayer of such a wretch as I am."
"You wrong him, Mr. Farringford," replied the widow, solemnly. "He hears the prayers of the weakest and the humblest. You have no strength of your own; seek strength of him. My husband was reduced as low as you are. For ten years of his life he was a miserable drunkard; but he was always kind to me. Hundreds of times he promised to drink no more, but as often broke his promise. I became interested in religion, and then I understood why he had always failed. I prayed with my husband, and for him. He was moved, and wept like a child. Then he prayed with me, and the strength of purpose he needed came from God. He was saved, but he never ceased to pray. He redeemed himself, andnever drank another drop. Before he died, he had paid for this house, besides supporting us very handsomely for ten years."
"That is hopeful, madam; but I am afraid I am too far gone. I have no wife to pray with me," said my father, gloomily.
"I will pray with you."
Throwing herself upon her knees before a chair, she poured forth her petition for the salvation of the drunkard with an unction that moved both him and me. I heard my father sob, in his weakness and imbecility. He was as a little child, and was moved and influenced like one.
"You must pray yourself, Mr. Farringford," said she, when she had finished. "You must feel the need of help, and then seek it earnestly and devoutly."
"I thank you, madam, for all your kindness. I will try to do better. I will try to pray," said he. "Could you give me some more of the medicine I took last night and this morning? It helped me very much."
"Certainly I can. I will do everything in the world for you, if you will only stay here and try to get well."
She left the room, and went into the kitchen to prepare the soothing drinks which the excited nerves of the patient demanded.
"I will reform, Philip. I will follow this good lady's advice. Give me your hand, my son," said my father.
"O, if you only would, father! This world would be full of happiness for us then. We could find my mother, and be reunited forever."
"God helping me, I will never drink another drop of liquor," said he, solemnly lifting up his eyes, as I held his trembling hand.
Mrs. Greenough opportunely returned with the medicines, and with a folded paper in her hand. As my father took his potion, she opened the paper, which was a temperance pledge, on which was subscribed the name of "Amos Greenough."
"This is the pledge my husband signed, with trembling hand, ten years before his death. It was salvation to him here—and hereafter. Will you add your name to it, Mr. Farringford?" said Mrs. Greenough.
"I will."
"Not unless you are solemnly resolved, withthe help of God, to keep your promise," she added. "Not unless you are willing to work, and struggle, and pray for your own salvation."