CHAPTER XIV.
THE MISSING WILL
An hour after the depart of the colonel there was an unexpected arrival.
A well-dressed gentleman descended the stairs gingerly, looked about him with fastidious disdain, and walked up to the bar.
Tim Bolton was filling an order, and did not immediately observe him.
When at length he turned around he exclaimed, in some surprise:
“Mr. Waring!”
“Yes, Bolton, I have found my way here.”
“I have been expecting you.”
“I came to you for some information.”
“Well, ask your questions: I don’t know whether I can answer them.”
“First, where is my Cousin Florence?”
“How should I know? She wasn’t likely to place herself under my protection.”
“She’s with that boy of yours—Dodger, I believe you call him. Where is he?”
“Run away,” answered Bolton, briefly.
“Do you mean that you don’t know where he is?”
“Yes, I do mean that. I haven’t set my eyes on him since that night.”
“What do you mean by such negligence? Do you remember who he is?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Then why do you let him get of your reach?”
“How could I help it? Here I am tied down to this bar day and night! I’m nearly dead for want of sleep.”
“It would be better to close up your place for a week and look after him.”
“Couldn’t do it. I should lose all my trade. People would say I was closed up.”
“And have you done nothing toward his recovery?”
“Yes, I have sent out two men in search of him.”
“Have you any idea where he is, or what he is doing?”
“Yes, he has been seen in front of the Astor House, selling papers. I have authorized my agent, if he sees him again, to follow him home, and find out where he lives.”
“That is good! Astor House? I may see him myself.”
“But why do you want to see him? Do you want to restore him to his rights?”
“Hush!” said Curtis, glancing around him apprehensively. “What we say may be overheard and excite suspicion. One thing may be secured by finding him—the knowledge of Florence’s whereabouts.”
“What makes you think she and the boy are together?”
“He came for her trunk. I was away from home, or I would not have let it go–”
“It is strange that they two are together, considering their relationship.”
“That is what I am afraid they will find out. She may tell him of the mysterious disappearance of her cousin, and he–”
“That reminds me,” interrupted Bolton. “He told Hooker—Hooker was the man that saw him in front of the Astor House—that he didn’t believe I was his father. He said he thought I must have stolen him when he was a young kid.”
“Did he say that?” asked Curtis, in evident alarm.
“Yes, so Hooker says.”
“If he has that idea in his head, he may put two and two together, and guess that he is the long-lost cousin of Florence. Tim, the boy must be got rid of.”
“If you mean what I think you do, Mr. Waring, I’m not with you. I won’t consent to harm the boy.”
“You said that before. I don’t mean anything that will shock your tender heart, Bolton,” said Curtis, with a sneer. “I mean carried to a distance—Europe or Australia, for instance. All I want is to keep him out of New York till my uncle is dead. After that I don’t care what becomes of him.”
“That’s better. I’ve no objection to that. How is the old gentleman?”
“He grieved so much at first over the girl’s loss, that I feared he would insist on her being recalled at once. I soothed him by telling him that he had only to remain firm, and she would come around, and yield to his wishes.”
“Do you think she will?” asked Tim, doubtfully.
“I intend she shall!” said Curtis, significantly. “Bolton, I love the girl all the more for her obstinate refusal to wed me. I have made up my mind to marry her with her consent, or without it.”
“I thought it was only the estate you were after?”
“I want the estate and her with it. Mark my words, Bolton, I will have both!”
“You will have the estate, no doubt; Mr. Linden has made his will in your favor, has he not?” and Bolton looked intently in the face of his visitor.
“Hark you, Bolton, there is a mystery I cannot fathom. My uncle made two wills. In the earlier, he left the estate to Florence and myself, if we married; otherwise, to me alone.”
“That is satisfactory.”
“Yes, but there was another, in which the estate goes to the son, if living. That will has disappeared.”
“Is it possible?” asked Bolton, in astonishment. “When was it missed?”
“On the night of the burglary.”
“Then you think–”
“That the boy, Dodger, has it. Good Heavens! if he only knew that by this will the estate goes to him!” and Waring wiped the perspiration from his brow.
“You are sure he did not give you the will?” he demanded, eying Bolton sharply.
