CHAPTER XXVI.
BOLTON MAKES A DISCOVERY
“I see it all,” Bolton said to himself, thoughtfully. “Curtis Waring is afraid of the boy—and of me. He’s circumvented me neatly, and the game is his—so far my little plan is dished. I must find out for certain whether he’s had anything to do with gettin’ Dodger out of the way, and then, Tim Bolton, you must set your wits to work to spoil his little game.”
Bolton succeeded in securing the services of a young man who had experience at tending bar, and about eight o’clock, after donning his best attire, he hailed a Fourth Avenue surface car and got aboard.
Getting out at the proper street, he made his way to Madison Avenue, and ascended the steps of John Linden’s residence.
The door was opened by Jane, who eyed the visitor with no friendly glance.
“What do you want?” she asked, in a hostile tone.
“Is Mr. Waring at home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Miss Florence at home?”
“Do you know her?” she asked.
“Yes; I am a friend of hers.”
Jane evidently thought that Florence must have made some queer friends.
“Have you seen her lately?” she asked eagerly.
“I saw her to-day.”
“Is she well?”
“Yes; she is well, but she is in trouble.”
“Is she– Does she need any money?”
“No; it isn’t that. The boy Dodger has disappeared, and she is afraid something has happened to him.”
“Oh, I am so sorry! He was a good friend of Miss Florence.”
“I see you know him. I am trying to help him and her.”
“But you asked for Mr. Waring?” said Jane, suspiciously.
“So I did. Shall I tell you why?”
“I wish you would.”
“I think he has something to do with gettin’ Dodger out of the way, and I’m goin’ to try to find out.”
“He won’t tell you.”
“You don’t understand. I shall make him think I am on his side. Was he at home last night?”
“He went away at dinner time, and he didn’t come home till after twelve. I ought to know, for he forgot his latchkey, and I had to get up and let him in. I won’t do it again. I’ll let him stay out first.”
“I see; he was with Dodger, no doubt. Did you say he was in?”
“No, sir; but he will be in directly. Won’t you step into the library?”
“Shall I meet the old gentleman there?” asked Bolton, in a tone of hesitation.
“No. He goes up to his chamber directly after dinner.”
“How is he?”
“I think he’s failing.”
“I hope there is no immediate danger,” said Bolton, anxiously.
“No; but he’s worrying about Miss Florence. It’s my belief that if she were at home, he’d live a good while.”
“Doesn’t he ask for her?”
“Mr. Curtis tells him she’ll come round soon if he’ll only be firm. I don’t see, for my part, why Mr. Linden wants her to marry such a disagreeable man. There’s plenty better husbands she could get. Come in, sir, and I’ll tell him as soon as he comes in. Shall you see Miss Florence soon?”
“I think so.”
“Then tell her not to give up. Things will come right some time.”
“I’ll tell her.”
Bolton was ushered into the library, where, amid the fashionable furniture he looked quite out of place. He did not feel so, however, for he drew a cigar out of his pocket and, lighting it nonchalantly, leaned back in a luxurious armchair and began to smoke.
“Curtis Waring is well fixed—that’s a fact!” he soliloquized. “I suppose he is the master here, for the old man isn’t likely to interfere. Still he will like it better when his uncle is out of the way.”
He had to wait but fifteen minutes in solitude, for at the end of that time Curtis Waring appeared.
He paused on the threshold, and frowned when he saw who it was that awaited him.
“Jane told me that a gentleman was waiting to see me,” he said.
“Well, she was right.”
“And you, I suppose, are the gentleman?” said Curtis, in a sneering tone.
“Yes; I am the gentleman,” remarked Bolton, coolly.
“I am not in the habit of receiving visits from gentlemen of your class. However, I suppose you have an object in calling.”
“It shall go hard with me if I don’t pay you for your sneers some day,” thought Bolton; but he remained outwardly unruffled.
“Well,” he answered, “I can’t say that I have any particular business to see you about. I saw your cousin recently.”
“Florence?” asked Curtis, eagerly.
“Yes.”
“What did she say? Did you speak with her?”
“Yes. She doesn’t seem any more willin’ to marry you.”
Curtis Waring frowned.
“She is a foolish girl,” he said. “She doesn’t know her own mind.”
