CHAPTER XVII.
A MYSTERIOUS ADVENTURE
Several weeks passed without changing in any way the position or employment of Dodger or Florence.
They had settled down to their respective forms of labor, and were able not only to pay their modest expenses, but to save up something for a rainy day.
Florence had but one source of regret.
She enjoyed her work, and did not now lament the luxurious home which she had lost.
But she did feel sore at heart that her uncle made no sign of regret for their separation.
From him she received no message of forgiveness or reconciliation.
“He has forgotten me!” she said to herself, bitterly. “He has cast me utterly out of his heart. I do not care for his money, but I do not like to think that my kind uncle—for he was always kind till the last trouble—has steeled his heart against me forever.”
But she learned through a chance meeting with Jane, that this was not so.
“Mr. Linden is getting very nervous and low-spirited,” said the girl, “and sits hour after hour in the library looking into the fire, a-fotchin’ deep sighs every few minutes. Once I saw him with your photograph—the one you had taken last spring—in his hands, and he looked sad-like when he laid it down.”
“My dear uncle! Then he does think of me sometimes?”
“It’s my belief he’d send for you if Curtis would let him.”
“Surely Curtis cannot exercise any restraint upon him?”
“He has frequent talks with the old gentleman. I don’t know what he says, but it’s sure to be something wicked. I expect he does all he can to set him against you. Oh, he’s a cunning villain, he is, even if he is your cousin, Miss Florence.”
“And do you think my uncle is unhappy, Jane?” said Florence, thoughtfully.
“That I do, miss.”
“He never was very bright or cheerful, you know.”
“But he never was like this. And I do think he’s gettin’ more and more feeble.”
“Do you think I ought to call upon him, and risk his sending me away?”
“It might be worth tryin’, Miss Florence.”
The result of this conversation was that Florence did make up her mind the very next afternoon to seek her old home. She had just reached the front steps, and was about to ascend, when the door opened and Curtis appeared.
He started at sight of his cousin.
“Florence!” he said. “Tell me why you came here?”
“I am anxious about my uncle,” she said. “Tell me, Curtis, how he is.”
“You know he’s never in vigorous health,” said Curtis, evasively.
“But is he as well as usual?”
“He is about the same as ever. One thing would do more for him than anything else.”
“What’s that?”
“Your agreement to marry me,” and he fixed his eyes upon her face eagerly.
Florence shook her head.
“I should be glad to help my uncle,” she said, “but I cannot agree to marry you.”
“Why not?” he demanded, roughly.
“Because I do not love you, and never shall,” she responded, firmly.
“In other words, you refuse to do the only thing that will restore our uncle to health and happiness?”
“It is too much to ask.” Then, fixing her eyes upon him keenly: “Why should uncle insist upon this marriage? Is it not because you have influenced him in the matter?”
“No,” answered Curtis, falsely. “He has some secret reason, which he will not disclose to me, for desiring it.”
Florence had learned to distrust the words of her wily cousin.
“May I not see him?” she asked. “Perhaps he will tell me.”
“No; I cannot permit it.”
“You cannot permit it? Are you, then, our uncle’s guardian?”
“No, and yes. I do not seek to control him, but I wish to save him from serious agitation. Should he see you, and find that you are still rebellious, the shock might kill him.”
“I have reason to doubt your words,” said Florence, coldly. “I think you are resolved to keep us apart.”
“Listen, and I will tell you a secret; Uncle John has heart disease, so the doctor assures me. Any unwonted agitation might kill him instantly. I am sure you would not like to expose him to such a risk.”
He spoke with apparent sincerity, but Florence did not feel certain that his words were truthful.
“Very well,” she said. “Then I will give up seeing him.”
“It is best, unless you are ready to accede to his wishes—and mine.”
She did not answer, but walked away slowly.
“It would never do to have them meet!” muttered Curtis. “The old gentleman would ask her to come back on any terms, and then all my scheming would be upset. That was a happy invention of mine, about heart disease,” he continued, with a low laugh. “Though she only half believed it, she will not dare to run the risk of giving him a shock.”
