CHAPTER XXVIII
PETER GREENLEAF AGAIN
Notwithstanding he was receiving a salary larger than is usually paid boys of his age, Herbert felt cramped for the want of money. Six dollars a week would have paid his expenses comfortably, if he had been well provided to begin with. But all the clothing he had, besides what he wore, he had brought with him in a small bundle, the greatest part having been left in his trunk at the house of Abner Holden. He often wished that he could have them with him, but, of course, this wish was vain. Indeed, Mr. Holden, when the conviction was forced upon him that there was no chance of recovering his bound boy, quietly confiscated the trunk and its contents; and this, to some extent, consoled him for the departure of the owner.
Herbert found himself sadly in need of underclothing; and, of course, his only suit, from constant wear, was likely to deteriorate rapidly. He saved all the money he could from his weekly wages toward purchasing a new one, but his savings were inconsiderable. Besides, he needed a trunk, or would need one, when he had anything to put in it.
“If I only had that money Greenleaf stole from me, I should be all right,” he said to himself, after long and anxious thought on the great question of ways and means. “I don’t see how I can save up more than two dollars a week out of my wages, and it will take a long time for that to amount to much.”
There certainly did not appear to be much chance of saving more. His boarding place was as cheap as he could obtain, or, if there were cheaper anywhere, they would probably be also poorer, and our hero felt that Mrs. Morgan’s was as poor as he should be able to endure.
He was rather mortified, too, at the poverty of his wardrobe. Mrs. Morgan asked him one day, “When is your trunk coming?” and Herbert was obliged to own, with some shame, that he had none. The landlady looked surprised, but he had no explanation to offer.
“I suppose I shall have to wait till my wages are raised,” thought Herbert, with a little sigh. This, he reflected, would not be very soon, as he had started with a salary greater than he was likely to earn, as Mr. Godfrey had said.
But relief was nearer than he anticipated.
One day, as he was walking up the Bowery, he saw, at a little distance in front of him, a figure which he well remembered. The careless, jaunty step and well-satisfied air were familiar to him. In short, it was Peter Greenleaf, who had played so mean a trick upon him at the hotel.
Herbert’s heart beat quick with excitement, mingled with pleasure. He felt a natural indignation against this young man, who had cheated him so remorselessly, and left him, indifferent to his fate, alone and almost penniless in a strange city.
What should he do?
Close behind him was a policeman slowly pacing his regular round. Herbert went up to him, and, pointing to Greenleaf, rapidly recounted his grievances.
“It was a mean trick,” said the policeman, who was a favorable specimen of his class. “Is this the first time you have seen him?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you want to do.”
“I want to get my money back.”
“Probably he has spent it. How long since he robbed you?”
“Three weeks.”
“Not much chance, then. Probably his pocket’s empty, unless he’s fleeced somebody else in the meantime. However, it’s as well to see what can be done. Now, I’ll tell you how to act. Go up to him boldly, and demand your money. If he bluffs you off, call me.”
“All right,” said Herbert.
He hastened his step, and, advancing, tapped Greenleaf on the shoulder.
Greenleaf turned. When he recognized Herbert, he looked surprised and disconcerted. But he had plenty of assurance, and quickly determined upon his course. Assuming a stolid look, he said: “Well, my lad, who are you; and what do you want?”
“You know who I am, well enough,” said Herbert, angrily.
“Do I? Then I’m uncommonly forgetful. I haven’t any recollection of your interesting countenance,” he said, with a sneer.
“I suppose you don’t want to remember me, Mr. Greenleaf,” said Herbert.
“Greenleaf! You are thinking of somebody else. My name’s Thompson.”
“Your name was Greenleaf when you stopped with me at French’s Hotel,” said Herbert, sturdily.
“You’re crazy, I fancy,” said Greenleaf, shrugging his shoulders. “I never stopped at the hotel you mention, in my life.”
“Where’s the money you took from me?” demanded Herbert, who felt convinced of Greenleaf’s identity, in spite of his denial.
“What are you talking about?” said Greenleaf, assuming a look of surprise.
“You went off before I was awake, with more than fifty dollars of mine.”
“Do you mean to insult me?” said Greenleaf, drawing himself up. “I’ve a great mind to knock you over!”
“Mr. Greenleaf,” said Herbert, firmly, “either return my money, or as much as you have got left, or I will call a policeman.”
“Just what I shall do, myself, unless you stop this nonsense,” said Greenleaf, angrily; but not without a sensation of uneasiness, as it struck his mind that Herbert might really intend to do what he had said.