“She looks to me like a gal that knows her own mind particularly well.”
“Pshaw! what can you know about it?”
“Then you really expect to marry her some time, Mr. Waring?”
“Certainly I do.”
“And to inherit your uncle’s fortune?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“I was thinkin’ of the boy.”
“The boy is dead–”
“What!” exclaimed Bolton, jumping to his feet in irresistible excitement.
“Don’t be a fool. Wait till I finish my sentence. He is dead so far as his prospects are concerned. Who is there that can identify him with the lost child of John Linden?”
“I can.”
“Yes; if any one would believe you. However, it is for your interest to keep silent.”
“That is just what I want to know. I suppose you can make it for my interest.”
“Yes, and will—after I get the property. I don’t believe in counting my chickens before they are hatched.”
“Of course you know that the boy has left me?” said Bolton.
“Yes,” answered Curtis, indifferently. “He is with my cousin, I believe.”
“Yes; and through her I can learn where he is, and get hold of him if I desire.”
A cynical smile played over the face of Curtis Waring.
“Do you propose to get him back?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders.
“I am right,” thought Bolton, shrewdly. “From his manner it is easy to see that Curtis is quite at ease as regards Dodger. He knows where he is!”
“You asked me what business I came about, Mr. Waring,” he said, after a pause.
“Yes.”
“Of course I am devoted to your interests, but is it quite fair to make me wait till you come into your fortune before allowing me anything?”
“I think so.”
“You don’t seem to consider that I can bring the boy here and make him known to your uncle as the son he lost so long ago?”
“You are quite sure you can bring the boy here?” asked Curtis.
“Why not? I have only to go to Florence and ask her to send the boy to me.”
“You are quite at liberty to do so if you like, Tim Bolton,” said Curtis, with a mocking smile. “I am glad, at any rate, that you have shown me what is in your mind. You are very sharp, but you are not quite so sharp as I am.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Then I will be more explicit. It’s out of your power to make use of the boy against me, because–”
“Well?”
“Because he is not in the city.”
“Where is he, then?”
“Where you are not likely to find him.”
“If you have killed him–” Bolton began, but Curtis interrupted him.
“The boy is safe—I will tell you that much,” he said; “but for reasons which you can guess, I think it better that he should be out of New York. When the proper time comes, and all is safe, he may come back, but not in time to help you in your cunning plans, Mr. Tim Bolton.”
“Then, I suppose,” said Bolton, assuming an air of mortification and discomfiture, “it is no use for me to remain here any longer.”
“You are quite right. I wish you a pleasant journey home. Give my love to Florence when you see her.”
“That man is a fiend!” soliloquized Bolton, as he walked back, leisurely, to his place of business. “Let me get hold of Dodger and I will foil him yet!”
CHAPTER XXVII.
DODGER STRIKES LUCK
When Dodger landed in San Francisco, in spite of the fact that he had made the journey against his will, he felt a natural exhilaration and pleasure in the new and striking circumstances and scenes in which he found himself placed.
It was in the year 1877, and the city was by no means what it is now. Yet it probably contained not far from two hundred thousand people, lively, earnest, enterprising. All seemed busy and hopeful, and Dodger caught the contagion.
As he walked with the reporter to a modest hotel, where the rates were a dollar and a half a day, not far from Montgomery Street, Randolph Leslie asked:
“How do you like San Francisco thus far, Arthur?”
It will be remembered that Dodger, feeling that the name by which he had hitherto been known was hardly likely to recommend him, adopted the one given him by Curtis Waring.
“I think I shall like it ever so much,” answered Dodger. “Everybody seems to be wideawake.”
“Do you think you will like it better than New York?”
“I think a poor boy will have more of a chance of making a living here. In New York I was too well known. If I got a place anywhere some one would recognize me as Tim Bolton’s boy—accustomed to tend bar—or some gentleman would remember that he had bought papers of me. Here nobody knows me, and I can start fair.”
“There is a great deal in what you say,” returned Leslie. “What do you think of trying to do?”
“First of all I will write a letter to Florence, and tell her I am all right. How long does it take a letter to go from here to New York?”
“About seven days.”
“And it took us over four months! That seems wonderful.”
“Yes; there is a great difference between coming by sea around Cape Horn and speeding across the country on an express train.”
