Fred made a short trip the next day, and returned home at four o'clock. He was glad to be back so early, as it gave him time to prepare for his evening visit. Naturally his mind had dwelt upon it more or less during the day, and he looked forward to the occasion with pleasant anticipations. The broker's gracious manners led Fred to think of him as a friend.
"I would like to be in the employ of such a man," he reflected.
He started from home in good season, and found himself on the broker's steps on the stroke of eight.
The door was opened by the same servant as on the evening previous, but he treated Fred more respectfully, having overheard Mr. Wainwright speak of him cordially.
So when Fred asked, "Is Mr. Wainwright at home?" he answered "Yes, sir; come right in. I believe as you are expected."
The old man was descending the stairs as Fred entered, and immediately recognized him.
"Ha, my young friend!" he said. "I am glad to see you," and he held out his hand.
"I hope you are feeling better, sir," said Fred respectfully.
"Oh, yes, thank you. I feel quite myself to-day. It was the length of the journey that upset and fatigued me. I couldn't travel every day, as you do."
"No, sir, I suppose not now; but when you were of my age it would have been different."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"And I am seventy-one, the same figures, but reversed. That makes a great difference. Come in here; my nephew will be down at once."
The train boy followed the old gentleman into the handsome drawing-room, and sat down on a sofa feeling, it must be owned, not quite as much at home as he would have done in a plainer house.
"Did you make much to-day?" asked Silas Corwin (that was his name) in a tone of interest.
"No, sir, it was a poor day. I only sold three dollars' worth."
"And how much did that yield you?"
"Sixty cents. I have a commission of twenty per cent."
"What was the most you ever made in a day?"
"I took in thirteen dollars once—it was on a holiday."
"That would give you two dollars and sixty cents."
"Yes, sir."
"Very good indeed!"
"If I could keep that up I should feel like a millionaire."
"Perhaps happier than a millionaire. I have known millionaires who were weighed down by cares, and were far from happy."
Fred listened respectfully, but like most boys of his age found it impossible to understand how a very rich man could be otherwise than happy.
At this point Mr. John Wainwright entered the room.
"Good evening, my boy!" he said cordially. "I won't apologize for being late, as my uncle has no doubt entertained you."
"Yes, sir; he was just telling me that millionaires are sometimes unhappy."
"And you did not believe him?"
"I think I should be happy if I were worth a million."
"You might feel poorer than you do now. I knew a millionaire once—a bachelor—who did not venture to drink but one cup of coffee at his breakfast (he took it at a cheap restaurant) because it would involve an added expenditure of five cents."
"Was he in his right mind, sir?"
"I don't wonder you ask. I don't think a man who carries economy so far is quite in his right mind. However, he was shrewd enough in his business transactions. But now tell me something about yourself. Are you alone in the world?"
"No, sir; I have a mother and little brother."
"Are they partly dependent upon you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you make enough to support them comfortably?"
"I can in the summer, sir, but in the winter my earnings are small."
"How small?"
"Not over four dollars a week."
"That is certainly small. Do you like your present employment?"
"I am getting tired of it," answered Fred. "I should be glad to find a place where I can have a chance to rise, even if the pay is small."
"What do you think of going into a broker's office?"
Fred's heart gave a bound.
"I should like it very much," he said.
"Then I think I can offer you a place in mine. Come down on Saturday, and I will introduce you to the office employees, and on Monday you can begin work."
"I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Wainwright."
"Before you know how much pay you are to receive?" asked the broker, smiling.
"I can safely trust that to you, sir."
"Then we will say eight dollars to begin with."
"My mother will be pleased with my good luck. I hope I shall prove satisfactory."
"We generally ask references from those about to enter our employment, but my uncle here insists that it is unnecessary in your case."
"I'll go security for the boy, John," said Silas Corwin.
"Thank you, sir," said Fred. "I will see that you don't run any risk."
At this moment a young girl of fourteen entered the room. She was the picture of rosy health, and Fred looked at her admiringly. She, too, glanced at him curiously.
"Fred, this is my daughter, Rose," said Mr. Wainwright.
"Is this the boy who came home with Uncle Silas?" asked the young lady.
"Yes, Rose."
"He looks like a nice boy."
Fred blushed at the compliment, but coming from such lips he found it very agreeable.
"Thank you," he said.
"How old are you?" continued Rose. "I'm fourteen."
"I am three years older."
"When I am three years older I shall be a young lady."
"I don't think I shall ever be a young lady," said Fred demurely.
"Why, of course you won't, you foolish boy," said Rose, with a merry laugh. "Papa, may I invite Fred to my New Year's party?"