“I have not seen him since the night of the robbery.”
“If he has read the will, it may lead to dangerous suspicions.”
“He would give it to your cousin, Florence, would he not?”
“Perhaps so. Bolton, you must get the boy back, and take the will from him, if you can.”
“I will do my best; but you must remember that Dodger is no longer a small kid. He is a boy of eighteen, strong and well grown. He wouldn’t be easy to manage. Besides, as long as he doesn’t know that he has any interest in the will, his holding it won’t do any harm. Is the old gentleman likely to live long?”
“I don’t know. I sometimes hope– Pshaw! why should I play the hypocrite when speaking to you? Surely it is no sin to wish him better off, since he can’t enjoy life!”
“He might if Florence and his son were restored to him.”
“What do you mean, Bolton?” asked Curtis, suspiciously.
“What could I mean? It merely occurred to me,” said Bolton, innocently. “You say he is quiet, thinkin’ the girl will come around?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose time passes, and she doesn’t? Won’t he try to find her? As she is in the city, that won’t be hard.”
“I shall represent that she has left the city.”
“For any particular point?”
“No, that is not necessary.”
“And then?”
“If he worries himself into the grave, so much the better for me.”
“There is no halfway about you, Mr. Curtis Waring.”
“Why should there be? Listen, Bolton; I have set my all on this cast. I am now thirty-six, and still I am dependent upon my uncle’s bounty. I am in debt, and some of my creditors are disposed to trouble me. My uncle is worth—I don’t know how much, but I think half a million. What does he get out of it? Food and clothes, but not happiness. If it were mine, all the avenues of enjoyment would be open to me. That estate I must have.”
“Suppose you get it, what is there for me?” asked Bolton.
“I will see that you are recompensed if you help me to it.”
“Will you put that in writing?”
“Do you take me for a fool? To put it in writing would be to place me in your power! You can trust me.”
“Well, perhaps so,” said Tim Bolton, slowly.
“At any rate you will have to. Well, good-night. I will see you again. In the meantime try to find the boy.”
Tim Bolton followed him with his eyes, as he left the saloon.
“What would he say,” said Bolton to himself, “if he knew that the will he so much wishes to find is in my hands, and that I hold him in my power already?”
CHAPTER XV.
THE NEW GOVERNESS
“Wish me luck, Dodger!”
“So I do, Florence. Are you goin’ to begin teachin’ this mornin’?”
“Yes; and I hope to produce a favorable impression. It is very important to me to please Mrs. Leighton and my future pupil.”
“I’m sure you’ll suit. How nice you look!”
Florence smiled, and looked pleased. She had taken pains with her dress and personal appearance, and, being luckily well provided with handsome dresses, had no difficulty in making herself presentable. As she stepped out of the shabby doorway upon the sidewalk no one supposed her to be a tenant, but she was generally thought to be a visitor, perhaps the agent of some charitable association.
“Perhaps all will not judge me as favorably as you do, Dodger,” said Florence, with a laugh.
“If you have the headache any day, Florence, I’ll take your place.”
“You would look rather young for a tutor, Dodger, and I am afraid you would not be dignified. Good-morning! I shall be back to dinner.”
“I am glad to find you punctual, Miss Linden,” said Mrs. Leighton, as Florence was ushered into her presence. “This is your pupil, my daughter, Carrie.”
Florence smiled and extended her hand.
“I hope we will like each other,” she said.
The little girl eyed her with approval. This beautiful young lady was a pleasant surprise to her, for, never having had a governess, she expected to meet a stiff, elderly lady, of stern aspect. She readily gave her hand to Florence, and looked relieved.
“Carrie,” said Mrs. Leighton, “you may show Miss Linden the way to the schoolroom.”
“All right, mamma,” and the little girl led the way upstairs to a back room on the third floor.
“So this is to be our schoolroom, is it, Carrie?” said Florence. “It is a very pleasant room.”
“Yes; but I should have preferred the front chamber. Mamma thought that I might be looking into the street too much. Here there is only a back yard, and nothing to look at.”
“Your mamma seems very judicious,” said Florence, smiling. “Are you fond of study?”
“Well, I ain’t exactly fond, but I will do my best.”
