CHAPTER XX.
A MIDNIGHT RIDE
Curtis Waring had entrapped Dodger for a double purpose.
It was not merely that he thought it possible the boy had the will, or knew where it was. He had begun to think of the boy’s presence in New York as dangerous to his plans.
John Linden might at any time learn that the son, for whose appearance he had grieved so bitterly, was still living in the person of this street boy. Then there would be an end of his hopes of inheriting the estate.
Only a few months more and the danger would be over, for he felt convinced that his uncle’s tenure of life would be brief. The one essential thing, then, seemed to be to get Dodger out of the city.
The first step had already been taken; what the next was will soon appear.
Scarcely had Dodger failed in his attempt to obtain outside assistance when an unaccountable drowsiness overcame him, considerably to his surprise.
“I don’t know what’s come to me,” he said to himself. “It can’t be more than seven or eight o’clock, and yet I feel so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. I haven’t worked any harder than usual to-day, and I can’t understand it.”
Dodger had reason to be surprised, for he didn’t usually retire till eleven o’clock.
In a city like New York, where many of the streets are tolerably well filled even at midnight, people get in the way of sitting up much later than in the country, and Dodger was no exception to this rule.
Yet here he was ready to drop off to sleep before eight o’clock. To him it was a mystery, for he did not know that the cup of tea which he had drunk at supper had been drugged by direction of Curtis Waring, with an ulterior purpose, which will soon appear.
“I may as well lie down, as there is nothing else to do,” thought Dodger. “There isn’t much fun sitting in the dark. If I can sleep, so much the better.”
Five minutes had scarcely passed after his head struck the pillow, when our hero was fast asleep.
At eleven o’clock a hack stopped in front of the house, and Curtis Waring descended from it.
“Stay here,” he said to the driver. “There will be another passenger. If you are detained I will make it right when I come to pay you.”
“All right, sir,” said the hackman. “I don’t care how long it is if I am paid for my time.”
Curtis opened the door with a pass-key, and found Julius dozing in a chair in the hall.
“Wake up, you sleepy-head,” he said. “Has anything happened since I left here?”
“Yes, sir; the boy tried to get away.”
“Did he? I don’t see how he could do that. You kept the door bolted, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir; but he throwed a piece of paper out’n de window, sayin’ he was kep’ a prisoner here. A young man picked it up, and came to de house to ax about it.”
Curtis looked alarmed.
“What did you say?” he inquired, apprehensively.
“Told him de boy was crazy as a loon—dat he tried to kill his mother las’ week, and had a carvin’-knife hid in his room.”
“Good, Julius! I didn’t give you credit for such a fertile imagination.
“What’s dat, massa?” asked Julius, looking puzzled.
“I didn’t know you were such a skillful liar.”
“Yah! yah!” laughed Julius, quite comprehending this compliment. “I reckon I can twis’ de trufe pretty well, Massa Curtis!”
“You have done well, Julius,” said Curtis, approvingly. “Here’s a dollar!”
The negro was quite effusive in his gratitude.
“What did the young man say?”
“He looked scared. I tol’ him he could go up and see de boy if he wasn’t afeared of the carvin’-knife, but he said he guessed he wouldn’t—he didn’t like crazy folks.”
Curtis laughed heartily.
“So it all ended as it should. Did the boy make any more trouble?”
“Yes; he pounded and kicked till I had to go up and see what was the matter. I didn’t give him no satisfaction, and I guess he went to bed.”
“He ought to be in a deep sleep by this time. I will go up and see. Go up with me, Julius, for I may have to ask you to help me bring him down.”
Though Julius was naturally a coward, he felt quite brave when he had company, and he at once went upstairs with Curtis Waring.
Curtis drew the bolt, and, entering the chamber, his glance fell upon Dodger, fast asleep on the bed.
“I am glad the boy did not undress,” he said. “It will save me a great deal of trouble. Now, Julius, you can take his feet and I will lift his head, and we will take him downstairs.”
“S’pos’n he wakes up, Massa Curtis?”
“He won’t wake up. I took care the sleeping potion should be strong enough to produce profound slumber for eighteen hours.”
