CHAPTER XXVIII. JOHN HAYNES HAS A NARROW ESCAPE
John Haynes found the time hang heavily upon his hand after his withdrawal from the boys’ volunteer company. All the boys with whom he had been accustomed to associate belonged to it, and in their interest could talk of nothing else. To him, on the contrary, it was a disagreeable subject. In the pleasant spring days the company came out twice a week, and went through company drill on the Common, under the command of Frank, or Captain Frost, as he was now called.
Had Frank shown himself incompetent, and made himself ridiculous by blunders, it would have afforded John satisfaction. But Frank, thorough in all things, had so carefully prepared himself for his duties that he never made a mistake, and always acquitted himself so creditably and with such entire self-possession, that his praises were in every mouth.
Dick Bumstead, too, manifested an ambition to fill his second lieutenancy, to which, so much to his own surprise, he had been elected, in such a manner as to justify the company in their choice. In this he fully succeeded. He had become quite a different boy from what he was when we first made his acquaintance. He had learned to respect himself, and perceived with great satisfaction that he was generally respected by the boys. He no longer attempted to shirk his work in the shop, and his father now spoke of him with complacency, instead of complaint as formerly.
“Yes,” said he one day, “Dick’s a good boy. He was always smart, but rather fly-a-way. I couldn’t place any dependence upon him once, but it is not so now. I couldn’t wish for a better boy. I don’t know what has come over him, but I hope it’ll last.”
Dick happened to overhear his father speaking thus to a neighbor, and he only determined, with a commendable feeling of pride, that the change that had given his father so much pleasure should last. It does a boy good to know that his efforts are appreciated. In this case it had a happy effect upon Dick, who, I am glad to say, kept his resolution.
It has been mentioned that John was the possessor of a boat. Finding one great source of amusement cut off, and being left very much to himself, he fell back upon this, and nearly every pleasant afternoon he might be seen rowing on the river above the dam. He was obliged to confine himself to this part of the river, since, in the part below the dam, the water was too shallow.
There is one great drawback, however, upon the pleasure of owning a rowboat. It is tiresome to row single-handed after a time. So John found it, and, not being overfond of active exertion, he was beginning to get weary of this kind of amusement when all at once a new plan was suggested to him. This was, to rig up a mast and sail, and thus obviate the necessity of rowing.
No sooner had this plan suggested itself than he hastened to put it into execution. His boat was large enough to bear a small mast, so there was no difficulty on that head. He engaged the village carpenter to effect the desired change. He did not choose to consult his father on the subject, fearing that he might make some objection either on score of safety or expense, while he had made up his mind to have his own way.
When it was finished, and the boat with its slender mast and white sail floated gently on the quiet bosom of the stream, John’s satisfaction was unbounded.
“You’ve got a pretty boat,” said Mr. Plane, the carpenter. “I suppose you know how to manage it?” he added inquiringly.
“Yes,” answered John carelessly, “I’ve been in a sailboat before to-day.”
Mr. Plane’s doubts were set at rest by John’s confident manner, and he suppressed the caution which he had intended to give him. It made little difference, however, for John was headstrong, and would have been pretty certain to disregard whatever he might say.
It was true that this was not the first time John had been in a sailboat; but if not the first, it was only the second. The first occasion had been three years previous, and at that time he had had nothing to do with the management of the boat—a very important matter. It was in John’s nature to be over-confident, and he thought he understood merely from observation exactly how a boat ought to be managed. As we shall see, he found out his mistake.
The first day after his boat was ready John was greatly disappointed that there was no wind. The next day, as if to make up for it, the wind was very strong. Had John possessed a particle of prudence he would have seen that it was no day to venture out in a sailboat. But he was not in the habit of curbing his impatience, and he determined that he would not wait till another day. He declared that it was a mere “capful of wind,” and would be all the better for the purpose.
“It’s a tip-top wind. Won’t it make my boat scud,” he said to himself exultantly, as he took his place, and pushed off from shore.
Henry Morton had been out on a walk, and from the summit of a little hill near the river-bank espied John pushing off in his boat.
“He’ll be sure to capsize,” thought the young man in alarm. “Even if he is used to a sailboat he is very imprudent to put out in such a wind; I will hurry down and save him if I can.”
He hurried to the bank of the river, reaching it out of breath.
John was by this time some distance out. The wind had carried him along finely, the boat scudding, as he expressed it. He was congratulating himself on the success of his trial trip, when all at once a flaw struck the boat. Not being a skillful boatman he was wholly unprepared for it, and the boat upset.
