CHAPTER XV. AN OBLIGING GUIDE.
On Washington Street, not far from Old South Church, is an office for the sale of railroad tickets to western points. It was this office which Eben entered.
“He is going to inquire the price of a ticket to some western city,” thought Herbert. “I heard him say one day that he wanted to go West.”
Our hero's curiosity was naturally aroused, and he stood at the entrance, where he could not only see but hear what passed within.
“What do you charge for a ticket to Chicago?” he heard Eben ask.
“Twenty-two dollars,” was the answer of the young man behind the counter.
“You may give me one,” said Eben.
As he spoke he drew from his vest pocket a roll of bills, and began to count off the requisite sum.
Herbert was surprised. He had supposed that Eben was merely making inquiries about the price of tickets. He had not imagined that he was really going.
“Can Mr. Graham have given him money to go?” he asked himself.
“When can I start?” asked Eben, as he received a string of tickets from the clerk.
“At three this afternoon.”
Eben seemed well pleased with this reply. He carefully deposited the tickets in an inside vest pocket, and turned to go out of the office. As he emerged from it he caught sight of Herbert, who had not yet started to go. He looked surprised and annoyed.
“Herbert Carr!” he exclaimed. “How came you here?”
Mingled with his surprise there was a certain nervousness of manner, as Herbert thought.
“I came to Boston with Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, coldly.
“Oh!” ejaculated Eben, with an air of perceptible relief. “Where is Mr. Melville?”
“He has gone to the office of his physician, on Tremont Street.”
“Leaving you to your own devices, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Look out you don't get lost!” said Eben, with affected gayety. “I am here on a little business for the old man.”
Herbert did not believe this, in view of what he had seen, but he did not think it necessary to say so.
“Good-morning!” said Herbert, in a tone polite but not cordial.
“Good-morning! Oh, by the way, I have just been inquiring the cost of a ticket to St. Louis,” said Eben, carelessly.
“Indeed! Do you think of going out there?”
“Yes, if the old man will let me,” said Eben.
“Do you prefer St. Louis to Chicago?” asked Herbert, watching the face of Eben attentively.
Eben's face changed, and he looked searchingly at our hero, but could read nothing in his face.
“Oh, decidedly!” he answered, after a slight pause. “I don't think I would care for Chicago.”
“And all the while you have a ticket for Chicago in your pocket!” thought Herbert, suspiciously, “Well, that's your own affair entirely, not mine.”
“What train do you take back to Wayneboro?” asked Eben, not without anxiety.
“We shall not go before four o'clock.”
“I may be on the train with you,” said Eben, “though possibly I shall get through in time to take an earlier one.”
“He is trying to deceive me,” thought Herbert.
“Good-morning,” he said, formally, and walked away.
“I wish I hadn't met him,” muttered Eben to himself. “He may give the old man a clew. However, I shall be safe out of the way before anything can be done.”
Herbert kept on his way, and found the bank without difficulty.
He entered and looked about him. Though unaccustomed to banks, he watched to see where others went to get checks cashed, and presented himself in turn.
“How will you have it?” asked the paying teller.
“Fives and tens, and a few small bills,” answered Herbert, promptly.
The teller selected the requisite number of bank bills quickly, and passed them out to Herbert. Our hero counted them, to make sure that they were correct, and then put them away in his inside pocket. It gave him a feeling of responsibility to be carrying about so much money, and he felt that it was incumbent on him to be very careful.
“Where shall I go now?” he asked himself.
He would have liked to go to Charlestown, and ascend Bunker Hill Monument, but did not know how to go. Besides, he feared he would not get back to the Parker House at the time fixed by Mr. Melville. Still, he might be able to do it. He addressed himself to a rather sprucely dressed man of thirty-five whom he met at the door of the bank.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but can you tell me how far it is to Bunker Hill Monument?”
“About a mile and a half,” answered the stranger.
“Could I go there and get back to the Parker House before one o'clock.”
“Could you?” repeated the man, briskly. “Why, to be sure you could!”
“But I don't know the way.”
“You have only to take one of the Charlestown horse cars, and it will land you only a couple of minutes' walk from the monument.”
“Can you tell me what time it is, sir?”
“Only a little past eleven. So you have never been to Bunker Hill Monument, my lad?”