“If I could only know how Florence is getting along,” Dodger said, anxiously. “I suppose she thinks I am dead.”
“You forget the letter you gave to the vessel we spoke off the coast of Brazil.”
“Yes; but do you think it went straight?”
“The chances are in favor of it. However, your idea is a good one. Write, by all means, and then we will discuss future plans.”
“What are your plans, Mr. Leslie?”
“I shall try to secure a reporter’s berth on one of the daily papers—the Call or Chronicle. I will wait a few days, however, as I have a few hundred dollars by me, and can afford to take a little time to look around.”
“I wish I were as well provided; but I have less than twenty-five dollars.”
“Don’t worry about that, Arthur,” said Randolph, laying his hand affectionately on the boy’s shoulder. “I shall not allow you to want.”
“Thank you, Mr. Leslie,” said Dodger, gratefully. “It’s something new to me to have a friend like you. But I don’t want to be any expense to you. I am large enough and strong enough to earn my own living.”
“True; and I feel sure you will have a chance in this enterprising city.”
They bought copies of the day’s papers, and Dodger looked eagerly over the advertising columns.
At length he saw an advertisement that read as follows:
WANTED—A young man of 18 or 20 to assist in the office of a local express. Inquire at No. – – St.”
“Do you think I would answer for such a place?” he asked.
“I don’t see why not. At any rate, ‘nothing venture, nothing gain.’ You may as well go around and inquire. And, by the way, as your suit is rather shabby, let me lend you one of mine. We are of nearly the same size.”
“Thank you, Mr. Leslie.”
“Fine feathers make fine birds, you know, and a neat dress always increases the chances of an applicant for employment, though, when it is carried too far, it is apt to excite suspicion. I remember a friend of mine advertised for a bookkeeper. Among the applicants was a young man wearing a sixty-dollar suit, a ruffled shirt, a handsome gold watch and a diamond pin. He was a man of taste, and he was strongly impressed with the young man’s elegant appearance. So, largely upon the strength of these, he engaged him, and in less than six months discovered that he had been swindled to the extent of eight hundred dollars by his æsthetic bookkeeper.”
“Then I will leave my diamond pin at home,” said Dodger, smiling. “Suppose they ask me for recommendations?”
“I will go with you and indorse you. I happen to know one or two prominent gentlemen in San Francisco—among them the president of a bank—and I presume my indorsement will be sufficient.”
Dodger went back to the hotel, put on a suit of Mr. Leslie’s, got his boots blacked, and then, in company with the young reporter, went to the express office.
“I am afraid some one will have been engaged already,” said the reporter; “but if not, your chances will be good.”
They entered a good-sized office on a prominent street, and Dodger inquired for Mr. Tucker.
A small man of about forty, keen-eyed and alert, eyed him attentively.
“I am Mr. Tucker,” he said.
“I saw your advertisement for an assistant, Mr. Tucker,” said Dodger, modestly; “have you filled the place?”
“Let me see,” said Tucker, reflectively, “you are the ninth young man who has applied—but the place is still open.”
“Then I am afraid you won’t want me, as you have rejected so many.”
“I don’t know. How long have you been in the city?”
“I only just arrived.”
“Where from?”
“From New York.”
“Have you any idea of going to the mines when you get money enough?”
“I think I would prefer to remain in the city.”
“Good! How is your education?”
“I have never been to college,” answered Dodger, with a smile.
“Good! I don’t care for your college men. I am a practical man myself.”
“I am a poor scholar, but Mr. Leslie tells me I write a fair hand.”
“Let me see a specimen of your writing.”
Now Dodger had taken special pains on the voyage to improve his penmanship, with excellent results.
So it happened that the specimen which he furnished had the good fortune to please Mr. Tucker.
“Good!” he said. “You will, a part of the time, be taking orders. Your handwriting is plain and will do. Never mind about Latin and Greek. You won’t need it. Chinese would be more serviceable to you here. When can you go to work?”
“To-morrow morning. To-day, if necessary,” answered Dodger, promptly.
Mr. Tucker seemed pleased with his answer.
“To-morrow morning let it be, then! Hours are from eight in the morning till six at night.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Your wages will be fifteen dollars a week. How will that suit you?”