Struggling in terror and confusion, John struck out for the shore. But he was not much of a swimmer, and the suddenness of the accident had unnerved him, and deprived him of his self-possession. The current of the river was rapid, and he would inevitably have drowned but for the opportune assistance of Mr. Morton.
The young man had no sooner seen the boat capsize, than he flung off his coat and boots, and, plunging into the river, swam vigorously toward the imperiled boy.
Luckily for John, Mr. Morton was, though of slight frame, muscular, and an admirable swimmer. He reached him just as John’s strokes were becoming feebler and feebler; he was about to give up his unequal struggle with the waves.
“Take hold of me,” he said. “Have courage, and I will save you.”
John seized him with the firm grip of a drowning person, and nearly prevented him from striking out. But Mr. Morton’s strength served him in good stead; and, notwithstanding the heavy burden, he succeeded in reaching the bank in safety, though with much exhaustion.
John no sooner reached the bank than he fainted away. The great danger which he had just escaped, added to his own efforts, had proved too much for him.
Mr. Morton, fortunately knew how to act in such emergencies. By the use of the proper remedies, he was fortunately brought to himself, and his preserver offered to accompany him home. John still felt giddy, and was glad to accept Mr. Morton’s offer. He knew that his father would be angry with him for having the boat fitted up without his knowledge, especially as he had directed Mr. Plane to charge it to his father’s account. Supposing that Squire Haynes approved, the carpenter made no objections to doing so. But even the apprehension of his father’s anger was swallowed up by the thought of the great peril from which he had just escaped, and the discomfort of the wet clothes which he had on.
Mr. Morton, too, was completely wet through, with the exception of his coat, and but for John’s apparent inability to go home alone, would at once have returned to his boarding-house to exchange his wet clothes for dry ones.
It so happened that Squire Haynes was sitting at a front window, and saw Mr. Morton and his son as they entered the gate and came up the graveled walk. He had never met Mr. Morton, and was surprised now at seeing him in John’s company. He had conceived a feeling of dislike to the young man, for which he could not account, while at the same time he felt a strong curiosity to know more of him.
When they came nearer, he perceived the drenched garments, and went to the door himself to admit them.
“What’s the matter, John?” he demanded hastily, with a contraction of the eyebrows.
“I’m wet!” said John shortly.
“It is easy to see that. But how came you so wet?”
“I’ve been in the river,” answered John, who did not seem disposed to volunteer any particulars of his adventure.
“How came you there?”
“Your son’s boat capsized,” explained Mr. Morton; “and, as you will judge from my appearance, I jumped in after him. I should advise him to change his clothing, or he will be likely to take cold.”
Squire Haynes looked puzzled.
“I don’t see how a large rowboat like his could capsize,” he said; “he must have been very careless.”
“It was a sailboat,” explained John, rather reluctantly.
“A sailboat! Whose?”
“Mine.”
“I don’t understand at all.”
“I had a mast put in, and a sail rigged up, two or three days since,” said John, compelled at last to explain.
“Why did you do this without my permission?” demanded the squire angrily.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Morton quietly, “it will be better to postpone inquiries until your son has changed his clothes.”
Squire Haynes, though somewhat irritated by this interference, bethought himself that it would be churlish not to thank his son’s preserver.
“I am indebted to you, sir,” he said, “for your agency in saving the life of this rash boy. I regret that you should have got wet.”
“I shall probably experience nothing more than temporary inconvenience.”
“You have been some months in the village, I believe, Mr. Morton. I trust you will call at an early day, and enable me to follow up the chance which has made us acquainted.”
“I seldom make calls,” said Mr. Morton, in a distant tone. “Yet,” added he, after a pause, “I may have occasion to accept your invitation some day. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” returned the squire, looking after him with an expression of perplexity.
“He boards at the Frosts’, doesn’t he, John?” asked Squire Haynes, turning to his son.
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s something in his face that seems familiar,” mused the squire absently. “He reminds me of somebody, though I can’t recall who.”
It was not long before the squire’s memory was refreshed, and he obtained clearer information respecting the young man, and the errand which had brought him to Rossville. When that information came, it was so far from pleasing that he would willingly have postponed it indefinitely.
CHAPTER XXIX. MR. MORTON’S STORY
The planting-season was over. For a month Frank had worked industriously, in conjunction with Jacob Carter. His father had sent him directions so full and minute, that he was not often obliged to call upon Farmer Maynard for advice. The old farmer proved to be very kind and obliging. Jacob, too, was capable and faithful, so that the farm work went on as well probably as if Mr. Frost had been at home.