“No sir; I live in the country, forty miles away and seldom come to Boston.”
“I see, I see,” said the stranger, his eyes snapping in a very peculiar way. “Every patriotic young American ought to see the place where Warren fell.”
“I should like to if you could tell me where to take the cars.”
“Why, certainly I will,” said the other, quickly. “In fact—let me see,” and he pulled out a silver watch from his vest pocket, “I've a great mind to go over with you myself.”
“I shouldn't like to trouble you, sir,” said Herbert.
“Oh, it will be no trouble. Business isn't pressing this morning, and I haven't been over for a long time myself. If you don't object to my company, I will accompany you.”
“You are very kind,” said Herbert. “If you are quite sure that you are not inconveniencing yourself, I shall be very glad to go with you—that is, if you think I can get back to the Parker House by one o'clock.”
“I will guarantee that you do,” said the stranger, confidently. “My young friend, I am glad to see that you are particular to keep your business engagements. In a varied business experience, I have observed that it is precisely that class who are destined to win the favor of their employer and attain solid success.”
“He seems a very sensible man,” thought Herbert; “and his advice is certainly good.”
“Come this way,” said the stranger, crossing Washington Street. “Scollay's Square is close at hand, and there we shall find a Charlestown horse car.”
Of course Herbert yielded himself to the guidance of his new friend, and they walked up Court Street together.
“That,” said the stranger, pointing out a large, somber building to the left, “is the courthouse. The last time I entered it was to be present at the trial of a young man of my acquaintance who had fallen into evil courses, and, yielding to temptation, had stolen from his employer. It was a sad sight,” said the stranger, shaking his head.
“I should think it must have been,” said Herbert.
“Oh, why, why will young men yield to the seductions of pleasure?” exclaimed the stranger, feelingly.
“Was he convicted?” asked Herbert.
“Yes, and sentenced to a three years term in the State prison,” answered his companion. “It always makes me feel sad when I think of the fate of that young man.”
“I should think it would, sir.”
“I have mentioned it as a warning to one who is just beginning life,” continued the stranger. “But here is our car.”
A Charlestown car, with an outside sign, Bunker Hill, in large letters, came by, and the two got on board.
They rode down Cornhill, and presently the stranger pointed out Faneuil Hall.
“Behold the Cradle of Liberty,” he said. “Of course, you have heard of Faneuil Hall?”
“Yes, sir,” and Herbert gazed with interest at the building of which he had heard so much.
It was but a short ride to Charlestown. They got out at the foot of a steep street, at the head of which the tall, granite column which crowns the summit of Bunker Hill stood like a giant sentinel ever on guard.
CHAPTER XVI. A NEW BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.
Just opposite the monument is a small, one-story structure, where views of the shaft may be purchased and tickets obtained.
“There is a small admission fee,” said Herbert's companion.
“How much is it?” asked our hero.
“Twenty cents.”
As Herbert thrust his hand into his pocket for the necessary money, his companion said:
“You had better let me pay for both tickets.”
Though he said this, he didn't make any motion to do so.
“No, I will pay for both,” said Herbert.
“But I really cannot permit you to pay for mine.”
And still the speaker made no movement to purchase his ticket.
Herbert settled the matter by laying half a dollar on the desk, and asking for two tickets. He began to see that, in spite of his disclaimer, his guide intended him to do so. On the whole, this didn't please him. He would rather have had his offer frankly accepted.
“I didn't mean to have you pay,” said the young man, as they passed through the door admitting them to an inner apartment, from which there was an exit into a small, inclosed yard, through which they were to reach the entrance to a spiral staircase by which the ascent was made.
Herbert did not answer, for he understood that his guide was not telling the truth, and he did not like falsehood or deceit.
They entered the monument and commenced the ascent.
“We have a tiresome ascent before us,” said the other.
“How many steps are there?” asked Herbert.
“About three hundred,” was the reply.
At different points in the ascent they came to landings where they could catch glimpses of the outward world through long, narrow, perpendicular slits in the sides of the monument.
At last they reached the top.
Herbert's guide looked about him sharply, and seemed disappointed to find a lady and gentleman and child also enjoying the view.
Herbert had never been so high before. Indeed, he had never been in any high building, and he looked about him with a novel sense of enjoyment.
“What a fine view there is here!” he said.