“Once more, will you give up that money?” said Herbert, firmly.
“Stand out of the way,” said Greenleaf, “if you know what is best for yourself!”
He was about to push by, thrusting Herbert roughly out of the way, when our hero turned, and his look summoned the policeman, who hastened to the spot.
“Give this boy his money,” he said, authoritatively. “I know all about your little game. It’s up now. Unless you hand over your plunder, you must go with me.”
Greenleaf changed color, and was evidently alarmed.
“I’ve got nobody’s money, except my own,” he said.
“Come along, then,” said the officer, taking him by the arm.
“Stop a minute,” said he, hurriedly, finding that matters had come to a crisis. “If I give up what I have, will you let me go?”
“Well, that depends on how much you have.”
“I’ve got twenty dollars.”
Herbert was about to say that this would do, but the policeman shook his head.
“Won’t do,” said he. “Come along.”
After a little haggling, Greenleaf produced forty dollars, which Herbert pocketed, with much satisfaction.
“Now go along, and mind you don’t try any more such games.”
Greenleaf needed no second permission to be gone. He feared that the officer might change his mind, and he might, after all, be consigned to the station house.
“Thank you,” said Herbert, gratefully. “I needed the money badly. I shouldn’t have recovered it but for you.”
“Take better care of it next time,” said the officer, not unkindly. “Take care not to trust a stranger too easily. Better take my advice, and put it in a savings bank.”
“I shall be obliged to use most of it,” said Herbert. “What I don’t need, I will put in the bank.”
The recovery of so much of his lost money seemed to Herbert quite a lucky windfall. He went at once to a trunk store, and, for five dollars, purchased a good, durable trunk, which he ordered sent home to his lodgings. Fifteen dollars more he invested in necessary underclothing, and this left him one-half of the money for future use. Besides this he had six dollars, which, in three weeks, he had saved from his wages. With this sum, and the articles he had purchased, he felt quite rich, and returned to the counting-room—this happened during the hour given him for dinner—in unusually good spirits. He had other reasons for encouragement. He was getting accustomed to his duties at the counting-room. Mr. Godfrey always treated him kindly, and had called upon him again that very morning to assist him in translating a French letter, complimenting him, at the same time, upon his scholarship.
“I’ll do my best,” thought Herbert. “‘Try and Trust,’ that’s my motto. I think it will bring me success.”
But even while he spoke, an unforeseen danger menaced him.
CHAPTER XXIX
SPARRING
After the concert, Tom Stanton took even a greater dislike to his cousin than before. To say that he was in love with Julia Godfrey would be rather ridiculous, considering his youth. Even if he had been older, Tom cared too much about himself to fall in love with another. But Julia had been a belle among the children of her own age at the dancing school, and there was considerable rivalry among the boys—or, I should, perhaps, say young gentlemen—for the honor of her notice. Tom desired it, because it would give him a kind of distinction among his fellows. So, though he was not in love with Julia, he was jealous when she showed favor to anyone else. But this feeling was mild compared with that he experienced when Julia bestowed her notice upon his penniless cousin. That Herbert should be preferred to himself, he thought, not only showed great lack of taste on the part of the young heiress, but was a grievous wrong to himself.
“I can’t understand how girls can be such fools,” thought Tom, as that evening, after returning from the concert, he surveyed his rather perturbed face in the mirror surmounting his bureau. “I wouldn’t have believed Julia Godfrey would stoop to notice such a pauper.”
Then a cheerful thought came to him. Perhaps she was only trying to rouse his jealousy. He had heard of such things. But, if so, why should she choose such a beggar as Herbert to practice her arts upon?
Certainly, to an unprejudiced observer, such a thought would never have suggested itself. The cool indifference with which Julia had treated Tom did not appear to argue any such feeling as would lead to the attempt to rouse his jealousy. But, then, Tom was not an unprejudiced observer, and considered his personal attractions such that any girl might appreciate them.
When he arrived at the counting-room the next morning, he found Herbert already there. Indeed, our hero was very particular to be punctual in his attendance, while Tom was generally at least a quarter of an hour behind time.
“I saw you at the concert last evening, Mason,” said Tom, who wanted to get a chance to say something disagreeable.
“Yes, I was there,” said Herbert. “You sat in the row just behind us.”
“Yes. I suppose you were never at a concert before.”
“Not in New York.”
“Mr. Godfrey was very kind to take you.”
That was what Herbert thought himself. But as Tom expressed it, there was something in his tone which implied a conviction of Herbert’s social inferiority, which our hero did not like.
