XXIX
DAWKINS IN DIFFICULTIES
George Dawkins was standing at his desk one morning, when a man entered the office, and stepping up to him, unceremoniously tapped him on the shoulder.
Dawkins turned. He looked extremely annoyed on perceiving his visitor, whose outward appearance was certainly far from prepossessing. His face exhibited unmistakable marks of dissipation, nor did the huge breast pin and other cheap finery which he wore conceal the fact of his intense vulgarity. His eyes were black and twinkling, his complexion very dark, and his air that of a foreigner. He was, in fact, a Frenchman, though his language would hardly have betrayed him, unless, as sometimes, he chose to interlard his discourse with French phrases.
“How are you this morning, my friend?” said the newcomer.
“What are you here for?” asked Dawkins, roughly.
“That does not seem to me a very polite way of receiving your friends.”
“Friends!” retorted Dawkins, scornfully, “who authorized you to call yourself my friend?”
“Creditor, then, if it will suit you better, mon ami.”
“Hush,” said Dawkins, in an alarmed whisper, “he will hear,” here he indicated Paul with his finger.
“And why should I care? I have no secrets from the young man.”
“Stop, Duval,” exclaimed Dawkins, in an angry whisper, “Leave the office at once. Your appearing here will injure me.”
“But I am not your friend; why should I care?” sneered Duval.
“Listen to reason. Leave me now, and I will meet you when and where you will.”
“Come, that sounds better.”
“Now go. I’m afraid Mr. Danforth will be in.”
“If he comes, introduce me.”
Dawkins would like to have knocked the fellow over.
“Name your place and time, and be quick about it,” said he impatiently.
“Eight o’clock this evening, you know where,” was the answer.
“Very well. Good-morning.”
“Mind you bring some money.”
“Good-morning,” returned Dawkins, angrily.
At length, much to his relief, Duval left the office. Dawkins stole a side glance at Paul, to see what impression the interview had made upon him, but our hero, who had overheard some portions of the dialogue, perceiving that Dawkins wished it to be private, took as little notice of the visitor as possible. He could not help thinking, however, that Duval was a man whose acquaintance was likely to be of little benefit to his fellow clerk.
Throughout the day Dawkins appeared unusually nervous, and made several blunders which annoyed Mr. Danforth. Evidently he had something on his mind. Not to keep the reader in suspense, George had fallen among bad companions, where he had learned both to drink and to gamble. In this way he had made the acquaintance of Duval, an unscrupulous sharper, who had contrived to get away all his ready money, and persuading him to play longer in the hope of making up his losses had run him into debt one hundred and fifty dollars. Dawkins gave him an acknowledgment of indebtedness to that amount. This of course placed him in Duval’s power, since he knew of no means of raising such a sum. He therefore kept out of the Frenchman’s way, avoiding the old haunts where he would have been likely to meet him. Dawkins supposed Duval ignorant of the whereabouts of his employer’s counting-room. So he had been, but he made it his business to ascertain where it was. He had no idea of losing sight of so valuable a prize.
Dawkins would willingly have broken the appointment he had made with Duval, but he did not dare to do so. He knew that the man was well able to annoy him, and he would not on any account have had the affair disclosed to his father or Mr. Danforth.
As Trinity clock struck eight, he entered a low bar-room in the neighborhood of the docks.
A young man with pale, sandy hair stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled up. He was supplying the wants of a sailor who already appeared to have taken more drink than was good for him.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawkins,” said he, “you’re a stranger.”
“Is Duval in?” inquired Dawkins, coldly. His pride revolted at the place and company. He had never been here but once before, having met Duval elsewhere.
“He’s up in his room. John show the young gentleman up to No. 9. Won’t you have a glass of something this evening?”
“No,” said Dawkins, abruptly.
The boy preceded him up a dark and dirty staircase.
“That’s the room, sir,” he said.
“Stop a minute,” said Dawkins, “he may not be in.”
He inwardly hoped he might not. But Duval answered his knock by coming to the door himself.
“Delighted to see you, mon ami. John, may leave the lamp. That’s all, unless Mr. Dawkins wishes to order something.”
“I want nothing,” said Dawkins.
“They have some capital brandy.”
“I am not in the mood for drinking tonight.”
“As you please,” said the Frenchman, disappointed; “be seated.”
Dawkins sat down in a wooden rocking-chair, minus an arm.
“Well,” said Duval, “how much money have you brought me?”