One evening toward the middle of June, Frank walked out into the fields with Mr. Morton. The corn and potatoes were looking finely. The garden vegetables were up, and to all appearance doing well. Frank surveyed the scene with a feeling of natural pride.
“Don’t you think I would make a successful farmer, Mr. Morton?” he asked.
“Yes, Frank; and more than this, I think you will be likely to succeed in any other vocation you may select.”
“I am afraid you’re flattering me, Mr. Morton.”
“Such is not my intention, Frank, but I like to award praise where I think it due. I have noticed in you a disposition to be faithful to whatever responsibility is imposed upon you, and wherever I see that I feel no hesitation in predicting a successful career.”
“Thank you,” said Frank, looking very much pleased with the compliment. “I try to be faithful. I feel that father has trusted me more than it is usual to trust boys of my age, and I want to show myself worthy of his confidence.”
“You are fortunate in having a father, Frank,” said the young man, with a shade of sadness in his voice. “My father died before I was of your age.”
“Do you remember him?” inquired Frank, with interest.
“I remember him well. He was always kind to me. I never remember to have received a harsh word from him. It is because he was so kind and indulgent to me that I feel the more incensed against a man who took advantage of his confidence to defraud him, or, rather, me, through him.”
“You have never mentioned this before, Mr. Morton.”
“No. I have left you all in ignorance of much of my history. This morning, if it will interest you, I propose to take you into my confidence.”
The eagerness with which Frank greeted this proposal showed that for him the story would have no lack of interest.
“Let us sit down under this tree,” said Henry Morton, pointing to a horse-chestnut, whose dense foliage promised a pleasant shelter from the sun’s rays.
They threw themselves upon the grass, and he forthwith commenced his story.
“My father was born in Boston, and, growing up, engaged in mercantile pursuits. He was moderately successful, and finally accumulated fifty thousand dollars. He would not have stopped there, for he was at the time making money rapidly, but his health became precarious, and his physician required him absolutely to give up business. The seeds of consumption, which probably had been lurking for years in his system, had begun to show themselves unmistakably, and required immediate attention.
“By the advice of his physician he sailed for the West India Islands, hoping that the climate might have a beneficial effect upon him. At that time I was twelve years old, and an only child. My mother had died some years before, so that I was left quite alone in the world. I was sent for a time to Virginia, to my mother’s brother, who possessed a large plantation and numerous slaves. Here I remained for six months. You will remember that Aunt Chloe recognized me at first sight. You will not be surprised at this when I tell you that she was my uncle’s slave, and that as a boy I was indebted to her for many a little favor which she, being employed in the kitchen, was able to render me. As I told you at the time, my real name is not Morton. It will not be long before you understand the reason of my concealment.
“My father had a legal adviser, in whom he reposed a large measure of confidence, though events showed him to be quite unworthy of it. On leaving Boston he divided his property, which had been converted into money, into two equal portions. One part he took with him. The other he committed to the lawyer’s charge. So much confidence had he in this man’s honor, that he did not even require a receipt. One additional safeguard he had, however. This was the evidence of the lawyer’s clerk, who was present on the occasion of the deposit.
“My father went to the West Indies, but the change seemed only to accelerate the progress of his malady. He lingered for a few months and then died. Before his death he wrote two letters, one to my uncle and one to myself. In these he communicated the fact of his having deposited twenty-five thousand dollars with his lawyer. He mentioned incidentally the presence of the lawyer’s clerk at the time. I am a little surprised that he should have done it, as not the faintest suspicion of the lawyer’s good faith had entered his thoughts.
“On receiving this letter my uncle, on my behalf, took measures to claim this sum, and for this purpose came to Boston. Imagine his surprise and indignation when the lawyer positively denied having received any such deposit and called upon him, to prove it. With great effrontery he declared that it was absurd to suppose that my father would have entrusted him with any such sum without a receipt for it. This certainly looked plausible, and I acknowledge that few except my father, who never trusted without trusting entirely, would have acted so imprudently.
“‘Where is the clerk who was in your office at the time?” inquired my uncle.
The lawyer looked somewhat discomposed at this question.
“‘Why do you ask?’ he inquired abruptly.
“‘Because,’ was the reply, ‘his evidence is very important to us. My brother states that he was present when the deposit was made.’
“‘I don’t know where he is,’ said the lawyer. ‘He was too dissipated to remain in my office, and I accordingly discharged him.’