“True,” assented his companion. “Let me point out to you the different towns visible to the naked eye.”
“I wish you would,” said the boy.
So his guide pointed out Cambridge, Chelsea, Malden, the Charles and Mystic Rivers, gleaming in the sunshine, the glittering dome of the Boston State House and other conspicuous objects. Herbert felt that it was worth something to have a companion who could do him this service, and he felt the extra twenty cents he had paid for his companion's ticket was a judicious investment.
He noticed with some surprise that his companion seemed annoyed by the presence of the other party already referred to. He scowled and shrugged his shoulders when he looked at them, and in a low voice, inaudible to those of whom he spoke, he said to Herbert: “Are they going to stay here all day?”
“What does it matter to me if they do?” returned Herbert, in surprise.
Indeed, to him they seemed very pleasant people, and he was especially attracted by the sweet face of the little girl. He wished he had been fortunate enough to possess such a sister.
At last, however, they finished their sightseeing, and prepared to descend. Herbert's companion waited till the sound of their descending steps died away, and then, turning to Herbert, said in a quick, stern tone: “Now give me the money you have in your pocket.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
Herbert recoiled, and stared at the speaker in undisguised astonishment.
“I mean just what I say,” returned the other. “You have one hundred and fifty dollars in your pocket. You need not deny it, for I saw you draw it from the bank and put it away.”
“Are you a thief, then?” demanded Herbert.
“No matter what I am, I must have that money,” said the stranger. “I came over with you exclusively to get it, and I mean business.”
He made a step towards Herbert, but the boy faced him unflinchingly, and answered resolutely: “I mean business, too. The money is not mine, and I shall not give it up.”
“Take care!” said the other, menacingly, “we are alone here. You are a boy and I am a man.”
“I know that; but you will have to fight to get the money,” said Herbert, without quailing.
He looked to the staircase, but his treacherous guide stood between him and it, and he was practically a prisoner at the top of the monument.
“Don't be a fool!” said the stranger. “You may as well give up the money to me first as last.”
“I don't propose to give it up to you at all,” said Herbert. “My employer trusted me with it, and I mean to be true to my trust.”
“You can tell him that it was taken from you—that you could not help yourself. Now hand it over!”
“Never!” exclaimed Herbert, resolutely.
“We'll see about that,” said his companion, seizing the boy and grappling with him.
Herbert was a strong boy for his age, and he accepted the challenge. Though his antagonist was a man, he found that the boy was powerful, and not to be mastered as easily as he anticipated.
“Confound you!” he muttered, “I wish I had a knife!”
Though Herbert made a vigorous resistance, his opponent was his superior in strength, and would ultimately have got the better of him. He had thrown Herbert down, and was trying to thrust his hand into his coat pocket, when a step was heard, and a tall man of Western appearance stepped on the scene.
“Hello!” he said, surveying the two combatants in surprise. “What's all this? Let that boy alone, you skunk, you!”
As he spoke, he seized the man by the collar and jerked him to his feet.
“What does all this mean?” he asked, turning from one to the other.
“This boy has robbed me of one hundred and fifty dollars,” said the man, glibly. “I fell in with him in the Boston cars, and he relieved me of a roll of bills which I had drawn from a bank in Boston.”
“What have you got to say to this?” asked the Western man, turning to Herbert, who was now on his feet.
“Only this,” answered Herbert, “that it is a lie. It was I who drew the money from the Merchants' Bank in Boston. This man saw me cash the check, followed me, and offered to come here with me, when I asked him for directions.”
“That's a likely story!” sneered the young man. “My friend here is too sharp to believe it.”
“Don't call me your friend!” said the Western man, bluntly. “I'm more than half convinced you're a scamp.”
“I don't propose to stay here and be insulted. Let the boy give me my money, and I won't have him arrested.”
“Don't be in too much of a hurry, young man! I want to see about this thing. What bank did you draw the money from?”
“From the Merchants' Bank—the boy has got things reversed. He saw me draw it, inveigled himself into my confidence, and picked my pocket.”
“Look here—stop right there! Your story doesn't hang together!” said the tall Westerner, holding up his finger. “You said you met this boy in a horse car.”
“We came over together in a Charlestown horse car,” said the rogue, abashed.
“You've given yourself away. Now make yourself scarce! Scoot!”