"Yes, if you like."
"You'll come, won't you?" asked Rose.
"If your father approves," answered Fred, hesitating.
"Of course he does. Didn't he say so? If you'll tell me where you live, I'll send you a card. Do you dance?"
"Not much; but I will practise beforehand."
"That's right. You must dance with me, you know."
"Rose," said her father gravely, "are you under the impression that this is Leap Year? You seem to be very attentive to this young man."
Rose was the pride of her father's heart, as she might well be, for she was an unusually attractive child, and had been a good deal indulged, but by no means spoiled. Mr. Wainwright had no foolish ideas about exclusiveness, and was not disturbed by his daughter's cordiality to Fred.
"Do you play backgammon, Fred?" asked Rose, after some further conversation.
"Yes, a little."
"Then I'll get the backgammon board, and we'll have a game."
Fred was not a skilful player, and the young lady beat him three games in succession, which put her in high spirits. Her favorable opinion of Fred was confirmed, and when he rose to go she pressed him to come again.
"Thank you," said Fred, "I shall be very glad indeed to come."
"Rose," said her father, after Fred's departure, "it seems to me you have been flirting with Fred."
"He's a nice boy, don't you think so, papa?"
"I hope he will prove so, for I am going to take him into my office."
"That's good. Then I shall see him often."
"Really, Rose, I was a little alarmed lest you should make him an offer this evening."
"You needn't be afraid, papa. I will wait till I am a little bit older."
"And then shall you offer yourself to Fred?"
"Perhaps I shall if I don't see any one I like better."
"You must remember he is poor."
"That doesn't make any difference. You can give us all the money we want."
"A very satisfactory arrangement, upon my word! I am glad you don't insist upon getting married at once, but give me a few hours to get reconciled to the thought."
As Fred would make his debut in fashionable society at Rose Wainwright's party, he was naturally solicitous to make a favorable impression. He had for some time been intending to procure a new suit, but hesitated on account of the expense. Now with a new position in prospect, and a liberal salary he no longer delayed, but purchased a neat black suit—a misfit—for seventeen dollars, and a few small articles of which he stood in need.
The next thing required was to obtain some knowledge of dancing. Fortunately he was acquainted with a gentleman who gave private as well as class lessons, and was a very successful teacher. He called upon Professor Saville, and asked him if he could qualify him to make a creditable appearance at the party.
"How much time have you?" asked the professor.
"Ten days."
"Then come to me every evening, and I will guarantee to make you more than an average dancer in that time."
"And your terms?"
"To you will be half price. I know very well, Fred, that you are not a millionaire, and will adapt my terms to your circumstances."
Professor Saville kept his word, and when the eventful day arrived Fred felt a degree of confidence in his newly-acquired skill. When he was dressed for the party in his new suit, with a white silk tie and a pair of patent leather shoes, it would have been hard to recognize him as a poor train boy.
"You look nice, Fred," said Albert.
"Do I? I must give you a dime for that compliment. Now don't go and spend it for whisky."
"I never drink whisky," said Albert, indignantly.
"I was only joking, Bertie. Well, mother, I will bid you good-evening."
"I wish you a pleasant time, Fred. Shall you be out late?"
"I can't tell, mother. It is so long since I have been to a fashionable party that I have forgotten when they do close."
Some of the boys who attended Miss Wainwright's party engaged cabs, but Fred would have thought this a foolish expenditure. It was a dry crisp day, with no snow on the ground, and he felt that it would do him no harm to walk. He did not expect to meet any one he knew, but on turning into Madison Avenue, he nearly ran into Raymond Ferguson.
Raymond did not at first recognize him. When he did, he surveyed him in his party dress in unconcealed amazement.
"Where did you get that rig?" he inquired, with more abruptness than ceremony.
Fred was glad to meet Raymond, and enjoyed his surprise.
"I bought it," he answered briefly.
"But why did you buy it? I don't see where you found the money. You'd better have saved it for food and rent."
"I'll think over your advice, Cousin Raymond," said Fred with a twinkle of fun in his eyes.
"Were you going to call at our house?" asked Raymond.
"Not this evening."
"I don't care to have you call me Cousin Raymond."
"I won't, then. I am just as much ashamed of the relationship as you are."
"If that's a joke it's a very poor one," said Raymond, provoked.
"It's no joke, I assure you."
Fred seemed so cool and composed that his cousin was nonplussed. He started as if to go on, but curiosity got the better of him.
"You haven't told me where you were going in that absurd dress," he said.
"I don't see anything absurd in it. I am going to a party."