“My uncle suspected that the clerk had been bribed to keep silence, and for additional security sent off to some distant place.
“Nothing could be done. Strong as our suspicions, and absolute as was our conviction of the lawyer’s guilt, we had no recourse. But from that time I devoted my life to the exposure of this man. Fortunately I was not without means. The other half of my father’s property came to me; and the interest being considerably more than I required for my support, I have devoted the remainder to, prosecuting inquiries respecting the missing clerk. Just before I came to Rossville, I obtained a clue which I have since industriously followed up.
“Last night I received a letter from my agent, stating that he had found the man—that he was in a sad state of destitution, and that he was ready to give his evidence.”
“Is the lawyer still living?” inquired Frank.
“He is.”
“What a villain he must be.”
“I am afraid he is, Frank.”
“Does he still live in Boston?”
“No. After he made sure of his ill-gotten gains, he removed into the country, where he built him a fine house. He has been able to live a life of leisure; but I doubt if he has been as happy as he would have been had he never deviated from the path of rectitude.”
“Have you seen him lately?” asked Frank.
“I have seen him many times within the last few months,” said the young man, in a significant tone.
Frank jumped to his feet in surprise. “You don’t mean–” he said, as a sudden suspicion of the truth dawned upon his mind.
“Yes,” said Mr. Morton deliberately, “I do mean that the lawyer who defrauded my father lives in this village. You know him well as Squire Haynes.”
“I can hardly believe it,” said Frank, unable to conceal his astonishment. “Do you think he knows who you are?”
“I think he has noticed my resemblance to my father. If I had not assumed a different name he would have been sure to detect me. This would have interfered with my plans, as he undoubtedly knew the whereabouts of his old clerk, and would have arranged to remove him, so as to delay his discovery, perhaps indefinitely. Here is the letter I received last night. I will read it to you.”
The letter ran as follows:
“I have at length discovered the man of whom I have so long been in search. I found him in Detroit. He had recently removed thither from St. Louis. He is very poor, and, when I found him, was laid up with typhoid fever in a mean lodging-house. I removed him to more comfortable quarters, supplied him with relishing food and good medical assistance. Otherwise I think he would have died. The result is, that he feels deeply grateful to me for having probably saved his life. When I first broached the idea of his giving evidence against his old employer, I found him reluctant to do so—not from any attachment he bore him, but from a fear that he would be held on a criminal charge for concealing a felony. I have undertaken to assure him, on your behalf, that he shall not be punished if he will come forward and give his evidence unhesitatingly. I have finally obtained his promise to, do so.
“We shall leave Detroit day after to-morrow, and proceed to New England by way of New York. Can you meet me in New York on the 18th inst.? You can, in that case, have an interview with this man Travers; and it Will be well to obtain his confession, legally certified, to guard against any vacillation of purpose on his part. I have no apprehension of it, but it is as well to be certain.”
This letter was signed by Mr. Morton’s agent.
“I was very glad to get that letter, Frank,” said his companion. “I don’t think I care so much for the money, though that is not to be despised, since it will enable me to do more good than at present I have it in my power to do. But there is one thing I care for still more, and that is, to redeem my father’s memory from reproach. In the last letter he ever wrote he made a specific statement, which this lawyer declares to be false. The evidence of his clerk will hurl back the falsehood upon himself.”
“How strange it is, Mr. Morton,” exclaimed Frank, “that you should have saved the life of a son of the man who has done so much to injure you!”
“Yes, that gives me great satisfaction. I do not wish Squire Haynes any harm, but I am determined that justice shall be done. Otherwise than that, if I can be of any service to him, I shall not refuse.”
“I remember now,” said Frank, after a moment’s pause, “that, on the first Sunday you appeared at church, Squire Haynes stopped me to inquire who you were.”
“I am thought to look much as my father did. He undoubtedly saw the resemblance. I have often caught his eyes fixed upon me in perplexity when he did not know that I noticed him. It is fourteen years since my father died. Retribution has been slow, but it has come at last.”
“When do you go on to New York?” asked Frank, recalling the agent’s request.
“I shall start to-morrow morning. For the present I will ask you to keep what I have said a secret even from your good mother. It is as well not to disturb Squire Haynes in his fancied security until we are ready to overwhelm him with our evidence.”
“How long shall you be absent, Mr. Morton?”
“Probably less than a week. I shall merely say that I have gone on business. I trust to your discretion to say nothing more.”
“I certainly will not,” said Frank. “I am very much obliged to you for having told me first.”
The two rose from their grassy seats, and walked slowly back to the farmhouse.