The rascal looked in the face of the tall, resolute man from the West, and thought it prudent to obey. He started to descend, but a well-planted kick accelerated his progress, and he fell down several steps, bruising his knees.
“Thank you, sir!” said Herbert, gratefully. “It was lucky you came up just as you did. The rascal had got his hand on the money.”
“He is a miserable scamp!” answered Herbert's new friend. “If there'd been a police-man handy, I'd have given him in charge. I've come clear from Wisconsin to see where Warren fell, but I didn't expect to come across such a critter as that on Bunker Hill.”
Herbert pointed out to his new friend the objects in view, repeating the information he had so recently acquired. Then, feeling that he could spare no more time, he descended the stairs and jumped on board a horse car bound for Boston.
CHAPTER XVII. AN ACCEPTABLE PRESENT.
As the clock at the Old South Church struck one, Herbert ascended the steps of Parker's Hotel, and walked into the reading room. George Melville was already there.
“You are on time, Herbert,” he said, with a smile, as our hero made his appearance.
“Yes, sir; but I began to think I should miss my appointment.”
“Where have you been?”
“To Bunker Hill.”
“Did you ascend the monument?”
“Yes, sir, and had a fight at the summit.”
Mr. Melville looked at Herbert in amazement.
“Had a fight at the top of Bunker Hill Monument?” he ejaculated.
“Yes, sir; let me tell you about it.”
When the story was told, Mr. Melville said: “That was certainly a remarkable adventure, Herbert. Still, I am not sorry that it occurred.”
It was Herbert's turn to look surprised.
“I will tell you why. It proves to me that you are worthy of my confidence, and can be trusted with the care of money. It has also taught you a lesson, to beware of knaves, no matter how plausible they may be.”
“I haven't got over my surprise yet, sir, at discovering the real character of the man who went with me. I am sorry I met him. I don't like to distrust people.”
“Nor I. But it is not necessary to distrust everybody. In your journey through the world you will make many agreeable and trustworthy acquaintances in whom it will be safe to confide. It is only necessary to be cautious and not give your confidence too soon.”
“Oh, I didn't mention that I met somebody from Wayneboro,” said Herbert.
“Was it Eben Graham?”
“Yes.”
“I met him myself on Washington Street. Did you speak to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose he goes back to-night?”
“I don't think he will go back at all, Mr. Melville.”
His employer looked at him inquiringly.
“I saw him buy a ticket to Chicago, though he does not know it,” continued Herbert. “When he spoke with me he didn't admit it, but spoke of going back by an afternoon train.”
“I am afraid he has appropriated some of his father's funds,” said Melville. “I doubt if Ebenezer Graham would voluntarily furnish him the means of going West.”
“That was just what occurred to me,” said Herbert; “but I didn't like to think that Eben would steal.”
“Perhaps he has not. We shall be likely to hear when we return. But you must be hungry. We will go in to dinner.”
Herbert followed Mr. Melville into the dining room, where a good dinner was ordered, and partaken of. Herbert looked over the bill of fare, but the high prices quite startled him. He was not used to patronizing hotels, and it seemed to him that the price asked for a single dish ought to be enough to pay for a whole dinner for two. He knew about what it cost for a meal at home, and did not dream that it would amount to so much more at a hotel.
When the check was brought Herbert looked at it.
“Two dollars and a half!” he exclaimed.
“It costs an awful amount to live in Boston.”
“Oh a dinner can be got much cheaper at most places in Boston,” said George Melville, smiling, “but I am used to Parker's, and generally come here.”
“I am glad it doesn't cost so much to live in Wayneboro,” said Herbert. “We couldn't afford even one meal a day.”
“You haven't asked me what the doctor said,” remarked Melville, as they left the dining room.
“Excuse me, Mr. Melville. It wasn't from any lack of interest.”
“He advises me to go West by the first of October, either to Colorado or Southern California.”
Herbert's countenance fell. The first of October would soon come, and his pleasant and profitable engagement with Mr. Melville would close.
“I am sorry,” he said, gravely.
“I am not so sorry as I should have been a few weeks ago,” said Melville. “Then I should have looked forward to a journey as lonely and monotonous. Now, with a companion, I think I may have a pleasant time.”