It was about this time that the quiet tenor of Dodger’s life was interrupted by a startling event.
He still continued to visit the piers, and one afternoon about six o’clock, he stood on the pier awaiting the arrival of the day boat from Albany, with a small supply of evening papers under his arm.
He had sold all but half a dozen when the boat touched the pier. He stood watching the various passengers as they left the boat and turned their steps in different directions, when some one touched him on the shoulder.
Looking up, he saw standing at his side a man of slender figure, with gray hair and whiskers.
“Boy,” he said, “I am a stranger in the city. Can I ask your assistance?”
“Yes, sir; certainly,” answered Dodger, briskly.
“Do you know where the nearest station of the elevated road is?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want to go uptown, but I know very little about the city. Will you accompany me as guide? I will pay you well.”
“All right, sir,” answered Dodger.
It was just the job he was seeking.
“We will have to walk a few blocks, unless you want to take a carriage.”
“It isn’t necessary. I am strong, in spite of my gray hair.”
And indeed he appeared to be.
Dodger noticed that he walked with the elastic step of a young man, while his face certainly showed no trace of wrinkles.
“I live in the West,” said the stranger, as they walked along. “I have not been here for ten years.”
“Then you have never ridden on the elevated road?” said Dodger.
“N-no,” answered the stranger, with curious hesitation.
Yet when they reached the station he went up the staircase and purchased his ticket with the air of a man who was thoroughly accustomed to doing it.
“I suppose you don’t want me any longer,” said Dodger, preparing to resign the valise he was carrying, and which, by the way, was remarkably light considering the size.
“Yes, I shall need you,” said the other hurriedly. “There may be some distance to walk after we get uptown.”
“All right, sir.”
Dodger was glad that further service was required, for this would of course increase the compensation which he would feel entitled to ask.
They entered one of the cars, and sat down side by side.
The old gentleman drew a paper from his pocket, and began to read, while Dodger, left to his own devices, sat quiet and looked about him.
He was rather surprised that the old gentleman, who, according to his own representation, was riding upon the elevated road for the first time, seemed to feel no curiosity on the subject, but conducted himself in all respects like an experienced traveler.
“He’s a queer customer!” thought Dodger. “However, it’s all one to me, as long as he pays me well for the job.”
They got out at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, and struck down toward the river, Dodger carrying the valise.
“I wonder where we’re going?” he asked himself.
At length they reached a wooden house of three stories, standing by itself, and here the stranger stopped.
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by a hump-backed negro, who looked curiously at Dodger.
“Is the room ready, Julius?” asked the old man.
“Yes, sir.”
“Boy, take the valise upstairs, and I will follow you.”
Up two flights of stairs walked Dodger, followed by the old man and the negro.
The latter opened the door of a back room, and Dodger, obedient to directions, took the valise inside and deposited it on a chair.
He had hardly done so when the door closed behind him, and he heard the slipping of a bolt.
“What does all this mean?” Dodger asked himself in amazement.
CHAPTER XVIII.
IN A TRAP
“Hold on there! Open that door!” he exclaimed, aloud.
There was no answer.
“I say, let me out!” continued our hero, beginning to kick at the panels.
This time there was an answer.
“Stop that kicking, boy! I will come back in fifteen minutes and explain all.”
“Well,” thought Dodger, “this is about the strangest thing that ever happened to me. However, I can wait fifteen minutes.”
He sat down on a cane chair—there were two in the room—and looked about him.
He was in an ordinary bedroom, furnished in the usual manner. There was nothing at all singular in its appearance.
On a book shelf were a few books, and some old numbers of magazines. There was one window looking into a back yard, but as the room was small it was sufficient to light the apartment.
Dodger looked about in a cursory manner, not feeling any particular interest in his surroundings, for he had but fifteen minutes to wait, but he thought it rather queer that it should be thought necessary to lock him in.
He waited impatiently for the time to pass.
Seventeen minutes had passed when he heard the bolt drawn. Fixing his eyes eagerly on the door he saw it open, and two persons entered.