Dodger wanted to indulge in a loud whoop of exultation, for fifteen dollars was beyond his wildest hopes; but he was too politic to express his delight. So he contented himself with saying:
“I shall be quite satisfied with that.”
“Oh, by the way, I suppose I ought to have some reference,” said Mr. Tucker, “though as a general thing I judge a good deal by outward appearance.”
“I can refer you to my friend, Mr. Leslie, here.”
“And who will indorse him?” asked the expressman, shrewdly.
Leslie smiled.
“I see, Mr. Tucker, you are a thorough man of business. I can refer you to Mr. –, president of the – Bank in this city.”
“That is sufficient, sir. I am sure you would not refer me to him unless you felt satisfied that he would speak favorably of you. I won’t, therefore, take the trouble to inquire. Where are you staying?”
“At the Pacific Hotel; but we shall take a private apartment within a day or two.”
As they passed out of the office, Randolph Leslie said:
“You’ve done splendidly, Arthur.”
“Haven’t I? I feel like a millionaire.”
“As you are to go to work to-morrow, we may as well take up a room at once. It will be cheaper.”
In a short time they had engaged a neat suite of rooms, two in number, not far from the Palace Hotel, at twenty dollars per month.
The next day Leslie procured a position on the San Francisco Chronicle, at twenty-five dollars per week.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FLORENCE RECEIVES A LETTER
The discovery, through Tim Bolton, that Curtis Waring had a hand in the disappearance of Dodger, partially relieved the anxiety of Florence—but only partially.
He might be detained in captivity, but even that was far better than an accident to life or limb.
She knew that he would try to get word to her at the earliest opportunity, in order to relieve her fears.
But week after week passed, and no tidings came.
At length, at the end of ten weeks, a note came to her, written on a rough sheet of paper, the envelope marked by a foreign stamp.
It ran thus:
“Dear Florence:—I am sure you have worried over my disappearance. Perhaps you thought I was dead, but I was never better in my life. I am on the ship Columbia, bound for San Francisco, around Cape Horn; and just now, as one of the officers tells me, we are off the coast of Brazil.
“There is a ship coming north, and we are going to hail her and give her letters to carry home, so I hope these few lines will reach you all right. I suppose I am in for it, and must keep on to San Francisco. But I haven’t told you yet how I came here.
“It was through a trick of your cousin, Curtis Waring. I haven’t time to tell you about it; but I was drugged and brought aboard in my sleep; when I woke up I was forty miles at sea.
“Don’t worry about me, for I have a good friend on board, Mr. Randolph Leslie, who has been a reporter on one of the New York daily papers. He advises me to get something to do in San Francisco, and work till I have earned money enough to get home. He says I can do better there, where I am not known, and can get higher pay. He is giving me lessons every day, and he says I am learning fast.
“The ship is almost here, and I must stop. Take good care of yourself, and remember me to Mrs. O’Keefe, and I will write you again as soon as I get to San Francisco.
“Dodger.
“P. S.—Don’t let on to Curtis that you have heard from me, or he might try to play me some trick in San Francisco.”
Florence’s face was radiant when she had read the letter.
Dodger was alive, well, and in good spirits. The letter arrived during the afternoon, and she put on her street dress at once and went over to the apple-stand and read the letter to Mrs. O’Keefe.
“Well, well!” ejaculated the apple-woman. “So it’s that ould thafe of the worruld, Curtis Waring, that has got hold of poor Dodger, just as Tim told us. It seems mighty quare to me that he should want to stale poor Dodger. If it was you, now, I could understand it.”
“It seems strange to me, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Florence, thoughtfully. “I thought it might be because Dodger was my friend, but that doesn’t seem to be sufficient explanation. Don’t you think we ought to show this letter to Mr. Bolton?”
“I was going to suggest that same. If you’ll give it to me, Florence, I’ll get Mattie to tend my stand, and slip round wid it to Tim’s right off.”
“I will go with you, Mrs. O’Keefe.”
Mattie, who was playing around the corner, was summoned.
“Now, Mattie, just mind the stand, and don’t be runnin’ away, or them boys will get away wid my whole mornin’s profits. Do you hear?”
“Yes, mum.”
“And don’t you be eatin’ all the while you are here. Here’s one apple you can have,” and the apple-woman carefully picked out one that she considered unsalable.