“Who is going with you, Mr. Melville?” asked Herbert, feeling, it must be confessed, a slight twinge of jealousy.
“I thought perhaps you would be willing to accompany me,” said Melville.
“Would you really take me, Mr. Melville?” cried Herbert, joyfully.
“Yes, if you will go.”
“I should like nothing better. I have always wanted to travel. It quite takes my breath away to think of going so far away.”
“I should hardly venture to go alone,” continued George Melville. “I shall need some one to look after the details of the journey, and to look after me if I fall sick. Do you think you would be willing to do that?”
“I hope you won't fall sick, Mr. Melville; but if you do, I will take the best care of you I know how.”
“I am sure you will, Herbert, and I would rather have you about me than a man. Indeed, I already begin to think of you as a younger brother.”
“Thank you, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, gratefully. “I am glad you do.”
“Do you think your mother will object to your leaving home, Herbert?”
“Not with you. She knows I shall be well provided for with you. Can I arrange to send money regularly to mother?” asked the boy. “I shouldn't like to think of her as suffering for want of it.”
“Yes, but to guard against emergencies, we can leave her a sum of money before you start.”
After dinner Mr. Melville proposed to Herbert to accompany him on a walk up Washington Street, They walked slowly, Herbert using his eyes diligently, for to him the display in the shop windows was novel and attractive.
At length they paused at the door of a large and handsome jewelry store—one of the two finest in Boston.
“I want to go in here, Herbert,” said his employer.
“Shall I stay outside?”
“No, come in with me. You may like to look about.”
Though Herbert had no idea of the cost of the fine stock with which the store was provided, he saw that it must be valuable, and wondered where purchasers enough could be found to justify keeping so large a supply of watches, chains, rings and the numberless other articles in gold and silver which he saw around him.
“I would like to look at your watches,” said Melville to the salesman who came forward to inquire his wishes.
“Gold or silver, sir?”
“Silver.”
“This way, if you please.”
He led the way to a case where through the glass covering Herbert saw dozens of silver watches of all sizes and grades lying ready for inspection.
“For what price can I get a fair silver watch?” asked Melville.
“Swiss or Waltham?”
“Waltham. I may as well patronize home manufactures.”
“Here is a watch I will sell you for fifteen dollars,” said the salesman, drawing out a neat-looking watch, of medium size. “It will keep excellent time, and give you good satisfaction.”
“Very well; I will buy it on your recommendation. Have you any silver chains?”
One was selected of pretty pattern, and George Melville paid for both.
“How do you like the watch and chain, Herbert?” said his employer, as they left the store.
“They are very pretty, sir.”
“I suppose you wonder what I want of two watches,” said Melville.
“Perhaps you don't like to take your gold watch with you when you go out West, for fear of thieves.”
“No, that is not the reason. If I am so unfortunate as to lose my gold watch, I will buy another. The fact is, I have bought this silver watch and chain for you.”
“For me!” exclaimed Herbert, intensely delighted.
“Yes; it will be convenient for you, as well as me, to be provided with a watch. Every traveler needs one. There; put it in your pocket, and see how it looks.”
“You are very kind to me, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, gratefully. “You couldn't have bought me anything which I should value more.”
When Herbert had arranged the watch and chain to suit him, it must be confessed that it engrossed a large part of his attention, and it was wonderful how often he had occasion to consult it during the first walk after it came into his possession.
CHAPTER XVIII. A THIEF IN TROUBLE.
“Have you ever visited the suburbs of Boston?” asked Melville.
“No,” answered Herbert. “I know very little of the city, and nothing of the towns near it.”
“Then, as we have time to spare, we will board the next horse car and ride out to Roxbury.”
“I should like it very much, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, in a tone of satisfaction. I may remark that Roxbury was at that time a separate municipality, and had not been annexed to Boston.
They did not have to wait long for a car. An open car, of the kind in common use during the pleasant season, drew near, and they secured seats in it. After leaving Dover Street, Washington Street, still then narrow, broadens into a wide avenue, and is called the Neck. It was gay with vehicles of all sorts, and Herbert found much to attract his attention.
“The doctor tells me I ought to be a good deal in the open air,” said Melville, “and I thought I would act at once upon his suggestion. It is much pleasanter than taking medicine.”
“I should think so,” answered Herbert, emphatically.