“Seems as if he was dead,” said Julius, nervously.
“Tush, you fool! He’s no more dead than you or I.”
The hackman looked curious when the two men appeared with their sleeping burden, and Curtis felt that some explanation was required.
“The boy has a very painful disease,” he said, “and the doctor gave him a sleeping draught. He is going abroad for his health, and, under the circumstances, I think it best not to wake him up. Drive slowly and carefully to Pier No. —, as I don’t want the boy aroused if it can be helped.”
“All right, sir.”
“Julius, you may lock the door and come with me. I shall need your help to get him on board the ship.”
“All right, Massa Curtis.”
“And, mind you, don’t go to sleep in the carriage, you black rascal!” added Curtis, as he saw that the negro found it hard to keep his eyes open.
“All right, massa, I’ll keep awake. How am I to get home?”
“I will instruct the hackman to take you home.”
“Yah, yah; I’ll be ridin’ like a gentleman!”
The journey was successfully accomplished, but it took an hour, for, according to directions, the hackman did not force his pace, but drove slowly, till he reached the North River pier indicated.
At the pier was a large, stanch vessel—the Columbia—bound for San Francisco, around Cape Horn.
All was dark, but the second officer was pacing the deck.
Curtis Waring hailed him.
“What time do you get off?”
“Early to-morrow morning.”
“So the captain told me. I have brought you a passenger.”
“The captain told me about him.”
“Is his stateroom ready?”
“Yes, sir. You are rather late.”
“True; and the boy is asleep, as you will see. He is going to make the voyage for his health, and, as he has been suffering some pain, I thought I would not wake him up. Who will direct me to his stateroom?”
The mate summoned the steward, and Dodger, still unconscious, was brought on board and quietly transferred to the bunk that had been prepared for him.
It was a critical moment for poor Dodger, but he was quite unconscious of it.
“What is the boy’s name?” asked the mate.
“Arthur Grant. The captain has it on his list. Is he on board?”
“Yes; but he is asleep.”
“I do not need to see him. I have transacted all necessary business with him—and paid the passage money. Julius, bring the valise.”
Julius did so.
“This contains the boy’s clothing. Take it to the stateroom, Julius.”
“All right, Massa Curtis.”
“What is your usual time between New York and San Francisco?” asked Curtis, addressing the mate.
“From four to six months. Four months is very short, six months very long. We ought to get there in five months, or perhaps a little sooner, with average weather.”
“Very well. I believe there is no more to be said. Good-night!”
“Good-night, sir.”
“So he is well out of the way for five months!” soliloquized Curtis. “In five months much may happen. Before that time I hope to be in possession of my uncle’s property. Then I can snap my fingers at fate.”
CHAPTER XXI.
A SEASICK PASSENGER
The good ship Columbia had got fifty miles under way before Dodger opened his eyes.
He looked about him languidly at first, but this feeling was succeeded by the wildest amazement, as his eyes took in his unusual surroundings.
He had gone to sleep on a bed—he found himself on awakening in a ship’s bunk.
He half arose in his birth, but the motion of the vessel and a slight feeling of dizziness compelled him to resume a recumbent position.
“I must be dreaming,” thought Dodger. “It’s very queer. I am dreaming I am at sea. I suppose that explains it.”
He listened and heard the swish of the waters as they beat against the sides of the vessel.
He noted the pitching of the ship, and there was an unsteady feeling in his head, such as those who have gone to sea will readily recall.
Dodger became more and more bewildered.
“If it’s a dream, it’s the most real dream I ever had,” he said to himself.
“This seems like a ship’s cabin,” he continued, looking about him. “I think if I got up I should be seasick. I wonder if people ever get seasick in dreams?”
There was another pitch, and Dodger instinctively clung to the edge of his berth, to save himself from being thrown out.
“Let me see,” he said, trying to collect his scattered recollection. “I went to sleep in a house uptown—a house to which Curtis Waring lured me, and then made me a prisoner. The house was somewhere near One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street. Now it seems as if I was on board a ship. How could I get here? I wish somebody would come in that I could ask.”
As no one came in, Dodger got out of the berth, and tried to stand on the cabin floor.