“None.”
The Frenchman frowned and stroked his mustache, fiercely.
“What does all this mean? Are you going to put me off longer?”
“I would pay it if I could,” said Dawkins, “but I haven’t got the money.”
“You could get it.”
“How?”
“Ask your father.”
“My father would rave if he knew that I had lost money in such a way.”
“But you need not tell him.”
“If I ask for money, he will be sure to ask what I want it for.”
“Tell him you want clothes, or a watch, or a hundred things.”
Dawkins shook his head; “it won’t do,” said he. “He wouldn’t give me a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Then ask seventy-five, and I will wait a month for the rest.”
“Look here, Duval, you have no rightful claim to this money. You’ve got enough out of me. Just tear up the paper.”
Duval laughed scornfully, “Aha, Mr. Dawkins,” he said, “that would be a very pretty arrangement FOR YOU. But I don’t see how it is going to benefit me. No, no, I can’t afford to throw away a hundred and fifty dollars so easily. If I was a rich man like your father it would make a difference.”
“Then you won’t remit the debt,” said Dawkins, sullenly.
“You would think me a great ninny, if I did.”
“Then you may collect it the best way you can.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded the Frenchman, his face darkening.
“I mean what I say,” said Dawkins, desperately, “Gambling debts are not recognizable in law.”
“Nothing is said about it’s being a gambling debt. I have your note.”
“Which is worth nothing, since I am a minor.”
Duval’s face became black with rage.
“Aha, my friend,” said he showing his teeth, “this is a very nice game to cheat me out of my money. But it won’t do, it won’t do.”
“Why won’t it?”
“I shall say a word in your father’s ear, mon ami, and in the ear of your worthy employer whom you were so anxious for me not to see, and perhaps that would be worse for you than to pay me my money.”
Dawkins’s brief exultation passed away. He saw that he was indeed in the power of an unscrupulous man, who was disposed to push his advantage to the utmost.
He subsided into a moody silence, which Duval watched with satisfaction.
“Well, my friend, what will you do about it?”
“I don’t know what I can do.”
“You will think of something. You will find it best,” said the Frenchman, in a tone which veiled a threat.
“I will try,” said Dawkins, gloomily.
“That is well. I thought you would listen to reason, mon ami. Now we will have a pleasant chat. Hold, I will order some brandy myself.”
“Not for me,” said Dawkins, rising from his chair, “I must be going.”
“Will you not have one little game?” asked Duval, coaxingly.
“No, no, I have had enough of that. Goodnight.”
“Then you won’t stop. And when shall I have the pleasure of seeing you at my little apartment once more?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it is any trouble to you to come, I will call at your office,” said Duval, significantly.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Dawkins, hastily; “I will come here a week from today.”
“A week is a long time.”
“Long or short, I must have it.”
“Very well, mon ami. A week let it be. Good-night. Mind the stairs as you go down.”
Dawkins breathed more freely as he passed out into the open air. He was beginning to realize that the way of the transgressor is hard.
XXX
A TRAP IS LAID FOR PAUL
Three months before, George Dawkins had made his first visit to a gambling house. At first, he had entered only from curiosity. He watched the play with an interest which gradually deepened, until he was easily persuaded to try his own luck. The stakes were small, but fortune favored him, and he came out some dollars richer than he entered. It would have been fortunate for him if he had failed. As it was, his good fortune encouraged him to another visit. This time he was less fortunate, but his gains about balanced his losses, so that he came out even. On the next occasion he left off with empty pockets. So it went on until at length he fell into the hands of Duval, who had no scruple in fleecing him to as great an extent as he could be induced to go.
George Dawkins’s reflections were not of the most cheerful character as, leaving Duval, he slowly pursued his way homeward. He felt that he had fallen into the power of an unscrupulous villain, who would have no mercy upon him. He execrated his own folly, without which all the machination of Duval would have been without effect.
The question now, however, was, to raise the money. He knew of no one to whom he could apply except his father, nor did he have much hope from that quarter. Still, he would make the effort.
Reaching home he found his father seated in the library. He looked up from the evening paper as George entered.
“Only half-past nine,” he said, with an air of sarcasm. “You spend your evenings out so systematically that your early return surprises me. How is it? Has the theater begun to lose its charm!”
There was no great sympathy between father and son, and if either felt affection for the other, it was never manifested. Mutual recrimination was the rule between them, and George would now have made an angry answer but that he had a favor to ask, and felt it politic to be conciliatory.