"To a party? what party?"
"Miss Rose Wainwright's."
"What, the daughter of Mr. Wainwright, the broker?" asked Raymond, incredulously.
"Yes."
Now it happened that Raymond had been particularly anxious to get an invitation to this party. Some of his friends at the Columbia Grammar School were going and he had intrigued, but unsuccessfully, to get a card of invitation. The idea that his cousin—an obscure train boy—had succeeded where he had failed seemed absurd and preposterous. It intensified his disappointment, and made him foolishly jealous of Fred.
"There must be some mistake about this," he said harshly. "You only imagine that you are invited."
"I am not quite a fool, Cousin Raymond—excuse me, Mr. Ferguson. What do you say to this?"
He drew from his pocket a note of invitation requesting the favor of Mr. Fred Fenton's company at Miss Rose Wainwright's New Year's party.
"How did she happen to send you this card?" asked Raymond, his surprise increasing. "You don't mean to say you know Rose Wainwright?"
"Yes, I know her. I spent an evening at the house nearly two weeks ago, and played backgammon with her."
"I never heard the like. Have any bootblacks been invited?"
"I don't know. The young lady didn't tell me who were coming."
"Take my advice and don't go."
"Why not?"
"You will be about as much at home at a fashionable party as a cat would be at the opera."
"But I have accepted the invitation."
"That won't matter. You can write a note tomorrow saying that you thought it wiser to stay away."
"Besides there is another objection."
"What is that?"
"Rose expects me to dance with her."
"You dance!"
"Certainly, why not?"
"I begin to think you are crazy, Fred Fenton."
"I don't see why."
"Of course you can't dance."
"Of course I can. I am a pupil of Professor Saville. But I must bid you good evening, as it is time I was at the party."
Raymond gazed after Fred as he walked toward the scene of the evening's enjoyment with corrugated brows.
"I never heard of anything more ridiculous," he muttered. "It's like a beggar on horseback. Think of a poor boy like Fred figuring at Rose Wainwright's party. It is disgusting."
Fred would not have had his share of human nature if he had not enjoyed the discomfiture of his haughty cousin.
"He thinks this world was made for him," he said to himself. "There would be no place for me in it if he had his will."
The broker's house was blazing with light, and already many of the young guests had arrived. Plants and flowers were to be seen in profusion, and the mansion wore a holiday look. Fred was dazzled, but did not allow himself to appear ill at ease.
"Second floor back," said the servant who admitted him.
Fred went up-stairs and arranged his toilet in the room appropriated to gentlemen. Three or four other boys were present, but he knew no one. With one of these, an attractive boy of his own age, Fred stumbled into acquaintance, and they went downstairs together.
"Come with me." said the other boy, "we will pay our respects to Rose together."
Fred was glad to have some one take him in tow, and said so, adding, "Won't you tell me your name?"
"My name is George Swain. I am a Columbia schoolboy."
"And mine, Fred Fenton. I am in Mr. Wainwright's office."
Rose greeted both boys cordially. She glanced approvingly at Fred's dress. She had been a little uncertain whether he would be able to appear in suitable costume.
"You won't forget our dance?" she said, smiling.
"Oh, no; I am counting upon it."
"Then put down your name here," and she presented a card containing the order of dances.
"May I put down my name, too?" asked George
"Certainly. I shall be pleased to dance with you."
When his turn came Fred acquitted himself very creditably, thanks to his skilful instructor, Professor Saville.
At ten o'clock a series of tableaux was announced. At one end of the dining-room a miniature stage had been erected, and there was a circular row of footlights. In the third tableau, Rose took part. She incautiously drew too near the footlights, and in an instant her dress caught fire.
There was a wild scene of excitement. All seemed to have lost their presence of mind except Fred. Occupying a front seat, he jumped to his feet in an instant, stripped off his coat, and jumping on the stage wrapped it round the terrified Rose.
"Lie down instantly! Don't be alarmed! I will save you," said Fred rapidly, as he reached the girl.
He spoke in a tone of authority required by the emergency, and Rose obeyed without question. Her terror gave place to confidence in Fred. Her prompt obedience saved her life. A minute's delay, and it would have been too late.
There was a wild rush to the stage. First among those to reach Fred and the little girl was Mr. Wainwright. He had seen his daughter's peril, and for a moment he had been spellbound, his limbs refusing to act. Had Fred been affected in the same way, the life of Rose would have been sacrificed.
"Are you much hurt, my darling?" he asked, sick with apprehension.
"Just a little, papa," answered Rose, cheerfully. "If it hadn't been for Fred, I don't know what would have happened."