But before he knew it he was staggering like one intoxicated, and his head began to feel bad, partly, no doubt, on account of the sleeping potion which he had unconsciously taken.
At this moment the steward entered the cabin. “Hello, young man! Have you got up?” he asked.
“Where am I?” asked Dodger, looking at him with a dazed expression.
“Where are you? You’re on the good ship Columbia, to be sure?”
“Are we out to sea?”
“Of course you are.”
“How far from land?”
“Well, about fifty miles, more or less, I should judge.”
“How long have I been here?”
“It seems to me you have a poor memory. You came on board last evening.”
“I suppose Curtis Waring brought me,” said Dodger, beginning to get his bearings.
“There was a gentleman came with you—so the mate told me. I don’t know his name.”
“Where is the ship bound?”
“To San Francisco, around Cape Horn. I supposed you knew that.”
“I never heard of the ship Columbia before, and I never had any idea of making a sea voyage.”
The steward looked surprised.
“I suppose your guardian arranged about that. Didn’t he tell you?”
“I have no guardian.”
“Well, you’ll have to ask Capt. Barnes about that. I know nothing, except that you are a passenger, and that your fare has been paid.”
“My fare paid to San Francisco?” asked Dodger, more and more at sea, both mentally and physically.
“Yes; we don’t take any deadheads on the Columbia.”
“Can you tell me what time it is?”
“About twelve o’clock. Do you feel hungry?”
“N—not very,” returned Dodger, as a ghastly expression came over his face, and he tumbled back into his berth, looking very pale.
The steward smiled.
“I see how it is,” he said; “you are getting initiated.”
“What’s that?” muttered Dodger, feebly.
“You’re going to be seasick. You’ll hardly be able to appear at the dinner table.”
“It makes me sick to think of eating,” said Dodger, feebly.
As he sank back into his berth, all thoughts of his unexpected position gave way to an overpowering feeling of seasickness.
He had never been tried in this way before, and he found the sensation far from agreeable.
“If only the vessel would stop pitching,” he groaned. “Oh, how happy I should be if I were on dry land.”
But the vessel wouldn’t stop—even for a minute.
The motion, on the other hand, seemed to increase, as was natural, for they were getting farther and farther from land and were exposed to the more violent winds that swept the open ocean.
There is something about seasickness that swallows up and draws away all minor cares and anxieties, and Dodger was too much affected to consider how or why it was that he so unexpectedly found himself a passenger to California.
“Lie flat on your back,” said the steward. “You will feel better if you do.”
“How long is it going to last?” groaned Dodger, feeling quite miserable.
“Oh, you’ll feel better to-morrow. I’ll bring you some porridge presently. You can get that clown, and it is better to have something on your stomach.”
He was right. The next day Dodger felt considerably better, and ventured to go upon deck. He looked about him in surprise.
There had been a storm, and the waves were white with foam.
As far as the eye could see there was a tumult and an uproar.
The ship was tossed about like a cockle shell. But the sailors went about their work unruffled. It was no new sight for them.
Though his head did not feel exactly right, the strong wind entered Dodger’s lungs, and he felt exhilarated. His eyes brightened, and he began to share in the excitement of the scene.
Pacing the deck was a stout, bronzed seaman, whose dress made it clear even to the inexperienced eyes of Dodger that he was the captain.
“Good-morning, Master Grant,” he said, pleasantly. “Are you getting your sea legs on?”
The name was unfamiliar to Dodger, but he could see that the remark was addressed to him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“Ever been to sea before?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ll get used to it. Bless me, you’ll stand it like an old sailor before we get to ’Frisco.”
“Is it a long voyage, captain?” asked Dodger.
“Five months, probably. We may get there a little sooner. It depends on the winds and weather.”
“Five months,” said Dodger to himself, in a tone of dismay.
The captain laughed.
“It’ll be a grand experience for a lad like you, Arthur!” said the captain, encouragingly.
Arthur! So his name was Arthur! He had just been called Master Grant, so Arthur Grant was his name on board ship.
Dodger was rather glad to have a name provided, for he had only been known as Dodger heretofore, and this name would excite surprise. He had recently felt the need of a name, and didn’t see why this wouldn’t answer his purpose as well as any other.