“If I had supposed you cared for my society, sir, I would have remained at home oftener.”
“Umph!” was the only reply elicited from his father.
“However, there was a good reason for my not going to the theater to-night.”
“Indeed!”
“I had no money.”
“Your explanation is quite satisfactory,” said his father, with a slight sneer. “I sympathize in your disappointment.”
“There is no occasion, sir,” said George, good humoredly, for him. “I had no great desire to go.”
Dawkins took down a book from the library and tried to read, but without much success. His thoughts continually recurred to his pecuniary embarrassments, and the debt which he owed to Duval seemed to hang like a millstone around his neck. How should he approach his father on the subject? In his present humor he feared he would have little chance.
As his father laid down the newspaper Dawkins said, “Wouldn’t you like a game of checkers, sir?”
This, as he well knew, was a favorite game with his father.
“I don’t know but I should,” said Mr. Dawkins, more graciously than was his wont.
The checker-board was brought, and the two commenced playing. Three games were played all of which his father won. This appeared to put him in a good humor, for as the two ceased playing, he drew a ten-dollar-bill from his pocket-book, and handed to his son, with the remark, “There, George, I don’t want you to be penniless. You are a little extravagant, though, I think. Your pay from Mr. Danforth ought to keep you in spending money.”
“Yes, sir, I have been rather extravagant, but I am going to reform.”
“I am very glad to hear it.”
“I wish, sir,” said George a moment afterwards, “that you would allow me to buy my own clothes.”
“I’ve no sort of an objection, I am sure. You select them now, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, but I mean to suggest that you should make me an allowance for that purpose,—about as much as it costs now,—and give me the money to spend where I please.”
Mr. Dawkins looked sharply at his son.
“The result would probably be,” he said, “that the money would be expended in other ways, and I should have to pay for the clothes twice over.”
Dawkins would have indignantly disclaimed this, if he had not felt that he was not altogether sincere in the request he had made.
“No,” continued his father, “I don’t like the arrangement you propose. When you need clothing you can go to my tailor and order it, of course not exceeding reasonable limits.”
“But,” said Dawkins, desperately, “I don’t like Bradshaw’s style of making clothes. I would prefer trying some other tailor.”
“What fault have you to find with Bradshaw? Is he not one of the most fashionable tailors in the city?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so, but–”
“Come, sir, you are growing altogether too particular. All your garments set well, so far as I can judge.”
“Yes, sir, but one likes a change sometimes,” persisted George, a little embarrassed for further objections.
“Well,” said Mr. Dawkins, after a pause, “If you are so strongly bent upon a new tailor, select one, and order what you need. You can tell him to send in his bill to me.”
“Thank you sir,” said his son, by no means pleased at the manner in which his request had been granted. He saw that it would in no manner promote the plan which he had in view, since it would give him no command of the ready money. It is hardly necessary to say that his alleged dissatisfaction with his father’s tailor had all been trumped up for the occasion, and would never have been thought of but for the present emergency.
“What shall I do!” thought Dawkins, in perplexity, as he slowly undressed himself and retired to bed.
The only true course, undoubtedly, was to confess all to his father, to incur the storm of reproaches which would have followed as the just penalty of his transgression, and then the haunting fear of discovery would have been once and forever removed. But Dawkins was not brave enough for this. He thought only of escaping from his present difficulty without his father’s knowledge.
He rose the next morning with the burden of care still weighing upon him. In the evening the thought occurred to him that he might retrieve his losses where he had incurred them, and again he bent his steps to the gambling house. He risked five dollars, being one-half of what he had. This was lost. Desperately he hazarded the remaining five dollars, and lost again.
With a muttered oath he sprang to his feet, and left the brilliant room, more gloomy and discouraged than ever. He was as badly off as before, and penniless beside. He would have finished the evening at the theater, but his recent loss prevented that. He lounged about the streets till it was time to go to bed, and then went home in a very unsatisfactory state of mind.
A day or two after, he met on Broadway the man whom of all others he would gladly have avoided.
“Aha, my friend, I am glad to meet you,” said Duval, for it was he.
Dawkins muttered something unintelligible, and would have hurried on, but Duval detained him.
“Why are you in such a hurry, my friend?” he said.
“Business,” returned Dawkins, shortly.
“That reminds me of the little business affair between us, mon ami. Have you got any money for me?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet! It is three days since we saw each other. Could you not do something in three days?”