The coat was carefully removed, and it was found that the chief damage had been to the white dress. The little girl's injuries were of small account.
Fortunately there was a physician present, who took Rose in hand, and did what was needed to relieve her.
"It is a miracle that she was saved, Mr. Wainwright," he said. "But for this brave boy——"
"Hush, doctor, I cannot bear to think of it," said Mr. Wainwright with a shudder. "I can never forget what you have done for me and mine," he added, turning to Fred, and wringing his hand. "I won't speak of it now, but I shall always remember it."
Fred blushed and tried to escape notice, but the guests surrounded him and overwhelmed him with congratulations. One little girl, the intimate friend of Rose, even threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, which caused Fred to blush more furiously then ever. But upon the whole he bore himself so modestly that he won golden opinions from all.
The incident put an end to the party. As soon as it was understood that Rose was in no danger, the guests began to take their leave.
George Swain and Fred went out together.
"Fred, you have shown yourself a hero," said his friend warmly.
"You would have done the same thing," said Fred.
"Perhaps I should, but I should not have acted so promptly. That was the important point. You had your wits about you. I was sitting beside you, but before I had time to collect my thoughts you had saved Rose."
"I acted on the impulse of the moment."
"How did you know just what to do—making her lie down, you know?"
"I read an account of a similar case some months since. It came to me in a moment, and I acted upon it."
"If I ever catch fire, I hope you'll be on hand to put me out."
"Oh, yes," laughed Fred. "I'll stand you on your head directly."
"Thank you! It's a good thing to have a considerate friend."
"Did you have a pleasant evening, Fred?" asked Mrs. Fenton. "Are you not home earlier than you expected?"
"Yes, mother. There was as an accident that broke up the party."
He described the affair, but said nothing of his own part in it.
The next morning, after Fred had taken breakfast and gone to business, a neighbor came in.
"I congratulate you, Mrs. Fenton," she said. "You have a right to be proud of Fred."
"Thank you," said the widow, puzzled. "I'm glad you think well of him."
"There's few boys that would have done what he did."
"What has he done?" asked Mrs. Fenton, stopping short on her way to the pantry.
"You don't mean to say you don't know? Why, it's in all the papers."
"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about."
"Didn't I tell you how he saved the little girl from burning to death?"
"Was it Fred who saved her? He didn't tell me that."
"Of course it was. Read that, now!"
She put in the hand of the widow a copy of theSunin which the whole scene was vividly described.
"What do you say now, Mrs. Fenton?"
"That I am all the more proud of Fred because he did not boast of what he did," and a look of pride shone in the widow's eyes.
That morning, when Raymond Ferguson entered the breakfast-room rather later than usual, he found his father reading a paragraph in the Sun with every appearance of surprise.
"What is it, papa?" asked Raymond.
"Read that!"
Raymond took the paper, and his eye was drawn to some conspicuous headlines.
"Why, it's Rose Wainwright!" said Raymond excitedly. "Whom do you think I saw on his way to the party last evening?"
"Fred Fenton."
"How did you hear it?" asked Raymond in surprise.
"Read the account and you will understand."
This is what Raymond read:
Last evening a terrible tragedy came near being enacted at the house of the well-known broker, John Wainwright. The occasion was a juvenile party given by his little daughter Rose, eleven years of age. One part of the entertainment provided was a series of tableaux upon a miniature stage at one end of the dining-room. All went well till the third tableau, in which the young hostess took part, She incautiously approached too near the footlights, when her white dress caught fire and instantly blazed up. All present were spellbound, and it seemed as if the little girl's fate was sealed. Luckily one of the young guests, Fred Fenton, retained his coolness and presence of mind. Without an instant's delay he sprang upon the stage, directed the little girl to lie down, and wrapped his coat around her. Thanks to his promptitude, she escaped with slight injuries. By the time the rest of those present recovered from the spell of terror, Rose was saved.
We understand that the brave boy who displayed such heroic qualities was formerly a train boy on the Erie Railroad, but is now employed in the office of Mr. Wainwright.
Raymond read this account with lowering brow. He felt sick with jealousy. Why had he not been lucky enough to receive an invitation to the party, and enact the part of a deliverer? He did not ask himself whether, if the opportunity had been afforded, he would have availed himself of it. It is fortunate for Rose that she had Fred to depend upon in her terrible emergency, and not Raymond Ferguson. There was little that was heroic about him. A hero must be unselfish, and Raymond was the incarnation of selfishness.
"Your cousin seems to have become quite a hero," said Mr. Ferguson, as Raymond looked up from the paper.