“I must write it down so as not to forget it,” he resolved. “It would seem queer if I forgot my own name.”
“I shouldn’t enjoy it much if I were going to be seasick all the time,” he answered.
“Oh, a strong, healthy boy like you will soon be all right. You don’t look like an invalid.”
“I never was sick in my life.”
“But your guardian told me he was sending you on a sea voyage for your health.”
“Did Mr. Waring say that?”
“Yes; didn’t you know the object of your sea trip?” asked Capt. Barnes, in surprise.
“No.”
“There may be some tendency to disease in your system—some hereditary tendency,” said the captain, after a pause.
“Were your parents healthy?”
“They—died young,” answered Dodger, hesitatingly.
“That accounts for your guardian’s anxiety. However, you look strong enough, in all conscience; and if you’re not healthy, you will be before the voyage ends.”
“I don’t know what I am to do for clothes,” said Dodger, as a new source of perplexity presented itself. “I can’t get along with one shirt and collar for five months.”
“You will find plenty of clothes in your valise. Hasn’t it been given you?”
“No, sir.”
“You may ask the steward for it. You didn’t think your guardian would send you on a five-months’ voyage without a change of clothing, did you?”
And the captain laughed heartily.
“I don’t know Mr. Waring very well,” said Dodger, awkwardly.
As he went downstairs to inquire about his valise, this question haunted him:
“Why did Curtis Waring send him on a sea voyage?”
CHAPTER XXII.
THE OTHER PASSENGER
Dodger sought the steward, and asked for his valise.
“Isn’t it in your stateroom?” asked that functionary.
“I haven’t seen it.”
“I remember now. It was put with the luggage of the other passenger. I will show it to you.”
He took Dodger to a part of the ship where freight was stored, and pointed to a sizable valise with a card attached to it on which was inscribed the name: “Arthur Grant.”
“This must be yours,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose so,” answered Dodger, glad to have found out the new name which had been given him, otherwise he would have supposed the valise belonged to some other person.
He took the valise to his stateroom, and, finding a key tied to the handles, he opened it at once.
It proved to contain a very fair supply of underclothing, socks, handkerchiefs, etc., with a tooth brush, a hair brush and comb, and a sponge. Never in his life had Dodger been so well supplied with clothing before. There were four white shirts, two tennis shirts, half a dozen handkerchiefs and the same number of socks, with three changes of underclothing.
“I begin to feel like a gentleman,” said Dodger to himself, complacently.
That was not all. At the bottom of the valise was an envelope, sealed, on which was inscribed the name: “Dodger.”
“That is for me, at any rate,” thought our hero. “I suppose it is from Curtis Waring.”
He opened the envelope, and found inclosed twenty-five dollars in bills, with a few lines written on a half-sheet of paper. These Dodger read, with interest and curiosity. They were as follows:
“Dodger:—The money inclosed is for you. When you reach California you will find it of use. I have sent you out there because you will find in a new country a better chance to rise than in the city of New York. I advise you to stay there and grow up with the country. In New York you were under the influence of a bad man, from whom it is best that you should be permanently separated. I know something of the early history of Tim Bolton. He was detected in a crime, and fled to escape the consequences. You are not his son, but his nephew. Your mother was his sister, but quite superior to himself. Your right name is Arthur Grant, and it will be well for you to assume it hereafter. I have entered you in the list of passengers under that name.
“I thought you had taken the will from my uncle’s desk, but I am inclined to think you had nothing to do with it. If you know where it is, or whether Bolton has it, I expect you to notify me in return for the money I have expended in your behalf. In that case you can write to me, No. – Madison Avenue.
“Curtis Waring.”
Dodger read the letter over twice, and it puzzled him.
“He seems from the letter to take an interest in me,” he soliloquized. “At any rate, he has given me money and clothes, and paid my passage to California. What for, I wonder? I don’t believe it is to get me away from the bad influence of Tim. There must be some other reason.”
There was another part of the letter with which Dodger did not agree.
Curtis asserted positively that he was the nephew of Tim Bolton, while he was positive that there was no relationship between them.