“I told you I required a week,” said Dawkins, roughly, “Let go my arm. I tell you I am in haste.”
“Very well, mon ami,” said Duval, slowly relinquishing his hold, “take care that you do not forget. There are four days more to the week.”
Dawkins hurried on feeling very uncomfortable. He was quite aware that four days hence he would be as unprepared to encounter the Frenchman as now. Still, something might happen.
Something, unfortunately, did happen.
The next day Mr. Danforth was counting a roll of bills which had been just paid in, when he was unexpectedly called out of the counting-room. He unguardedly left the bills upon his own desk. Dawkins saw them lying there. The thought flashed upon him, “There lies what will relieve me from all my embarrassment.”
Allowing himself scarcely a minute to think, he took from the roll four fifty dollar notes, thrust one into the pocket of Paul’s overcoat, which hung up in the office, drew off his right boot and slipped the other three into the bottom of it, and put it on again. He then nervously resumed his place at his desk. A moment afterwards, Paul, who had been to the post-office, entered with letters which he carried into the inner office and deposited on Mr. Danforth’s desk. He observed the roll of bills, and thought his employer careless in leaving so much money exposed, but said nothing on the subject to Dawkins, between whom and himself there was little communication.
XXXI
CONVICTED OF THEFT
Half an hour later Mr. Danforth returned.
“Has any one been here?” he asked as he passed through the outer office.
“No, sir,” said Dawkins, with outward composure though his heart was beating rapidly.
While apparently intent upon his writing he listened attentively to what might be going on in the next room. One,—two,—three minutes passed. Mr. Danforth again showed himself.
“Did you say that no one has been here?” he demanded, abruptly.
“No, sir.”
“Have either of you been into my office since I have been out?”
“I have not, sir,” said Dawkins.
“I went in to carry your letters,” said Paul.
“Did you see a roll of bills lying on my desk?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul, a little surprised at the question.
“I have just counted it over, and find but six hundred dollars instead of eight hundred. Can you account for the discrepancy?”
Mr. Danforth looked keenly at the two boys. Dawkins, who had schooled himself to the ordeal, maintained his outward calmness. Paul, beginning to perceive that his honesty was called in question, flushed.
“No, sir,” said the boys simultaneously.
“It can hardly be possible, that Mr. Thompson, who is a very careful man, should have made such a mistake in paying me,” resumed Mr. Danforth.
“As we have been the only persons here,” said Dawkins, “the only way to vindicate ourselves from suspicion is, to submit to a search.”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul promptly.
Both boys turned their pockets inside out, but the missing money was not found.
“There is my overcoat, sir,” said Dawkins, “will you be kind enough to search it for yourself?”
Next, of course, Paul’s overcoat was searched.
What was our hero’s dismay when from one of the pockets Mr. Danforth produced a fifty dollar bill.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed in as much grief as surprise, “Unhappy boy, how came you by this money in your pocket?”
“I don’t know, sir,” returned Paul, his cheek alternately flushing and growing pale.
“I wish I could believe you,” said Mr. Danforth; “where have you put the other bills? Produce them, and I may overlook this first offense.”
“Indeed, sir,” said Paul, in great distress, “I have not the slightest knowledge of how this bill came into my pocket. I hope you will believe me, sir.”
“How can I? The money evidently did not go into your pocket without hands.”
A sudden thought came to Paul. “Dawkins,” said he, “did you put that money into my pocket?”
“What do you mean, sir?” returned Dawkins, haughtily. “Is it your intention to insult me?”
Dawkins could not prevent his face from flushing as he spoke, but this might easily be referred to a natural resentment of the imputation cast upon him.
“Paul,” said his employer, coldly, “you will not help your own cause by seeking to involve another. After what has happened you can hardly expect me to retain you in my employment. I will not make public your disgrace, nor will I inquire farther for the remainder of the money for which you have been willing to barter your integrity. I will pay your wages up to the end of this week, and–”
“Mr. Danforth,” said Paul, manfully, though the tears almost choked his utterance, “I am sorry that you have no better opinion of me. I do not want the balance of my wages. If I have taken so large a sum which did not belong to me, I have no claim to them. Good-morning, sir. Sometime I hope you will think better of me.”
Paul put on his coat, and taking his cap from the nail on which it hung, bowed respectfully to his employer and left the office.
Mr. Danforth looked after him, and seemed perplexed. Could Paul be guilty after all?