"Don't call him my cousin! I don't care to own him."
"I don't know," said his father, who was quite as selfish, but not as malicious as Raymond. "I am not sure but it will be considered a credit to us to have such a relative."
"Anybody could have done as much as he did," said Raymond in a tone of discontent. "Here's some news of your train-boy, Luella," he continued, as his sister entered the room.
"Has he been arrested?" asked Luella listlessly.
"Not at all! He turns out to be a hero," said her father.
"I suppose that is a joke."
"Read the paper and see."
The young lady read the account with as little pleasure as Raymond.
"How on earth came a boy like that at the Wainwrights' house?" she said with a curl of the lip. "Really, society is getting very much mixed."
"Perhaps," said her father, "it was his relationship to the future Countess Cattelli."
Luella smiled complacently. She had fallen in with an Italian count, an insignificant looking man, very dark and with jet black hair and mustache, of whom she knew very little except that he claimed to be a count. She felt that he would propose soon, and she had decided to accept him. She did not pretend to love him, but it would be such a triumph to be addressed as the Countess Cattelli. She would let Alfred Lindsay see that she could do without him.
When Fred met Mr. Wainwright at the office the next morning his employer greeted him with a pleasant smile, but did not stop to speak. Fred felt relieved, for it embarrassed him to be thanked, and since the evening previous no one had met him without speaking of his heroism. Now Fred was inclined to be modest, and he could not possibly feel that he had done anything heroic, though he was quite aware that he had saved the life of Rose Wainwright. He looked upon it rather as a fortunate opportunity for rendering his employer a valuable service.
At one o'clock Fred took his hat, intending to go to lunch. He lunched at a quiet place in Nassau Street, and never spent over twenty-five cents for this meal, feeling that he must give the bulk of his salary to his mother.
He was just going out when he heard his name called.
Looking back, he saw that it was the broker himself who was speaking to him. Mr. Wainwright had his hat on, and seemed about going out, too.
"You must go to lunch with me to-day, Fred."
"Thank you, sir," answered Fred respectfully.
They walked through Wall Street together, the broker chatting pleasantly. On the way Fred met Raymond, who stared in surprise and disgust as he saw the intimate terms on which Fred appeared to be with his wealthy employer. Mr. Wainwright led the way into an expensive restaurant of a very select character, and motioned Fred to sit down at a table with him.
After the orders were given, he said: "I have invited you to lunch with me, as I could not speak at the office without being overheard. Of course the great service which you rendered me and mine last evening, I can never forget. I do not propose to pay you for it."
"I am glad of that, sir," said Fred earnestly.
"I feel that money is entirely inadequate to express my gratitude, but I shall lose no opportunity of advancing your interests and pushing you on in business."
"Thank you, sir."
"Indeed, it so happens that I have an opportunity even now of showing my confidence in you."
Fred listened with increased attention.
"Some months since," continued the broker, "a confidential clerk who had been employed in my office for years suddenly disappeared, and with him about fifteen thousand dollars in money and securities. As they were my property, and no one else was involved, I did not make the loss public, thinking that I might stand a better chance of getting them back."
"But, sir, I should think the securities would be sold, and the amount realized spent."
"Well thought of, but there was one hindrance. They were not negotiable without the indorsement of the owner in whose name they stood."
"Yes, sir, I see."
"Sooner or later, I expected to hear from them, and I have done so. Yesterday this letter came to me from my defaulting clerk."
He placed a letter, with a Canadian postmark in Fred's hand.
"Shall I read it?'" asked Fred.
"Yes, do so."
This was the letter:
DEAR SIR—I am ashamed to address you after the manner in which I have betrayed your confidence and robbed you, but I do it in the hope of repairing to some extent the wrong I have committed, and of restoring to you a large part of the stolen bonds. If it depended on myself alone I should have little difficulty, but I had a partner in my crime. I may say indeed that I never should have robbed you had I not been instigated to it by another, This man, who calls himself Paul Bowman, I made acquaintance with at a billiard saloon in New York. He insinuated himself into my confidence, inquired my salary, denounced it as inadequate, and finally induced me to take advantage of the confidence reposed in me to abstract the securities which you lost. He had made all arrangements for my safe flight, accompanying me, of course. We went to Montreal first, but this is so apt to be the refuge of defaulters that we finally came to the small village from which I address these lines.