One was the hump-backed negro, carrying on a waiter a plate of buttered bread, and a cup of tea; the other person was—not the old man, but, to Dodger’s great amazement, a person well-remembered, though he had only seen him once—Curtis Waring.
“Set down the waiter on the table, Julius,” said Waring.
Dodger looked on in stupefaction. He was getting more and more bewildered.
“Now, you can go!” said Curtis, in a tone of authority.
The negro bowed, and after he had disposed of the waiter, withdrew.
“Do you know me, boy?” asked Curtis, turning now and addressing Dodger.
“Yes; you are Mr. Waring.”
“You remember where you last saw me?”
“Yes, sir. At your uncle’s house on Madison Avenue.”
“Quite right.”
“How did you come here? Where is the old man whose valise I brought from the Albany boat?”
Curtis smiled, and drew from his pocket a gray wig and whiskers.
“You understand now, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir; I understand that I have been got here by a trick.”
“Yes,” answered Curtis, coolly. “I have deemed it wise to use a little stratagem. But you must be hungry. Sit down and eat your supper while I am talking to you.”
Dodger was hungry, for it was past his usual supper time, and he saw no reason why he should not accept the invitation.
Accordingly, he drew his chair up to the table and began to eat. Curtis seated himself on the other chair.
“I have a few questions to ask you, and that is why I arranged this interview. We are quite by ourselves,” he added, significantly.
“Very well, sir; go ahead.”
“Where is my Cousin Florence? I am right, I take it, in assuming that you know where she is.”
“Yes, sir; I know,” answered Dodger, slowly.
“Very well, tell me.”
“I don’t think she wants you to know.”
Curtis frowned.
“It is necessary I should know!” he said, emphatically.
“I will ask her if I may tell you.”
“I can’t wait for that. You must tell me at once.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You are mistaken; you can do it.”
“Then, I won’t!” said Dodger, looking his companion full in the face.
Curtis Waring darted a wicked look at him, and seemed ready to attack the boy who was audacious enough to thwart him, but he restrained himself and said:
“Let that pass for the present. I have another question to ask. Where is the document you took from my uncle’s desk on the night of the burglary?”
And he emphasized the last word.
Dodger looked surprised.
“I took no paper,” he said.
“Do you deny that you opened the desk?” asked Curtis.
“No.”
“When I came to examine the contents in the presence of my uncle, it was found that a document—his will—had disappeared, and with it a considerable sum of money.”
And he looked sharply at Dodger.
“I don’t know anything about it, sir. I took nothing.”
“You can hardly make me believe that. Why did you open the desk if you did not propose to take anything?”
“I did intend to take something. I was under orders to do so, for I wouldn’t have done it of my own free will; but the moment I got the desk open I heard a cry, and looking around, I saw Miss Florence looking at me.”
“And then?”
“I was startled, and ran to her side.”
“And then you went back and completed the robbery?”
“No, I didn’t. She talked to me so that I felt ashamed of it. I never stole before, and I wouldn’t have tried to do it then, if—if some one hadn’t told me to.”
“I know whom you mean—Tim Bolton.”
“Yes, Tim Bolton, since you know.”
“What did he tell you to take?”
“The will and the money.”
“Eactly. Now we are coming to it. You took them, and gave them to him?”
“No, I didn’t. I haven’t seen him since that night.”
Curtis Waring regarded the boy thoughtfully. His story was straightforward, and it agreed with the story told by Tim himself. But, on the other hand, he denied taking the missing articles, and yet they had disappeared.
Curtis decided that both he and Tim had lied, and that this story had been concocted between them.
Probably Bolton had the will and the money—the latter he did not care for—and this thought made him uneasy, for he knew that Tim Bolton was an unscrupulous man, and quite capable of injuring him, if he saw the way clear to do so.
“My young friend,” he said, “your story is not even plausible. The articles are missing, and there was no one but yourself and Florence who were in a position to take them. Do you wish me to think that my Cousin Florence robbed the desk?”
“No, sir; I don’t. Florence wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Dodger, warmly.