Arrived at the end of the route, Melville and Herbert remained on the car, and returned at once to the city. When they reached the crowded part of Washington Street a surprise awaited Herbert.
From a small jewelry store they saw a man come out, and walk rapidly away.
“Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, in excitement, “do you see that man?”
“Yes. What of him?”
“It is the man who tried to rob me on Bunker Hill Monument.”
He had hardly uttered these words when another man darted from the shop, bareheaded, and pursued Herbert's morning acquaintance, crying, “Stop, thief!”
The thief took to his heels, but a policeman was at hand, and seized him by the collar.
“What has this man been doing?” he asked, as the jeweler's clerk came up, panting.
“He has stolen a diamond ring from the counter,” answered the clerk. “I think he has a watch besides.”
“It's a lie!” said the thief, boldly.
“Search him!” said the clerk, “and you'll find that I have made no mistake.”
“Come with me to the station house, and prepare your complaint,” said the policeman.
By this time a crowd had gathered, and the thief appealed to them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am a reputable citizen of St. Louis, come to Boston to buy goods, and I protest against this outrage. It is either a mistake or a conspiracy, I don't know which.”
The thief was well dressed, and some of the bystanders were disposed to put confidence in him. He had not seen Herbert and George Melville, who had left the car and joined the throng, or he might not have spoken so confidently.
“He doesn't look like a thief,” said one of the bystanders, a benevolent-looking old gentleman.
“I should say not,” said the thief, more boldly. “It's a pretty state of things if a respectable merchant can't enter a store here in Boston without being insulted and charged with theft. If I only had some of my friends or acquaintances here, they would tell you that it is simply ridiculous to make such a charge against me.”
“You can explain this at the station house,” said the policeman. “It is my duty to take you there.”
“Is there no one who knows the gentleman?” said the philanthropist before referred to. “Is there no one to speak up for him?”
Herbert pressed forward, and said, quietly:
“I know something of him; I passed the morning in his company.”
The thief turned quickly, but he didn't seem gratified to see Herbert.
“The boy is mistaken,” he said, hurriedly; “I never saw him before.”
“But I have seen you, sir,” retorted our hero. “You saw me draw some money from a bank in State Street, scraped acquaintance with me, and tried to rob me of it on Bunker Hill.”
“It's a lie!” said the prisoner, hoarsely.
“Do you wish to make a charge to that effect?” asked the policeman.
“No, sir; I only mentioned what I knew of him to support the charge of this gentleman,” indicating the jeweler's clerk.
The old gentleman appeared to lose his interest in the prisoner after Herbert's statement, and he was escorted without further delay to the station house, where a gold watch and the diamond ring were both found on his person. It is scarcely needful to add that he was tried and sentenced to a term of imprisonment in the very city—Charlestown—where he had attempted to rob Herbert.
“It is not always that retribution so quickly overtakes the wrongdoer,” said Melville. “St. Louis will hardly be proud of the man who claims her citizenship.”
“Dishonesty doesn't seem to pay in his case,” said Herbert, thoughtfully.
“It never pays in any case, Herbert,” said George Melville, emphatically. “Even if a man could steal enough to live upon, and were sure not to be found out, he would not enjoy his ill-gotten gain, as an honest man enjoys the money he works hard for. But when we add the risk of detection and the severe penalty of imprisonment, it seems a fatal mistake for any man to overstep the bounds of honesty and enroll himself as a criminal.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, thoughtfully. “I don't think I shall ever be tempted, but if I am, I will think of this man and his quick detection.”
When they reached the depot, a little before four o'clock, George Melville sent Herbert to the ticket office to purchase tickets, while he remained in the waiting room.
“I might as well accustom you to the duties that are likely to devolve upon you,” he said, with a smile.
Herbert had purchased the tickets and was turning away, when to his surprise he saw Ebenezer Graham enter the depot, laboring evidently under considerable excitement. He did not see Herbert, so occupied was he with thoughts of an unpleasant nature, till the boy greeted him respectfully.
“Herbert Carr!” he said; “when did you come into Boston?”
“This morning, sir.”
“Have you seen anything of my son, Eben, here?” gasped Mr. Graham.
“Yes, sir; he was on the same train, but I did not see him to speak to him till after I reached the city.”
“Do you know what he has been doing here?” asked Ebenezer, his face haggard with anxiety.