“I never could have suspected him if I had not this evidence in my hand,” said Mr. Danforth, to himself, fixing his eyes upon the bill which he had drawn from Paul’s overcoat.
“Dawkins, did you observe whether Paul remained long in the office?” he asked.
“Longer than sufficient to lay the letters on the desk?”
“Yes, sir, I think he did.”
“Did you notice whether he went to his overcoat after coming out?”
“Yes, sir, he did,” said Dawkins, anxious to fix in Mr. Danforth’s mind the impression of Paul’s guilt.
“Then I am afraid it is true,” said his employer sadly. “And yet, what a fine, manly boy he is too. But it is a terrible fault.”
Mr. Danforth was essentially a kind-hearted man, and he cared much more for Paul’s dereliction from honesty than for the loss of the money. Going home early to dinner, he communicated to his wife the unpleasant discovery which he had made respecting Paul.
Now, from the first, Paul had been a great favorite with Mrs. Danforth, and she scouted at the idea of his dishonesty.
“Depend upon it, Mr. Danforth,” she said decisively, “you have done the boy an injustice. I have some skill in reading faces, and I tell you that a boy with Paul Prescott’s open, frank expression is incapable of such a crime.”
“So I should have said, my dear, but we men learn to be less trustful than you ladies, who stay at home and take rose-colored views of life. Unfortunately, we see too much of the dark side of human nature.”
“So that you conclude all to be dark.”
“Not so bad as that.”
“Tell me all the circumstances, and perhaps a woman’s wit may help you.”
Mr. Danforth communicated all the details, with which the reader is already familiar.
“What sort of a boy is this Dawkins?” she asked, “Do you like him?”
“Not particularly. He does his duties passably well. I took him into my counting-room to oblige his father.”
“Perhaps he is the thief.”
“To tell the truth I would sooner have suspected him.”
“Has he cleared himself from suspicion?”
“He was the first to suggest a search.”
“Precisely the thing he would have done, if he had placed the bill in Paul’s pocket. Of course he would know that the search must result favorably for him.”
“There is something in that.”
“Besides, what could have been more foolish, if Paul wished to hide the money, than to multiply his chances of detection by hiding it in two different places, especially where one was so obvious as to afford no concealment at all.”
“Admitting this to be true, how am I to arrive at the proof of Paul’s innocence?”
“My own opinion is, that George Dawkins has the greater part of the money stolen. Probably he has taken it for some particular purpose. What it is, you may learn, perhaps, by watching him.”
“I will be guided by your suggestion. Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than to find that I have been mistaken in assuming Paul’s guilt, though on evidence that seemed convincing.”
This conversation took place at the dinner-table. Mr. Danforth understood that no time was to be lost if he expected to gain any information from the movements of his clerk.
George Dawkins had ventured upon a bold act, but he had been apparently favored by fortune, and had succeeded. That he should have committed this crime without compunction could hardly be expected. His uneasiness, however, sprang chiefly from the fear that in some way he might yet be detected. He resolved to get rid of the money which he had obtained dishonestly, and obtain back from Duval the acknowledgment of indebtedness which he had given him.
You will perhaps ask whether the wrong which he had done Paul affected him with uneasiness. On the contrary, it gratified the dislike which from the first he had cherished towards our hero.
“I am well rid of him, at all events,” he muttered to himself, “that is worth risking some thing for.”
When office hours were over Dawkins gladly threw down his pen, and left the counting-room.
He bent his steps rapidly towards the locality where he had before met Duval. He had decided to wait some time before meeting that worthy. He had to wait till another day, when as he was emerging from the tavern he encountered the Frenchman on the threshold.
“Aha, my good friend,” said Duval, offering his hand, which Dawkins did not appear to see, “I am very glad to see you. Will you come in?”
“No, I have not time,” said Dawkins, shortly.
“Have you brought me my money?”
“Yes.”
“Aha, that is well. I was just about what you call cleaned out.”
“Have you my note with you?”
Duval fumbled in his pocket-book, and finally produced the desired document.
“Give it to me.”
“I must have the money first,” said the Frenchman, shrewdly.
“Take it,” said Dawkins contemptuously. “Do you judge me by yourself?”
He tore the note which he received into small pieces, and left Duval without another word.
Sheltered by the darkness, Mr. Danforth, who had tracked the steps of Dawkins, had been an unseen witness of this whole transaction.