There was a considerable sum of money which we spent, also five hundred dollars in government bonds on which we realized. The other securities we have not as yet been able to negotiate. I have proposed to Bowman to restore them to you by express, and trust to your kindness to spare us a criminal prosecution, and enable us to return to the States, for which I have a homesick longing. But he laughs the idea to scorn, and has managed to spirit away the bonds and conceal them in some place unknown to me. Of course this makes me entirely dependent upon him. To make matters worse, I have fallen sick with rheumatism, and am physically helpless.
If you could send here a confidential messenger who could ascertain the hiding-place of the bonds, I would thankfully consent to his taking them back to you, and I would make no conditions with you. If you felt that you could repose confidence in me once more. I would willingly return to your employment, and make arrangements to pay you by degrees the value of the money thus far expended by Bowman and myself. There are still thirteen thousand five hundred dollars' worth of securities left untouched in their original packages.
We are living in a small village called St. Victor, thirty miles from the American line. We occupy a small cottage rather out of the village, and go by our own names. Do not write to me, for the letter would be seen by Paul Bowman, and defeat my plans, but instruct your messenger to seek a private interview with me. I am detained at home by sickness at present, but Bowman is away most of the day. He is fond of hunting, and spends considerable of the day in the woods, while his evenings are spent at the inn, where there is a pool table. I have managed to send this to the post office by a small girl who comes here in the morning to make the bed and sweep. Hoping earnestly that this communication may reach you, I sign myself
Your repentant clerk,JAMES SINCLAIR.
Fred read this letter with great interest. "He seems to write in good faith," he said, as he handed it back.
"Yes; Sinclair is not so wicked as weak. I quite believe him when he says that it was Bowman who instigated him to the deed."
"Do you think there is any chance of recovering the securities?" asked Fred.
"That depends upon whether I can secure a discreet and trustworthy messenger."
"Yes, sir; I suppose that is important."
"Perhaps you can suggest some one?" said the broker, eying Fred attentively.
Fred shook his head.
"I have too few acquaintances to think of anyone who would be fit," he answered.
"Would you undertake it yourself?" asked Mr. Wainwright.
"I?" stammered Fred in genuine surprise.
"Yes."
"But don't you think I am too young?"
"Perhaps your youth may be a recommendation."
"I don't see how, sir."
"By drawing away suspicion from you. Should I send a man, the appearance of a stranger in a small place like St. Victor—I think it has little more than a thousand inhabitants—would very likely excite the suspicions of this Bowman, and so defeat the chances of success."
"Yes, sir, I see that."
"Of course your youth presents this objection—that you may not have the requisite judgment and knowledge of the world for so delicate a mission."
"That is what I am afraid of, sir."
"Still, I have observed you closely, and have found you prompt, self-reliant, and possessed of unusual good sense. So, upon the whole, having no other person in my mind, I have decided to send you to St. Victor if you will consent to go."
"I will certainly go, sir, if you desire it, and will do my best to succeed."
"That is all that any one could do, whatever might be his age and experience. When will you be ready?"
"To-morrow, if you wish it, sir."
"The sooner the better. I shall provide you with ample funds to defray your expenses. As to instructions, I have none to give. You must be guided by circumstances, and fall back in times of perplexity upon your natural shrewdness. Now let us address ourselves to the dinner."
"So this is St. Victor," said Fred, as he got out of the train on the Grand Trunk Railroad, and looked about him curiously.
It was a small, unpretending village, composed entirely of frame houses, of modest size, and a few small stores kept, as the signs indicated, by Frenchmen. On a little elevation stood a wooden Catholic church, surmounted by a cross.
"It seems a quiet place," thought Fred. "I shall find it dull enough, but if I accomplish my purpose I won't complain of that."
He scarcely needed to inquire for the village inn, for it was in plain sight, not a hundred yards from the station. As the town seemed to be peopled chiefly by French residents it would have been natural to conclude that the hotel also would be French. This, however, was not the case, for the Lion Inn (there was a swinging signboard adorned by the figure of a lion, the work of a fourth-rate sign painter) was kept by a short, stout, red-faced Englishman, who stood in the doorway as Fred came up, valise in hand.
"Is this the hotel?" asked Fred.
"Yes, sir," was the reply.
"I should like to stay with you for a while."
"All right, sir. Come right in, and we'll accommodate you with a room. Have you had supper?"
"No. I should like some, for I am very hungry."
"It shall be ready for you, sir, in a jiffy. Will 'am and heggs suit you, sir?"
"Yes, I shall relish them."
"James, take the young gentleman's bag up to No. 5."
"I should like water and towels, as I have had a long and dusty ride."
Fred was ushered into a small bedroom on the second floor, very plainly furnished, but the train boy was not accustomed to luxurious accommodations, and found it satisfactory. He indulged himself in a thorough ablution, then sat down at the window, which was in the front of the house.