“I only saw him for five minutes,” answered Herbert, reluctant to tell the father what he knew would confirm any suspicion he might entertain.
“Where did you see him?” demanded Ebenezer, quickly.
“At a railroad ticket office not far from the Old South Church.”
“Do you know if he bought any ticket?” asked Ebenezer, anxiously.
“Yes,” answered Herbert. “I overheard him purchasing a ticket to Chicago.”
Ebenezer groaned, and his face seemed more and more wizened and puckered up.
“It is as I thought!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “My own son has robbed me and fled like a thief, as he is.”
Herbert was shocked, but not surprised. He didn't like to ask particulars, but Ebenezer volunteered them.
“This morning,” he said, “I foolishly gave Eben a hundred dollars, and sent him to Boston to pay for a bill of goods which I recently bought of a wholesale house on Milk Street. If I had only known you were going in, I would have sent it by you.”
Herbert felt gratified at this manifestation of confidence, especially as he had so recently been charged with robbing the post office, but did not interrupt Mr. Graham, who continued:
“As soon as Eben was fairly gone, I began to feel sorry I sent him, for he got into extravagant ways when he was in Boston before, and he had been teasing me to give him money enough to go out West with. About noon I discovered that he had taken fifty dollars more than the amount I intrusted to him, and then I couldn't rest till I was on my way to Boston to find out the worst. I went to the house on Milk Street and found they had seen nothing of Eben. Then I knew what had happened. The graceless boy has robbed his father of a hundred and fifty dollars, and is probably on his way West by this time.”
“He was to start by the three o'clock train, I think,” said Herbert, and gave his reasons for thinking so.
Ebenezer seemed so utterly cast down by this confirmation of his worst suspicions, that Herbert called Mr. Melville, thinking he might be able to say something to comfort him.
CHAPTER XIX. EBENEZER GRAHAM'S GRIEF.
“How much have you lost by your son, Mr. Graham?” asked George Melville.
“Nearly two hundred and fifty dollars,” groaned Ebenezer, “counting what I paid in the city to his creditors, it is terrible, terrible!” and he wrung his hands in his bitterness of spirit.
“I am sorry for you,” said Melville, “and still more for him.”
“Why should you be sorry for him?” demanded Ebenezer, sharply. “He hasn't lost anything.”
“Is it nothing to lose his consciousness of integrity, to leave his home knowing that he is a thief?”
“Little he'll care for that!” said Mr. Graham, shrugging his shoulders. “He's laughing in his sleeve, most likely, at the way he has duped and cheated me, his father.”
“How old is Eben, Mr. Graham?”
“He will be twenty in November,” answered Ebenezer, apparently puzzled by the question.
“Then, as he is so young, let us hope that he may see the error of his ways, and repent.”
“That won't bring me back my money,” objected Ebenezer, querulously. It was clear that he thought more of the money he had lost than of his son's lack of principle.
“No, it will not give you back your money, but it may give you back a son purified and prepared to take an honorable position in society.”
“No, no; he's bad, bad!” said the stricken father. “What did he care for the labor and toil it took to save up that money?”
“I hope the loss of the money will not distress you, Mr. Graham.”
“Well, no, not exactly,” said Ebenezer, hesitating. “I shall have to take some money from the savings bank to make up what that graceless boy has stolen.”
It was clear that Ebenezer Graham would not have to go to the poorhouse in consequence of his losses.
“I can hardly offer you consolation,” said George Melville, “but I suspect that you will not be called upon to pay any more money for your son.”
“I don't mean to!” said Ebenezer, grimly.
“Going away as he has done, he will find it necessary to support himself, and will hardly have courage to send to you for assistance.”
“Let him try it!” said Ebenezer, his eyes snapping.
“He may, therefore, being thrown upon his own resources, be compelled to work hard, and that will probably be the best thing that can happen to him.”
“I hope he will! I hope he will!” said the storekeeper. “He may find out after a while that he had an easy time at home, and was better paid than he will be among strangers. I won't pay any more of his debts. I'll publish a notice saying that I have given him his time, and won't pay any more debts of his contracting. He might run into debt enough to ruin me, between now and the time he becomes of age.”
George Melville considered that the storekeeper was justified in taking this step, and said so.