“That is all that can be expected.”
“Do you know, Miss Linden, you don’t look at all like I expected.”
“Am I to be glad or sorry for that?”
“I thought you would be an old maid, stiff and starched, like May Robinson’s governess.”
“I am not married, Carrie, so perhaps you may regard me as an old maid.”
“You’ll never be an old maid,” said Carrie, confidently. “You are too young and pretty.”
“Thank you, Carrie,” said Florence, with a little blush. “You say that, I hope, because you are going to like me.”
“I like you already,” said the little girl, impulsively. “I’ve got a cousin that will like you, too.”
“A young girl?”
“No; of course not. He is a young man. His name is Percy de Brabazon. It is a funny name, isn’t it? You see, his father was a Frenchman.”
Florence was glad that she already knew from Percy’s own mouth of the relationship, as it saved her from showing a degree of surprise that might have betrayed her acquaintance with the young man.
“What makes you think your cousin would like me, Carrie?”
“Because he always likes pretty girls. He is a masher.”
“That’s slang, Carrie. I am sure your mamma wouldn’t approve your using such a word.”
“Don’t tell her. It just slipped out. But about Percy—he wants very much to be married.”
Florence was not surprised to hear this, for she had the best reason for knowing it to be true.
“Is he a handsome young man?” she asked, demurely.
“He’s funny looking. He’s awful good-natured, but he isn’t the sort of young man I would like,” concluded Carrie, with amusing positiveness.
“I hope you don’t let your mind run on such things. You are quite too young.”
“Oh, I don’t think much about it. But Percy is a dude. He spends a sight for clothes. He always looks as if he had just come out of a bandbox.”
“Is he in any business?”
“No; he has an independent fortune, so mamma says. He was in Europe last year.”
“I think, Carrie, we must give up talking and attend to business. I should have checked you before, but I thought a little conversation would help us to get acquainted. Now show me your books, and I will assign your lessons.”
“Don’t give me too long lessons, please, Miss Linden.”
“I will take care not to task you beyond your strength. I don’t want my pupil to grow sick on my hands.”
“I hope you won’t be too strict. When May Robinson makes two mistakes her governess makes her learn her lessons over again.”
“I will promise not to be too strict. Now let me see your books.”
The rest of the forenoon was devoted to study.
Florence was not only an excellent scholar, but she had the art of imparting knowledge, and, what is very important, she was able in a few luminous words to explain difficulties and make clear what seemed to her pupil obscure.
So the time slipped quickly and pleasantly away, and it was noon before either she or her pupil realized it.
“It can’t be twelve,” said Carrie, surprised.
“Yes, it is. We must defer further study till to-morrow.”
“Why, it is a great deal pleasanter than going to school, Miss Linden. I dreaded studying at home, but now I like it.”
“I hope you will continue to, Carrie. I can say that the time has passed away pleasantly for me.”
As Florence prepared to resume her street dress, Carrie said:
“Oh, I forgot! Mamma asked me to invite you to stay to lunch with me. I take lunch as soon as school is out, at twelve o’clock, so I won’t detain you long.”
“Thank you, Carrie; I will stay with pleasure.”
“I am glad of that, for I don’t like to sit down to the table alone. Mamma is never here at this time. She goes out shopping or making calls, so poor I have to sit down to the table alone. It will be ever so much pleasure to have you with me.”
Florence was by no means sorry to accept the invitation.
The meals she got at home were by no means luxurious, and the manner of serving them was by no means what she enjoyed.
Mrs. O’Keefe, though a good friend and a kindhearted woman, was not a model housekeeper, and Florence had been made fastidious by her early training. Lunch was, of course, a plain meal, but what was furnished was of the best quality, and the table service was such as might be expected in a luxurious home.
Just as Florence was rising from the table, Mrs. Leighton entered the room in street dress.
“I am glad you remained to lunch, Miss Linden,” she said. “You will be company for my little girl, who is very sociable. Carrie, I hope you were a good girl, and gave Miss Linden no trouble.”
“Ask Miss Linden, mamma,” said Carrie, confidently.
“Indeed, she did very well,” said Florence. “I foresee that we shall get along admirably.”
“I am glad to hear that. She is apt to be indolent.”