Soon there was a knock at the door, and the boy James made his appearance.
"Please, sir, your supper's ready," he said.
"And so am I," returned Fred with alacrity.
He descended to a small dining-room, adjoining the bar. It was not more than twelve feet square, and from its size it might be inferred that the Lion Inn was seldom overrun with guests.
Fred sat down at the table alone, but presently a man of thirty-five or thereabouts entered and took a seat opposite him.
"Good evening, young man," he said. "Where do you come from?"
"Good evening," answered Fred, civilly. "I come from New York."
The other arched his brows.
"So do I," he said. "What sent you here to this out-of-the-way place?"
"There's good hunting hereabouts, isn't there?"
"Yes, are you fond of hunting?"
"I like it pretty well. I've just had a present of a handsome rifle."
It should be mentioned here that before Fred left New York Mr. Wainwright had given him a gun which would serve him as an excuse for his journey.
"We'll go out together to-morrow. My name's Bowman."
Fred heard the name with a thrill of excitement. Why, this must be the man referred to in Sinclair's letter as having instigated him to the crime. He surveyed Bowman with attention, taking stock of him, so to speak. He found him to be a man of middle height, rather spare than stout, with dark, shifty eyes and a sallow complexion. He wore a mustache, but no whiskers.
"I may find it worth while to get well acquainted with him," thought Fred. "I shall be glad to go out with you," he said aloud.
"That's all right! But how does a boy like you happen to be traveling so far from home?"
"I have a vacation," said Fred. "I have never been in Canada, and thought it would be something new to come here."
"I'm pretty tired of it, I can tell you."
"Then why do you stay?" asked Fred innocently.
"My partner's taken down with rheumatism, and I can't leave him," answered Bowman in a tone of hesitation. "When he gets well I may go back to New York."
"I doubt if you will," thought Fred.
"Were you in a business position in New York?" asked Bowman.
"I have been for some time train boy on the Erie Railroad," answered Fred, feeling that it would never do to mention his connection with Mr. Wainwright.
"Train boys don't usually have money to spend on vacation trips," said Bowman shrewdly.
"That's true," laughed Fred. "If I had depended on my savings, I shouldn't have been able to go farther than Hoboken, or Coney Island, but a rich friend supplied me with a moderate sum for expenses."
"Then you were in luck."
Fred was a little afraid that Bowman would inquire the name of the rich friend, and made up his mind that he would evade answering. However, his companion showed no curiosity on the subject.
"Will you take a glass of ale with me?" asked Bowman, as he filled his own glass from a bottle beside his plate.
"No, thank you. I have no taste for it."
"I didn't like it myself at first but I've come to like it."
"Does your partner board with you at the hotel?" asked Fred.
"No," was the careless reply. "We have a small cottage just out of the village."
"I wonder how he gets along for meals," thought Fred.
However that might be, Paul Bowman didn't permit anxiety to interfere with his own appetite. He did ample justice to the supper, and so indeed did Fred. Fortunately the ham and eggs were well cooked, and the loaf of bread was fresh. In place of ale Fred contented himself with tea.
At length they rose from the table.
"This is a beastly hole—St. Victor, I mean," said Bowman, as he led the way to the reading-room, "but the eating is fair. An Englishman keeps the inn, and though he has no French kickshaws on his table, he gives you solid food and enough of it. Do you smoke? I believe I have a cigar somewhere, but I smoke a pipe myself."
"Thank you," answered Fred, "but I don't smoke. I used to smoke cigarettes, but a young man—an acquaintance of mine—died of cigarette-smoking, so the doctor said, and I gave it up."
"Smoking never hurt me that I know of," said Bowman. "Even if it did, what's a man to do in this dull hole? Shall you stay here long?"
"I don't know how long. It's a cheap place to stay in, isn't it?"
"Yes, it has that recommendation."
"Then I may stay a week possibly," said Fred in an off-hand way.
"I've been here six weeks," said Bowman.
"Then you have had a chance to get well acquainted with St. Victor."
"A good deal better than I want to be. I was just getting ready to leave, when my partner had a sharp attack of rheumatism."
"Is he from New York too?"
"No, from Philadelphia," answered Bowman cautiously, though he had no suspicion that Fred was other than he represented himself.
"I have never been in Philadelphia," said Fred indifferently. "What is your partner's name?"
"James Sinclair," answered Bowman after a moment's hesitation. "Have you ever heard that name before?"
"Yes."
"Where?" I asked Bowman quickly.
"I had a schoolmate of that name."