“That’s specked, Mrs. O’Keefe,” objected Mattie.
“And what if it is? Can’t you bite out the specks? The rest of the apple is good. You’re gettin’ mighty particular.”
Mattie bit a piece out of the sound part of the apple, and, when Mrs. O’Keefe was at a safe distance, gave the rest to a lame bootblack, and picked out one of the best apples for her own eating.
“Bridget O’Keefe is awful mane wid her apples!” soliloquized Mattie, “but I’m too smart for her. Tryin’ to pass off one of her old specked apples on me! If I don’t take three good one I’m a sinner.”
Arrived at the front of the saloon, Mrs. O’Keefe penetrated the interior, and met Tim near the door.
“Have you come in for some whiskey, old lady?” asked Tim, in a jesting tone.
“I’ll take that by and by. Florence is outside, and we’ve got some news for you.”
“Won’t she come in?”
“No; she don’t like to be seen in a place like this. She’s got a letter from Dodger.”
“You don’t mean it!” ejaculated Tim, with sudden interest. “Where is he?”
“Come out and see.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Linden,” said Tim, gallantly. “So you’ve news from Dodger?”
“Yes; here is the letter.”
Bolton read it through attentively.
“Curtis is smart,” he said, as he handed it back. “He couldn’t have thought of a better plan for getting rid of the boy. It will take several months for him to reach ’Frisco, and after that he can’t get back, for he won’t have any money.”
“Dodger says he will try to save money enough to pay his way back.”
“It will take him a good while.”
“It doesn’t take long to come back by cars, does it?”
“No; but it costs a great deal of money. Why, it may take Dodger a year to earn enough to pay his way back on the railroad.”
“A year!” exclaimed Florence, in genuine dismay—“a year, in addition to the time it takes to go out there! Where will we all be at the end of that time?”
“Not in jail, I hope,” answered Bolton, jocularly. “I am afraid your uncle will no longer be in the land of the living.”
A shadow came over Florence’s face.
“Poor Uncle John!” she said, sadly. “It is terrible to think he may die thinking hardly of me.”
“Leavin’ his whole fortune to Curtis,” continued Tim.
“That is the least thing that troubles me,” said Florence.
“A woman’s a queer thing,” said Tim, shrugging his shoulders. “Here’s a fortune of maybe half a million, and half of it rightfully yours, and you don’t give it a thought.”
“Not compared with the loss of my uncle’s affections.”
“Money is a great deal more practical than affection.”
“Perhaps so, from your standpoint, Mr. Bolton,” said Florence, with dignity.
“No offense, miss. When you’ve lived as long as I, you’ll look at things different. Well, I’m glad to hear from the lad. If Curtis had done him any harm, I’d have got even with him if it sent me to jail.”
A quiet, determined look replaced Tim Bolton’s usual expression of easy good humor. He could not have said anything that would have ingratiated him more with Florence.
“Thank you, Mr. Bolton,” she said, earnestly. “I shall always count upon your help. I believe you are a true friend of Dodger–”
“And of yours, too, miss–”
“I believe it,” she said, with a smile that quite captivated Tim.
“If it would be any satisfaction to you, Miss Florence,” he continued, “I’ll give Curtis Waring a lickin’. He deserves it for persecutin’ you and gettin’ you turned out of your uncle’s house.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bolton; it wouldn’t be any satisfaction to me to see Curtis injured in any way.”
“You’re too good a Christian, you are, Miss Florence.”
“I wish I deserved your praise, but I can hardly lay claim to it. Now, Mr. Bolton, tell me what can I do to help Dodger?”
“I don’t see that you can do anything now, as it will be most three months before he reaches ’Frisco. You might write to him toward the time he gets there.”
“I will.”
“Direct to the post office. I think he’ll have sense enough to ask for letters.”
“I wish I could send him some money. I am afraid he will land penniless.”
“If he lands in good health you can trust him for makin’ a livin’. A New York boy, brought up as he was, isn’t goin’ to starve where there are papers to sell and errands to run. Why, he’ll light on his feet in ’Frisco, take my word for it.”
Florence felt a good deal encouraged by Tim’s words of assurance, and she went home with her heart perceptibly lightened.
But she was soon to have trials of her own, which for the time being would make her forgetful of Dodger.