“I won’t be with Miss Linden, mamma. She makes the studies so interesting.”
After Florence left the house, Carrie pronounced an eulogium upon her which led Mrs. Leighton to congratulate herself upon having secured a governess who had produced so favorable an impression on her little girl.
“Was you kept after school, Florence?” asked Dodger, as she entered her humble home. “I am afraid you’ll find your dinner cold.”
“Never mind, Dodger. I am to take dinner—or lunch, rather—at the house where I am teaching; so hereafter Mrs. O’Keefe need not wait for me.”
“And how do you like your place?”
“It is everything that is pleasant. You wished me good luck, Dodger, and your wish has been granted.”
“I was lucky, too, Florence. I’ve made a dollar and a quarter this mornin’.”
“Not by selling papers, surely?”
“Not all. A gentleman gave me fifty cents for takin’ his valise to the Long Branch boat.”
“It seems we are both getting rich,” said Florence, smiling.
CHAPTER XVI.
DODGER BECOMES AMBITIOUS
“Ah, there, Dodger!”
Dodger, who had been busily and successfully selling evening papers in front of the Astor House, turned quickly as he heard his name called.
His glance rested on two men, dressed in soiled white hats and shabby suits, who were apparently holding each other up, having both been imbibing.
He at once recognized Hooker and Briggs, for he had waited upon them too many times in Tim’s saloon not to recognize them.
“Well,” he said, cautiously, “what do you want?”
“Tim has sent us for you!” answered the two, in unison.
“What does he want of me?”
“He wants you to come home. He says he can’t get along without you.”
“He will have to get along without me,” said the boy, independently. “Tell him I’m not goin’ back!”
“You’re wrong, Dodger,” said Hooker, shaking his head, solemnly. “Ain’t he your father?”
“No, he ain’t.”
“He says he is,” continued Hooker, looking puzzled.
“That don’t make it so.”
“He ought to know,” put in Briggs.
“Yes; he ought to know!” chimed in Hooker.
“No doubt he does, but he can’t make me believe he’s any relation of mine.”
“Just go and argy the point with him,” said Hooker, coaxingly.
“It wouldn’t do no good.”
“Maybe it would. Just go back with us, that’s a good boy.”
“What makes you so anxious about it?” asked Dodger, suspiciously.
“Well,” said Hooker, coughing, “we’re Tim’s friends, don’t you know.”
“What’s he goin’ to give you if I go back with you?” asked the boy, shrewdly.
“A glass of whiskey!” replied Hooker and Briggs in unison.
“Is that all?”
“Maybe he’d make it two.”
“I won’t go back with you,” said Dodger, after a moment’s thought; “but I don’t want you to lose anything by me. Here’s a dime apiece, and you can go and get a drink somewhere else.”
“You’re a trump, Dodger,” said Hooker, eagerly holding out his hand.
“I always liked you, Dodger,” said Briggs, with a similar motion.
“Now, don’t let Tim know you’ve seen me,” said the newsboy, warningly.
“We won’t.”
And the interesting pair ambled off in the direction of the Bowery.
“So Tim sent them fellers after me?” soliloqized Dodger. “I guess I’ll have to change my office, or maybe Tim himself will be droppin’ down on me some mornin’. It’ll be harder to get rid of him than of them chumps.”
So it happened that he used to take down his morning papers to the piers on the North River, and take his chance of selling them to passengers from Boston and others ports arriving by the Fall River boats, and others from different points.
The advantage of this was that he often got a chance to serve as guide to strangers visiting the city for the first time, or as porter, to carry their valise or other luggage.
Being a bright, wideawake boy, with a pleasant face and manner, he found his services considerably in demand; and on counting up his money at the end of the week, he found, much to his encouragement, that he had received on an average about a dollar and twenty-five cents per day.
“That’s better than sellin’ papers alone,” thought he. “Besides, Tim isn’t likely to come across me here. I wonder I didn’t think of settin’ up for myself before!”
In the evening he spent an hour, and sometimes more, pursuing his studies, under the direction of Florence. At first his attention was given chiefly to improving his reading and spelling, for Dodger was far from fluent in the first, while his style of spelling many words was strikingly original.