"Oh! Yes, I suppose the name is not an uncommon one. Do you play billiards?"
"I have seen it played."
"There is a poor table in the house. Such as it is, it may afford us a little recreation. Will you try a game?"
"Yes, if you will teach me."
Fred felt that it was his policy to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Bowman, as it might afford him an opportunity to obtain the information he desired. He had never played a game of billiards, but he was willing to try it.
"Come in, then," said Bowman.
He led the way into a room opposite the office, where stood a venerable-looking billiard table, probably twenty years old. It had been given to the landlord some years before by a gentleman, and it had seen hard service since then.
They played one game, and were about to commence another when a small girl with black hair cut short entered the room.
"Monsieur Bowman," she said, "your friend would like to see you. He feels quite bad."
"Plague take it!" said Bowman pettishly. "I can do him no good, but I suppose I shall have to go."
"Is it your partner?" asked Fred.
"Yes."
"If you don't mind I will walk over with you."
"Glad of your company. Claudine, tell Mr. Sinclair that I will be with him directly."
"Oui, monsieur," and the little girl vanished.
"I wish Sinclair would get well or something," grumbled Bowman, as they walked to the lower end of the main street of the village. "It's hard luck for me to be tied to a sick man."
"Still he has the worst of it," suggested Fred, who was not altogether pleased with the cold selfishness of his companion.
"Yes, I suppose so; but it isn't right that I should suffer for his misfortune."
"Do you employ a doctor?"
"Yes; I called in a doctor once—a Frenchman—Dr. St. Hilaire. He left some medicines, and Sinclair takes them."
"He doesn't seem to get better, then?"
"At any rate he is very slow about it," said Bowman, who spoke as if his unfortunate friend were in fault.
At last they reached the cottage. It was very small, containing three rooms and an attic. Bowman opened the door, and entered what might perhaps be designated as the sitting-room, though it contained a bed, on which, propped up by pillows, lay James Sinclair.
"What's amiss with you, Sinclair?" grumbled Bowman.
"Everything is amiss. You have left me alone all day."
"What good could I do you if I were here? It would only mope me to death."
"I have had nothing to eat since morning, except a boiled egg."
"Why not? Couldn't you send Claudine after food?"
"Of what use would that be, when I had no money to give her? I warrant you have had your regular meals."
"I took my meals at the hotel—it was more convenient."
"I warrant me you took care to provide for yourself. At least give me some money so that I may not quite starve."
"Money, money, all the time! Do you know, Sinclair, our stock is running very low?"
"I demand my share of it as long as it lasts. You take advantage of my helplessness——"
"There's a dollar! Mind you make it last as long as possible," said Bowman. "It will be well to put off your complaints till another time, for I have brought company."
He signaled to Fred, who had remained outside, to enter, and the boy did so. He regarded the sick man with interest and sympathy, not alone because he seemed in sorry plight, and ill treated by his companion in crime, but also because he was clearly the less guilty of the two, and seemed disposed to make amends to the man whom he had wronged.
James Sinclair, unprepared for the advent of a boy, regarded him with surprise.
"Who is this?" he asked.
"My name is Fred Fenton," answered the train boy, remembering that Bowman was as yet ignorant of his name.
"He is a guest at the inn," explained Bowman carelessly. "He arrived to-night. He will be some company for me in this dull hole. We were playing a game of billiards when Claudine broke in and told me you wanted to see me. I expected to find you at the point of death," he finished impatiently.
"That may come sooner than you think," said Sinclair. "May I ask where you come from, young man?" he added, in a tone of suppressed eagerness which Fred well understood.
"I come from New York," answered the boy, trying to throw a degree of significance into this brief answer.
"From New York!" said Sinclair, in some excitement, and trying to read in Fred's face whether he was the expected messenger. "You have come for your health, I suppose?"
"Not exactly for that, for my health is always good, but I thought it might be a pleasant place to spend an unexpected holiday that has been granted me."
"Pleasant!" repeated Bowman scornfully. "If you can find anything pleasant at St. Victor, you will have greater luck than I."
"Is Claudine in the kitchen?" asked the sick man. "Claudine!" he called, raising his voice.
"Yes, monsieur," answered the little handmaid, appearing at the door.
"Go to the baker's and buy a loaf of bread. Here is money. Is there any tea left?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then buy a cupful of milk and half a pound of sugar. I am almost famished. A cup of tea and some toast will put new life into me."
Claudine departed on her errand, and Sinclair once more fixed his eyes on Fred. There was a question he very much wished to ask, but in Bowman's presence he could not do it safely.