CHAPTER XVII.
A WAR OF WORDS.
“Oh, Larry, what have you done?”
It was Mary Vern who asked the question, as soon as she could recover sufficiently to speak.
“It was his fault,” replied our hero, as he bent over Martin Pollox, to make an examination. “I gave him a pretty stiff crack, didn’t I?”
“Sure, an’ what’s this quarrel about?” asked an Irish servant girl, as she came to a halt at the doorway, in sheer amazement. “Is it me master that’s kilt?”
“No,” answered Larry.
Two other servants appeared, staring in horror at the form on the carpet.
“He’s killed. That young man is his murderer!” shrieked the cook of the house. “Call a policeman, and have him locked up!”
“No—no!” put in Mary Vern. “He is—he is coming around.”
She was right, Martin Pollox was slowly regaining his senses. He opened his eyes in a dazed fashion, and then tried to stand up. Mary took hold of one hand and Larry of the other, and both helped him into an easy chair.
The owner of the mansion glared at our hero for several seconds in silence.
“Yo—you knocked me down!” he said, slowly.
“I did—and you deserved it!” answered Larry, coolly.
“Did I?” there was a sneer in Martin Pollox’s voice. “We’ll see about that, young man.”
“Send away your servants,” said Larry. “Unless you wish them to know all about your private affairs.”
“You can go,” said Martin Pollox to the cook and the others. “I can take care of myself.”
“Don’t you want no policeman?” asked the cook.
“No—not at present.”
Slowly the hired help withdrew, reluctant to leave what promised to be a highly interesting scene. As soon as they were gone, Mary Vern closed the door leading to the hallway.
“Why did you—er hit me such a blow?” questioned Martin Pollox. “Did you want to kill me?”
“No, but I wanted to teach you a lesson. You had no right to speak so of my father. He never drank to excess. Your story won’t wash with me.”
“Then you don’t—er—believe what I have told you?”
“I do not.”
“You are very impertinent.”
“That is only your opinion, and it carries no weight with me.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“Find out what really became of my father.”
“Well, I don’t much blame you for wanting to find out what became of him, but you mustn’t say that I am responsible for his disappearance. What I told you, I honestly believe to be the truth.”
Again Larry clenched his fists.
“I told you that my father wasn’t a drinking man.”
“That might have been, Barlow, but you forget one thing: knockout drops are cheap in New York, and your father might have been knocked out through drinking a single glass of liquor.”
At these words Larry started back. He realized the truth of what Martin Pollox was saying. Only that morning he had been reading about a rich farmer from Long Island who had come to New York with five hundred dollars in his pocket.
The farmer had been found on a bench in Central Park, penniless, and all he could remember was that he had taken one glass of liquor with a stranger with whom he had become acquainted while sight-seeing, and that liquor had made him so sleepy he had dozed off inside of five minutes afterward.
“What leads you to suspect that my father was the victim of knockout drops?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Several things. In the first place, while I was negotiating with him for the invention, he told me of a hail and hearty fellow he had met down in Water street. The fellow was from Chicago, and your father said the stranger was out of money, and had asked for a loan of ten dollars, telling a good story to get it.”
“Well?”
“Your father let the stranger have the money, and spoke of him several times later.”
“What of the stranger? Do you know his name?”
“It was Redmund Daily.”
“Did you see him after my father’s disappearance?”
“I did not; nor did I see him before. But from what your father said I am almost certain he went off with this Redmund Daily after I paid him for his work on the invention.”
“How much did you give my father?”
“The first payment was two thousand dollars. The second payment was eight hundred dollars, and that last payment was what he had in his pocket when he disappeared. Remember, eight hundred dollars is a great temptation to any New York thief.”
“I suppose it is. And you are willing to take your affidavit that you do not know what became of my father after you paid him off?”
“I am. I was sorry to hear of his disappearance, and I am even more sorry now, since it has caused me all this trouble.”
“But you don’t explain one thing, Mr. Pollox.”
“What is that?”
“I met you and Check Sluggers in an elevated train once, and you spoke about the invention and said you could use it now, as you didn’t think Barlow’s son would give you any trouble. What did you mean by that?”
Martin Pollox’s face turned white and he half arose in his chair, then sank back heavily.
“You—er—you were spying on me?”
“No, the meeting on the train was accidental.”
“Well—I—er—that is, I didn’t want any trouble, such as we have just had, that’s all.”
“You were afraid I would kick up a fuss if you made the invention a valuable one by manufacturing it and pushing it?”
“That’s about it. You know it takes a lot of money to manufacture and push a thing.”
“Yes.”
“And now, let me ask a few questions. What brought you to my house?”
“I invited him in,” spoke up Mary.
“Oh!” Martin Pollox’s face dropped.
For a moment the man’s face was a study. Then of a sudden a peculiar smile broke out around his cold and calculating mouth.
“Barlow, I shouldn’t let you have the money, considering what you have done,” he said, slowly, “but I’ll be generous to you. I am going to make you a present of two hundred dollars.”
Of course Larry was amazed. Was Martin Pollox losing his senses?
“Make me a present of two hundred dollars?” he cried.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want your money!”
“It will not be my money, exactly. You see, Mr. Vern wanted to reward you for what you did for Mary.”
“Did he leave me two hundred dollars?”
“He specified no sum, but in his notebook he left this memorandum: ‘Don’t forget to reward Larry Barlow for saving Mary,’ and behind this were some figures that looked like $100 or $200. I am going to give you the larger sum—with Mary’s permission.”
“By all means!” cried the girl. “But I thought papa was going to make it five hundred dollars?”
“Two hundred dollars is a nice sum for a young man in Mr. Barlow’s circumstances,” observed Martin Pollox, oilily.
At that moment came an unexpected interruption. The servant who attended the door appeared.
“If you please, Mr. Pollox,” she said, “Mr. Sluggers is here and wants to see you at once.”
Martin Pollox looked much disturbed. Larry watched him curiously, and it must be confessed that the young fireman was deeply interested.