“I have found Mr. Godfrey very kind,” he said, briefly.
“There are not many employers who would invite a boy in your position to a concert with his family,” said Tom.
“I believe my position is the same as yours,” said Herbert, nettled.
“I don’t see it,” said Tom, haughtily. “Will you explain yourself?”
“I believe we are both in Mr. Godfrey’s employ,” said Herbert.
“Oh, yes, so far as that goes. But I am the son of a rich man,” said Tom, pompously.
Herbert might have replied that he was the nephew of a rich man, but he had no disposition to boast of his relationship to his cousin’s family.
“I don’t see that that makes any difference,” said Herbert.
“Don’t you? Well, I do.”
“We are both boys in Mr. Godfrey’s employ.”
“That’s true, but then, he took you out of pity, you know.”
Tom’s tone as he said this was very aggravating, and Herbert’s face flushed.
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” he retorted.
“No, I suppose you don’t consider it in that light,” said Tom, carelessly; “but, of course, it is clear enough to others. Where would you have been, if Mr. Godfrey hadn’t given you a place? Blacking boots, probably, among the street ragamuffins.”
“Perhaps I might,” said Herbert, quietly, “if I couldn’t have got anything better to do.”
“It’s a very genteel occupation,” sneered Tom.
“I don’t think it is,” said Herbert, “but it’s an honest one.”
“You may have to take it yet.”
“Perhaps so. So may you.”
“Do you mean to insult me?” demanded Tom, haughtily, his face flushing.
“I only said to you the same thing you said to me. If it’s an insult on one side, it is on the other.”
“You seem to forget that our circumstances are very different,” said Tom.
“They are just now, so far as money goes. I get a larger salary than you.”
Tom was very much incensed at this remark, being aggrieved by the fact that Herbert received more than he.
“I didn’t mean that,” said he. “Of course, if Mr. Godfrey chooses to give away money in charity, it is none of my business. I don’t need any charity.”
“Mr. Godfrey pays me for my services,” said Herbert. “If he pays me too liberally now, I hope to make it up to him afterward.”
“You seemed to be very intimate with Julia Godfrey last evening,” said Tom, unpleasantly.
“I found her very pleasant.”
“Yes; she is very kind to take notice of you.”
“I suppose the notice you have taken of me this morning is meant in kindness,” said Herbert, thinking his cousin very disagreeable.
“Yes, of course, being in the same counting-room, I think it right to take some notice of you,” said Tom, condescendingly.
“I am very much obliged to you,” said Herbert, sarcastically.
“But there’s one piece of advice I should like to give you,” proceeded Tom.
“What is that?” inquired Herbert, looking his cousin in the face.
“Don’t feel too much set up by Julia Godfrey’s notice. She only took notice of you out of pity, and to encourage you. If you had been in her own position in society—”
“Like you, for instance!”
“Yes, like me,” said Tom, complacently, “she would have been more ceremonious. I thought I would just mention it to you, Mason, or you might not understand it.”
It was only natural that Herbert should be provoked by this elaborate humiliation suggested by Tom, and his cousin’s offensive assumption of superiority. This led him to a retort in kind.
“I suppose that is the reason she took so little notice of you,” he said.
Tom was nettled at this statement of a fact, but he answered in an off-hand manner, “Oh, Julia and I are old friends. I’ve danced with her frequently at dancing school.”
Herbert happened to remember what Julia had said of his cousin, and was rather amused at this assumption of intimacy.
“I am much obliged to you for your information,” said Herbert, “though I am rather surprised that you should take so great an interest in my affairs.”
“Oh, you’re new in the city, and I know all the ropes,” said Tom. “I thought I might as well give you a friendly hint.”
“I am lucky in having such a friend,” said Herbert, “and will take the advice as it was given.”
Here the bookkeeper entered, and, soon after, Mr. Godfrey made his appearance.
“I hope you had a pleasant evening, Herbert,” he said, kindly.
“Very pleasant, sir; thank you,” said Herbert, in a very different tone from the one he had used in addressing Tom.
“I believe I saw you, also, at the concert, Thomas,” said Mr. Godfrey.
“Yes, sir,” said Tom. “I am very fond of music, and attend all the first-class musical entertainments.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Godfrey, but this was all the reply he made.
“My daughter insists that I shall invite you to the house again soon,” said Mr. Godfrey, again addressing Herbert.
“I am very much obliged to her, and to you, sir,” said Herbert, modestly. “I shall be very glad to come.”