While they were on the train, Ebenezer got measurably reconciled to his loss, and his busy brain began to calculate how much money he would save by ceasing to be responsible for Eben's expenses of living and prospective debts. Without this drawback, he knew he would grow richer every year. He knew also that notwithstanding the sum it had just cost him, he would be better off at the end of the year than the beginning, and to a man of his character this was perhaps the best form of consolation that he could have.
Suddenly it occurred to Mr. Graham that he should need a clerk in place of his son.
“Now that Eben has gone, Herbert,” he said, “I am ready to take you back.”
This was a surprise, for Herbert had not thought of the effect upon his own business prospects.
“I have got a place, thank you, Mr. Graham,” he said.
“You don't call trampin' round huntin' and fishin' work, do you?” said Ebenezer.
“It is very agreeable work, sir.”
“But it stands to reason that you can't earn much that way. I wouldn't give you twenty-five cents a week for such doings.”
“Are you willing to pay me more than Mr. Melville does?” asked Herbert, demurely, smiling to himself.
“How much does he pay you now?” asked Ebenezer, cautiously.
“Six dollars a week.”
“Six dollars a week!” repeated the storekeeper, in incredulous amazement. “Sho! you're joking!”
“You can ask Mr. Melville, sir.”
Ebenezer regarded George Melville with an inquiring look.
“Yes, I pay Herbert six dollars a week,” said he, smiling.
“Well, I never!” ejaculated Ebenezer. “That's the strangest thing I ever heard. How in the name of conscience can a boy earn so much money trampin' round?”
“Perhaps it would not be worth as much to anyone else,” said Melville, “but Herbert suits me, and I need cheerful company.”
“You ain't goin' to keep him long at that figger, be you, Mr. Melville?” asked Mr. Graham, bluntly.
“I think we shall be together a considerable time, Mr. Graham. If, however, you should be willing to pay Herbert a larger salary, I might feel it only just to release him from his engagement to me.”
“Me pay more'n six dollars a week!” gasped Ebenezer. “I ain't quite crazy. Why, it would take about all I get from the post office.”
“You wouldn't expect me to take less than I can earn elsewhere, Mr. Graham,” said Herbert.
“No-o!” answered the storekeeper, slowly. He was evidently nonplused by the absolute necessity of getting another clerk, and his inability to think of a suitable person.
“If Tom Tripp was with me, I might work him into the business,” said Ebenezer, thoughtfully, “but he's bound out to a farmer.”
An inspiration came to Herbert. He knew that his mother would be glad to earn something, and there was little else to do in Wayneboro.
“I think,” he said, “you might make an arrangement with my mother, to make up and sort the mail, for a time, at least.”
“Why, so I could; I didn't think of that,” answered Ebenezer, relieved. “Do you think she'd come over to-morrow mornin'?”
“If she can't, I will,” said Herbert. “I don't meet Mr. Melville till nine o'clock.”
“So do! I'll expect you. I guess I'll come over and see your mother this evenin', and see if I can't come to some arrangement with her.”
It may be added that Mr. Graham did as proposed, and Mrs. Carr agreed to render him the assistance he needed for three dollars a week. It required only her mornings, and a couple of hours at the close of the afternoon, and she was very glad to convert so much time into money.
“It makes me feel more independent,” she said. “I don't want to feel that you do all the work, Herbert, and maintain the family single-handed.”
The same evening Herbert broached the plan of traveling with Mr. Melville. As might have been expected, his mother was at first startled, and disposed to object, but Herbert set before her the advantages, both to himself and the family, and touched upon the young man's need of a companion so skillfully and eloquently that she was at last brought to regard the proposal favorably. She felt that George Melville was one to whom she could safely trust her only boy. Moreover, her own time would be partly occupied, owing to the arrangement she had just made to assist in the post office, so that Herbert carried his point.
The tenth of October arrived, the date which George Melville had fixed upon for his departure. Mrs. Carr had put Herbert's wardrobe in order, and he had bought himself a capacious carpetbag and an umbrella, and looked forward with eagerness to the day on which their journey was to commence. He had long thought and dreamed of the West, its plains and cities, but had never supposed that it would be his privilege to make acquaintance with them, at any rate, until he should have become twice his present age. But the unexpected had happened, and on Monday he and George Melville were to start for Chicago.