“Ain’t I stupid, Florence?” he asked one day, after spelling a word of three syllables with such ingenious incorrectness as to convulse his young teacher with merriment.
“Not at all, Dodger. You are making excellent progress; but sometimes you are so droll that I can’t help laughing.”
“I don’t mind that if you think I am really gettin’ on.”
“Undoubtedly you are!”
“I make a great many mistakes,” said Dodger, dubiously.
“Yes, you do; but you must remember that you have taken lessons only a short time. Don’t you think you can read a good deal more easily than you did?”
“Yes; I don’t trip up half so often as I did. I’m afraid you’ll get tired of teachin’ me.”
“No fear of that, Dodger. As long as I see that you are improving, I shall feel encouraged to go on.”
“I wish I knew as much as your other scholar.”
“You will in time if you go on. You mustn’t get discouraged.”
“I won’t!” said Dodger, stoutly. “If a little gal like her can learn, I’d ought to be ashamed if I don’t—a big boy of eighteen.”
“It isn’t the size of the boy that counts, Dodger.”
“I know that, but I ain’t goin’ to give in, and let a little gal get ahead of me!”
“Keep to that determination, Dodger, and you will succeed in time, never fear.”
On the whole, Florence enjoyed both her pupils. She had the faculty of teaching, and she became very much interested in both.
As for Dodger, she thought, rough diamond as he was, that she saw in him the making of a manly man, and she felt that it was a privilege to assist in the development of his intellectual nature.
Again, he had picked up a good deal of slang from the nature of his associates, and she set to work to improve his language, and teach him refinement.
It was necessarily a slow process, but she began to find after a time that a gradual change was coming over him.
“I want you to grow up a gentleman, Dodger,” she said to him one day.
“I’m too rough for that, Florence. I’m only an ignorant street boy.”
“You are not going to be an ignorant street boy all your life. I don’t see why you should not grow up a polished gentleman.”
“I shall never be like that de Brabazon young man,” said he.
“No, Dodger; I don’t think you will,” said Florence, laughing. “I don’t want you to become effeminate nor a dude. I think I would like you less than I do now.”
“Do you like me, Florence?” asked Dodger, brightening up.
“To be sure I do. I hope you don’t doubt it.”
“Why, it don’t seem natural-like. You’re a fashionable young lady–”
“Not very fashionable, Dodger, just at present.”
“Well, a high-toned young lady—one of the tip-tops, and I am a rough Bowery boy.”
“You were once, but you are getting over that rapidly. Did you ever hear of Andy Johnson?”
“Who was he?”
“He became President of the United States. Well, at the age of twenty-one he could neither read nor write.”
“At twenty-one?” repeated Dodger. “Why, I’m only eighteen, and I do know something of readin’ and writin’.”
“To be sure! Well, Andy Johnson was taught to read and write by his wife. He kept on improving himself till, in course of time, he became a United States Senator, Vice-President, and afterward, President. Now, I don’t expect you to equal him, but I see no reason why you should not become a well-educated man if you are content to work, and keep on working.”
“I will keep on, Florence,” said Dodger, earnestly.
“If I ever find my relations I don’t want them to be ashamed of me.”
It was not the first time he had referred to his uncertain origin.
“Won’t Tim Bolton tell you anything about your family?”
“No; I’ve asked him more’n once. He always says he’s my father, and that makes me mad.”
“It is strange,” said Florence, thoughtfully. “I had a young cousin stolen many years ago.”
“Was it the son of the old gentleman you lived with on Madison Avenue?”
“Yes; it was the son of Uncle John. It quite broke him down. After my cousin’s loss he felt that he had nothing to live for.”
“I wish I was your cousin, Florence,” said Dodger, thoughtfully.
“Well, then, I will adopt you as my cousin, or brother, whichever you prefer!”
“I would rather be your cousin.”
“Then cousin let it be! Now we are bound to each other by strong and near ties.”
“But when your uncle takes you back you’ll forget all about poor Dodger.”
“No, I won’t, Dodger. There’s my hand on it. Whatever comes, we are friends forever.”
“Then I’ll try not to disgrace you, Florence. I’ll learn as fast as I can, and see if I don’t grow up to be a gentleman.”