Tom’s face darkened, as he heard this. He would have given considerable to receive such an invitation himself, but the prospect did not seem very promising.
“Mr. Godfrey must be infatuated,” he said to himself, impatiently, “to invite such a beggar to his house. Mason ought to have good sense enough to feel that he is out of place in such a house. I wouldn’t accept any invitation given out of pity.”
“I wonder why Tom dislikes me so much?” thought Herbert. “He certainly takes pains enough to show his feeling. Would it be different, I wonder, if he knew that I was his cousin?”
Herbert thought of mentioning to Mr. Godfrey that he had recovered three-quarters of the money of which he had been robbed. It would have been well if he had done so, but Mr. Godfrey seemed particularly engaged, and he thought it best not to interrupt him.
CHAPTER XXX
AN UNEXPECTED BLOW
Herbert felt happier than usual. He had recovered the greater part of his money, and thus was relieved from various inconveniences which had resulted from his straitened circumstances, He was the more elated at this, as it had seemed extremely improbable that the lost money would ever have found its way back to the pocket of its rightful owner. Then, he had a good place, and a salary sufficient to defray his modest expenses, and the prospect of promotion, if he should be faithful to the interests of his employer, as he firmly intended to be. It was agreeable, also, to reflect that he was in favor with Mr. Godfrey, who had thus far treated him with as much kindness as if he had been his own son.
There was, to be sure, the drawback of Tom’s enmity, but, as there was no good reason for this, he would not allow it to trouble him much, though, of course, it would have been more agreeable if all in the office had been his friends. He determined to take an early opportunity to write to his good friend, Dr. Kent, an account of his present position. He would have done so before, but had hesitated from the fear that in some way the intelligence would reach Abner Holden, whom he preferred to leave in ignorance of all that concerned him.
These thoughts passed through Herbert’s mind as he went about his daily work. Meanwhile, a painful experience awaited him, for which he was not in the least prepared.
About one o’clock a gentleman entered the counting-room hastily, and said, “Mr. Godfrey, I wonder whether I happened to leave my pocketbook anywhere about your office when I was here an hour ago?”
“I don’t think so. When did you miss it?”
“A few minutes since. I went to a restaurant to get a lunch, and, on finishing it, felt for my pocketbook, and found it gone.”
“Was there much in it?”
“No sum of any consequence. Between twenty and thirty dollars, I believe. There were, however, some papers of value, which I shall be sorry to lose.”
“I hardly think you could have left it here. However, I will inquire. Mr. Pratt, have you seen anything of Mr. Walton’s pocketbook?”
“No, sir,” said the bookkeeper, promptly.
“Herbert, have you seen it?”
“No, sir,” said our hero.
“Thomas?”
Tom Stanton was assailed by a sudden and dangerous temptation. His dislike to Herbert had been increased in various ways, and especially had been rendered more intense by the independent tone assumed by our hero in the conversation which had taken place between them that very morning. Now, here was an opportunity of getting him into disgrace, and probably cause him to lose his situation. True, he would have to tell a falsehood, but Tom had never been a scrupulous lover of truth, and would violate it for a less object without any particular compunction.
He hesitated when the question was asked him, and thus, as he expected, fixed Mr. Godfrey’s attention.
“Why don’t you answer, Thomas?” he said, in surprise.
“I don’t like to,” said Tom, artfully.
“Why not?” demanded his employer, suspiciously.
“Because I don’t want to get anybody into trouble.”
“Speak out what you mean.”
“If you insist upon it,” said Tom, with pretended reluctance, “I suppose I must obey you.”
“Of course, if any wrong has been done, it is your duty to expose it.”
“Then, sir,” said Tom. “I saw Mason pick up a wallet from the floor, and put it in his pocket just after the gentleman went out. He did it so quickly that no one probably observed it but myself.”
Herbert listened to this accusation as if stunned. It was utterly beyond his conception how anyone could be guilty of such a deliberate falsehood as he had just listened to. So he remained silent, and this operated against him.
“Herbert,” said Mr. Godfrey, mildly, for he was unwilling to believe our hero guilty of intentional dishonesty, “you should have mentioned having found the pocketbook.”
“So I would, sir,” said Herbert, having found his voice at last, “if I had found one.”
“Do you mean to say that you have not?” demanded Mr. Godfrey, with a searching look.
“Yes, sir,” said Herbert, firmly.
“What, then, does Thomas mean when he asserts that he saw you do so?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think he means to injure me, as I have noticed ever since I entered the office that he seems to dislike me.”
“How is that, Thomas? Do you again declare that you saw Herbert pick up the wallet?