“Florence. Is that the way you speak of a young lady?”
“She tells me to call her Florence. I used to call her Miss Florence, but she didn’t care for it.”
“It seems you two have become very intimate,” said Curtis, with a sneer.
“Florence is a good friend to me. I never had so good a friend before.”
“All that is very affecting; however, it isn’t to the point. Do you know,” he continued, in a sterner tone, “that I could have you arrested for entering and breaking open my uncle’s desk with burglarious intent?”
“I suppose you could,” said Dodger; “but Florence would testify that I took nothing.”
“Am I to understand, then, that you refuse to give me any information as to the will and the money?”
“No, sir; I don’t refuse. I would tell you if I knew.”
Curtis regarded the boy in some perplexity.
He had every appearance of telling the truth.
Dodger had one of those honest, truthful countenances which lend confirmation to any words spoken. If the boy told the truth, what could have become of the will—and the money? As to the former, it might be possible that his uncle had destroyed it, but the disappearance of the money presented an independent difficulty.
“The will is all I care for,” he said, at length. “The thief is welcome to the money, though there was a considerable sum.”
“I would find the will for you if I could,” said Dodger, earnestly.
“You are positive you didn’t give it to Bolton?”
“Positive, sir. I haven’t seen Tim since that night.”
“You may be speaking the truth, or you may not. I will talk with you again to-morrow,” and Curtis arose from his chair.
“You don’t mean to keep me here?” said Dodger, in alarm.
“I shall be obliged to do so.”
“I won’t stay!” exclaimed Dodger, in excitement, and he ran to the door, meaning to get out; but Curtis drew a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at the boy.
“Understand me, boy,” he said, “I am in earnest, and I am not to be trifled with.”
Dodger drew back, and Curtis opened the door and went out, bolting it after him.
CHAPTER XIX.
AN ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE
While Dodger had no discomfort to complain of, it occurred to him that Florence would be alarmed by his long absence, for now it seemed certain that he would have to remain overnight.
If only he could escape he would take care not to fall into such a trap again.
He went to the window and looked out, but the distance to the ground was so great—for the room was on the third floor—that he did not dare to imperil his life by attempting a descent.
If there had been a rope at hand he would not have felt afraid to make the attempt.
He examined the bed to see if it rested upon cords, but there were slats instead.
As has already been said, there were no houses near by.
That part of the city had not been much settled, and it was as solitary as it is in the outskirts of a country village.
If he could only reveal his position to some person outside, so as to insure interference, he might yet obtain his freedom.
With this thought he tore a blank leaf from one of the books in the room, and hastily penciled the following lines:
“I am kept a prisoner in this house. I was induced to come here by a trick. Please get some one to join you, and come and demand my release.”
Some weeks before Dodger could not have written so creditable a note, but he had greatly improved since he had been under the influence and instruction of Florence.
Dodger now posted himself at the window and waited anxiously for some one to pass, so that he might attract his attention and throw down the paper.
He had to wait for fifteen minutes. Then he saw approaching a young man, not far from twenty-one, who looked like a young mechanic, returning from his daily work.
Now was Dodger’s opportunity. He put his head out of the window and called out:
“Hello, there!”
The young man looked and saw him at the window.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Catch this paper, and read what there is on it.” He threw down the leaf, which, after fluttering in the gentle evening breeze, found its way to the ground and was picked up.
After reading it, the young man looked up and said: “I’ll go around to the door and inquire.”
He was as good as his word. He went to the outer door and rang the bell.
Julius came to the door.
“What’s wanted, boss?” he said.
“You’ve got a boy locked up in a room.”
“Who told you, boss?”
“He threw down a paper to me, telling me he was kept a prisoner.”
“What did he say?” asked Julius.
The young man read the note aloud.
“What have to say to that, you black imp?” he demanded, sternly.
The ready wit of Julius served him in this emergency.
“Dat boy is crazy as a loon, boss!” he answered, readily. “We have to keep him shut up for fear he’ll kill some of us.”
“You don’t say!” ejaculated the young mechanic. “He don’t look like it.”