In that case Curtis must have been an early acquaintance of Tim’s. At any rate, he seemed to know about his past life.
Dodger now comprehended his present situation fully. He was a passenger on the ship Columbia, and there was no chance of leaving it. He had ascertainel on inquiry that the vessel would not put in anywhere, but would make the long voyage direct. It would be over four months, at any rate, before he could communicate with Florence, and in the meantime, she and Mrs. O’Keefe, whom he recognized as a good friend, would conclude that he was dead.
It was very provoking to think that he could not even telegraph, as that would relieve all anxiety, and he felt sure that Florence was enough his friend to feel anxious about him.
He had just closed up his valise, when a young man of dark complexion and of an attractive, intellectual expression, entered the cabin.
He nodded pleasantly to Dodger, and said:
“I suppose this is Arthur Grant?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Dodger, for he had decided to adopt the name.
“We ought to become close friends, for we are, I believe, the only passengers.”
“Then you are a passenger, too?” said Dodger, deciding, after a brief scrutiny, that he should like his new acquaintance.
“Yes. My name is Randolph Leslie. I have been, for the last five years, a reporter on leading New York daily papers, and worked so closely that my health has become somewhat affected. My doctor recommended a sea voyage, and I have arranged for a pretty long one.”
“What papers have you worked for?”
“Oh, all the leading ones—Tribune, World, Herald, and Sun—sometimes one, and sometimes another. Your reason for taking this trip can hardly be the same as mine. You don’t look as if your health required you to travel.”
“No,” answered Dodger, smiling; “but I understand that the gentleman who engaged my passage said I was going to sea for my health.”
“If I were as robust as you, I shouldn’t give much thought to my health. Do you intend to remain in California?”
“I don’t know what I do intend,” replied Dodger. “I didn’t know I was going to California at all until I woke up in my stateroom.”
The young man looked surprised.
“Didn’t you know the destination of the vessel when you came on board?” he asked.
“I was brought aboard in my sleep.”
“This is curious. It looks to me as if you had a story to tell.
“Of course, I don’t want to be curious, but if there is anyway in which I can help you, by advice, or in any other way, I am quite ready to do so.”
Dodger paused, but only briefly. This young man looked friendly, and might help him to penetrate the mystery which at present baffled him.
At any rate, his experience qualified him to give friendly advice, and of this Dodger felt that he stood in need.
“I ought to tell you, to begin with,” he said, “that I am a poor boy, and made my living as best I could, by carrying baggage, selling papers, etc.”
“I don’t think any the worse of you for that. Did you live at the lodging houses?”
“No; until lately I lived with a man who keeps a saloon on the Bowery, and tended bar for him.”
“What was his name? As a reporter I know the Bowery pretty well.”
“Tim Bolton.”
“Tim Bolton? I know his place well. I think I must have seen you there. Your face looked familiar to me as soon as I set eyes on you.”
“Very likely. A good many people came into Tim’s. I couldn’t pretend to remember them all.”
“Was Tim a relative of yours?”
“I don’t believe he was. I always thought that he got hold of me when I was a kid. I don’t remember the time when I wasn’t with him.”
“I suppose you have always lived in New York?”
“No; I lived for several years in Australia. Tim was in the same business there. I came on with him a year or more since.”
“Do you think you ever lived in New York before?”
“Yes; Tim has told me that I was born in New York.”
“I understand that you have left Tim now?”
“Yes.”
“Why, may I ask?”
“Because I didn’t like the business he was in. But I liked it better than the one he wanted me to go into.”
“What was that?”
“Burglary.”
The young reporter started in surprise.
“Well,” he said, “this is a new tack for Tim. However, I never looked upon him as a man who would shrink from any violation of the laws, except murder. I don’t think he would do that.”
“No; Tim isn’t quite so bad. He isn’t the worst man alive, though he is a rather hard customer. It was his wanting me to enter a house on Madison Avenue and open a desk that led to me going on this trip.”
“Tell me about it, if you don’t mind.”
Thus invited, Dodger told his story to Randolph Leslie, keeping nothing back.
He finished by showing him the letter he had found in the valise.