“I do,” said Tom, boldly. “Of course, I expected that he would deny it. I leave it to you, sir, if he does not show his guilt in his face? Just look at him!”
Now it, unfortunately for Herbert, happened that his indignation had brought a flush to his face, and he certainly did look as a guilty person is supposed to do. Mr. Godfrey observed this, and his heart sank within him, for, unable to conceive of such wickedness as Tom’s, he saw no other way except to believe in Herbert’s guilt.
“Have you nothing to say, Herbert?” he asked, more in sorrow than in anger.
“No, sir,” said Herbert, in a low voice; “nothing, except what I have already said. Tom has uttered a wicked falsehood, and he knows it.”
“Of course, I expected you would say that,” said Tom, with effrontery.
“This is a serious charge, Herbert,” proceeded Mr. Godfrey. “I shall have to ask you to produce whatever you have in your pockets.”
“Certainly, sir,” said our hero, calmly.
But, as he spoke, it flashed upon him that he had in his pocket twenty-six dollars, and the discovery of this sum would be likely to involve him in suspicion. He could, indeed, explain where he got it; but would his explanation be believed? Under present circumstances, he feared that it would not. So it was with a sinking heart that he drew out the contents of his pockets, and among them his own pocketbook.
“Is that yours?” asked Mr. Godfrey, turning to Mr. Walton.
“No, it is not; but he may have transferred my money to it.”
Upon this hint, Mr. Godfrey opened the pocketbook, and drew out the small roll of bills, which he proceeded to count.
“Twenty-six dollars,” he said. “How much did you lose?”
“Between twenty and thirty dollars. I cannot be sure how much.”
“Here are two tens and three twos.”
“I had two tens. I don’t remember the denomination of the other bills.”
Even Tom was struck with astonishment at this discovery. He knew that his charge was groundless, yet here it was substantiated in a very remarkable manner. Was it possible that he had, after all, struck upon the truth of the matter? He did not know what to think.
“Herbert,” said his employer, sorrowfully, “this discovery gives me more pain than I can express. I had a very high idea of you. I could not have believed you capable of so mean a thing as deliberate dishonesty.”
“I am not guilty,” said Herbert, proudly.
“How can you say this in the face of all this evidence? Do you mean to say that this money is yours?”
“I do,” said Herbert, firmly.
“Where could you have got it?” said his employer, incredulously. “Did you not tell me when you entered my employ that you were almost penniless? You have been with me three weeks only, and half your wages have been paid for board.”
“Yes, sir; you are right.”
“What explanation, then, can you offer? Your case looks bad.”
“The six dollars I saved from my wages, at the rate of two dollars a week. The twenty dollars is a part of the money I was robbed of. I succeeded in recovering forty dollars of it yesterday.”
Here, Herbert related the circumstances already known to the reader.
“A likely story,” said Tom, scornfully.
“Be silent, Thomas,” said Mr. Godfrey. “Your story does not seem probable,” he proceeded, speaking to Herbert.
“It is true, sir,” said our hero, firmly.
“What could he have done with your wallet, however?” said the merchant, turning to Mr. Walton.
“He has been out to the post office since,” said Tom. “He might have thrown it away.”
This unfortunately for Herbert, was true. He had been out, and, of course, could have disposed of the wallet in the way mentioned.
“I don’t know what to think, Mr. Walton,” said Mr. Godfrey. “I’m afraid the boy’s guilty.”
“I’m afraid so. I don’t care so much for the money, if he will give me back the papers.”
“I can’t do it, sir,” said Herbert, “for I never had them.”
“What shall we do?”
“The other boy declares that he saw this one take the wallet from the floor, where I probably dropped it. It seems to me that settles the matter.”
“I am afraid it does.”
“Once more, Herbert, will you confess?” asked Mr. Godfrey.
“I can only say, sir, that I am innocent.”
“Mr. Walton, what shall we do?”
“Let the boy go. I will leave it to his honor to return me the papers, and he may keep the money. I think he will make up his mind to do so by tomorrow.”
“You hear, Herbert,” said Mr. Godfrey. “While this matter remains in doubt, you cannot retain your situation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Walton, for your indulgence,” said Herbert; “but I am sorry you think me guilty. The truth will some time appear. I shall TRY to do my duty, and TRUST to God to clear me.”
He took his hat and left the counting-room with a heavy heart, feeling himself in disgrace.
“I had great confidence in that boy, Walton,” said Mr. Godfrey. “Even now, I can hardly believe him guilty.”