“No, he don’t; dat’s a fact, boss. Fact is, dat boy is the artfullest lunytick you ever seed. He tried to kill his mother last week.”
“Is that true?”
“Dat’s so, boss. And all de while he looks as innocent as a baby. If I was to let him out he’d kill somebody, sure.”
“I never would have believed it,” said the young man.
“If you want to take the risk, boss, you might go up and see him. I believe he’s got a carvin’-knife about him, but I don’t dare to go up and get it away. It would be as much as this niggah’s life is worth.”
“No,” answered the young man, hastily. “I don’t want to see him. I never did like crazy folks. I’m sorry I gave you the trouble to come to the door.”
“Oh, no trouble, boss.”
“I guess I’ve fixed dat boy!” chuckled Julius. “Ho, ho! he can’t get ahead of old Julius! Crazy as a loon, ho, ho!”
Dodger waited anxiously for the young man to get through his interview. He hoped that he would force his way up to the third floor, draw the bolt, and release him from his imprisonment.
He kept watch at the window, and when the young man reappeared, he looked at him eagerly. “Did you ask them to let me out?” he shouted. The other looked up at him with an odd expression of suspicion and repulsion.
“You’re better off where you are,” he said, rather impatiently.
“But they have locked me up here.”
“And reason enough, too!”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because you’re crazy as a loon.”
“Did the black man say that?” inquired Dodger, indignantly.
“Yes, he did—said you tried to kill your mother, and had a carving-knife hidden in the room.”
“It’s a lie—an outrageous lie!” exclaimed Dodger, his eyes flashing.
“Don’t go into one of your tantrums,” said the man, rather alarmed; “it won’t do any good.”
“But I want you to understand that I am no more crazy than you are.”
“Sho? I know better. Where’s your carving-knife?”
“I haven’t got any; I never had any. That negro has been telling you lies. Just go to the door again, and insist on seeing me.”
“I wouldn’t dast to. You’d stab me,” said the man, fearfully.
“Listen to me!” said Dodger, getting out of patience. “I’m not crazy. I’m a newsboy and baggage-smasher. An old man got me to bring his valise here, and then locked me up. Won’t you go around to the station-house and send a policeman here?”
“I’ll see about it,” said the young man, who did not believe a word that Dodger had said to him.
“He won’t do it!” said Dodger to himself, in a tone of discouragement. “That miserable nigger has made him believe I am a lunatic. I’ll have him up, anyway.”
Forthwith he began to pound and kick so forcibly, that Julius came upstairs on a run, half inclined to believe that Dodger had really become insane.
“What do you want, boy?” he inquired from outside the door.
“I want you to unbolt the door and let me out.”
“I couldn’t do it, nohow,” said Julius. “It would be as much as my place is worth.”
“I will give you a dollar—five dollars—if you will only let me out. The man who brought me here is a bad man, who is trying to cheat his cousin—a young lady—out of a fortune.”
“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that,” said Julius.
“He has no right to keep me here.”
“Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that, either. I’m actin’ accordin’ to orders.”
“Look here,” said Dodger, bethinking himself of what had just happened. “Did you tell that young man who called here just now that I was crazy?”
Julius burst into a loud guffaw.
“I expect I did,” he laughed. “Said you’d got a long carvin’-knife hid in de room.”
“What made you lie so?” demanded Dodger, sternly.
“Couldn’t get rid of him no other way. Oh, how scared he looked when I told him you tried to kill your mother.”
And the negro burst into another hearty laugh which exasperated Dodger exceedingly.
“How long is Mr. Waring going to keep me here? Did he tell you?” Dodger asked, after a pause.
“No; he didn’t say.”
“When is he coming here again?”
“Said he’d come to-morrow most likely.”
“Will you bring me a light?”
“Couldn’t do it. You’d set the house on fire.”
It seemed useless to prolong the conversation.
Dodger threw himself on the bed at an early hour, but he did not undress, thinking there might possibly be a chance to escape during the night.
But the morning came and found him still a prisoner, but not in the solitary dwelling.