Jerry saw at once that things were growing warm. From the look on his face it was plain to see that Alexander Slocum was in deadly earnest when he said he wanted to see those papers.
His manner made our hero feel that the papers would not be safe in his hands. If he gave them up he might never see them again, and without the documents the claim on the land in California would fall flat.
“Did you hear what I said, Upton? I want you to let me see those papers,” Slocum went on, after a second of intense silence.
“What do you mean by locking that door?” Jerry demanded of the elderly assistant, without paying any attention to the real estate dealer’s words.
Casey made no response. Instead, he took his stand by his employer’s side, as if awaiting further orders.
“You act as if you were afraid of me,” sneered Slocum. “I won’t hurt you.”
“You won’t—not if I can help it,” answered Jerry. “But I want you to unlock that door. I am not to be treated as a prisoner.”
“I only wanted to secure us against interruption. So many agents come up here, and they are a regular nuisance.”
Slocum advanced and held out his hand, as if expecting Jerry would drop the precious papers into it. Instead, the boy retreated and took up a position behind a flat-top desk in the centre of the office.
At this the real estate dealer grew furious behind his well-waxed mustache. He had expected to intimidate our hero easily, and now he was nonplused.
“Are you going to let me see those papers?” he fumed.
“No; at least not now.”
“Why not?”
“I prefer not to answer that question.”
“You think you have a case against me—that you can place me in a tight hole.”
“Well, if all is straight you have nothing to fear.”
“Don’t preach to me, boy. All is straight. I lost my money as well as the others did.”
“This doesn’t look as if you had lost much,” ventured Jerry, as he glanced about the elegant apartment.
“Oh, I have made money since, in a lucky real estate deal in Brooklyn. I won’t keep your papers.”
“I want that door unlocked.”
Slocum muttered something under his breath, and his face grew suddenly red. Like a flash he placed his hands on the flat desk and leaped over it.
“I’ll bring you to terms, you young country fool!” he cried, and made a clutch for Jerry’s collar.
Had our hero not turned like a flash he would have had the lad. But Jerry was on guard and fled to the office door. Raising his foot he gave the barrier a kick that caused it to crack heavily.
“Stop that!”
“I won’t. Let me out, or I’ll kick the door down.”
“Casey, catch the young rascal!” cried Slocum. “I’m going to teach him a thing or two.”
Anxious to obey the command of the man who held him completely under his thumb, Casey ran forward. Seeing him coming, Jerry fled behind a large screen. Here rested a heavy cane, and he picked it up and brandished it over his head.
“Keep back! Advance at your peril.”
“I’m afraid to go near the young fool,” said Casey.
“I’ll fix him. Stand aside. I never yet saw the boy that could get the best of me,” muttered Alexander Slocum.
“He may kill you, Mr. Slocum.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Running around the desk, the real estate dealer came for the young oarsman. As he approached, the boy pushed the screen against him and he went down, with the heavy object on top of him.
“You—you villain!” he spluttered.
To this Jerry made no answer. Taking advantage of the time afforded him, he looked around for some means of escaping his enemies. To remain a moment longer in the office he felt would be perilous in the extreme.
Near the corner to which Jerry had retreated was an open window. Glancing out of it he saw that the roof of the next building was but six or eight feet below the window sill.
Without stopping to think twice, our hero leaped out of the window and on to the roof below.
“Stop! stop!”
Both Slocum and his assistant called after Jerry, but he paid no attention. Leaving the vicinity of the window, he ran along the roof to the rear. Here there was an addition to a tin-shop underneath, and he dropped down and found himself within twelve feet of a narrow alleyway.
“Are you coming back?” bawled Alexander Slocum; and then, as Jerry let himself down over the edge of the roof, he suddenly disappeared from the window.
Guessing he was coming down to head him off, the youth lost no time in dropping to the ground.
Once down, it was an easy matter to gain the street. As he came out on the pavement, Slocum came running up all out of breath.
“You’re a fine boy!” he cried. “Come back to the office, and let us talk matters over.”
“Not to-day,” answered Jerry. “I’ve had enough of a dose for the present.”
“You are making a mistake.”
“I don’t intend to put my head into the lion’s mouth.”
While the two were speaking Casey came up, and, as the two appeared as if they wanted to drag Jerry back into the building just left, the youth retreated.
Alexander Slocum followed for a block, and then gave up the chase. Seeing this, Jerry walked on more leisurely.
Our hero’s visit to the real estate dealer had set him to thinking deeply. The man’s anxiety concerning the papers made the boy feel sure there was more at the bottom of the land speculation than either his parents or he had suspected.
Perhaps the land was still held by this man and was of great value. If this was so how was he to go to work to establish his father’s claim?
Pondering over the affair, the young oarsman thought of Mr. Randolph Islen and of his kindness. He resolved to tell that gentleman his story and see what he would have to say.
This conclusion reached, Jerry felt in his inner pocket to see if the precious papers were still safe. To his horror they were gone.
“Gone!”
The cry burst involuntarily from Jerry’s lips, and for the moment his heart seemed to stop beating. The precious papers were missing.
What had become of them? With great haste he hunted all of his pockets, not once but a dozen times. Then he felt in the linings, and in fact in all places where the packet might have become concealed.
It was useless; they were gone; that was all there was to it.
Had he dropped them in Slocum’s office, or during his hasty flight to the alleyway?
Our hero retraced his steps, with eyes bent to the ground, in hopes that they would be found lying on the walk. In doing this he ran into half a dozen folks, many of whom did not take kindly to the collision.
“Look where you are going, boy.”
“Hunting for a pin or gold dollars?”
Jerry paid no attention to the remarks. Reaching the alleyway, he turned into it and continued the search, but without success.
“Say, wot yer doin’ in here?”
The question was asked by a youth in the tin-shop. He was red-headed and had a freckled face, but not an unpleasant one.
“I was looking for something I lost,” said the young oarsman. “Have you seen anything in here of a flat, white package with a black shoestring tied around it?”
“Why, yes, I did,” he answered.
“And where is it?”
“A tramp had it. I saw him walk out of der alley wid it not five minutes ago.”
“A tramp? What kind of a looking man?”
“Tall and thin, with a grizzly beard. Oh, he was a regular bum.”
“Where did he go?”
“Up the street, I think. Was the bundle valuable?”
“Indeed it was, to me,” replied Jerry, and hurried off.
He could see nothing of any tramp, and, after dodging around among the trucks for several minutes, returned to the youth.
“Please describe that tramp to me, will you?” asked Jerry, and the tinner’s boy did so, as well as he was able.
“I think da call him Crazy Jim,” he concluded. “He don’t come down here very often. He belongs uptown somewhere.”
“Well, if you ever see him again, please let me know. My name is Jerry Upton, and here is my address,” and our hero handed it over.
“All right, I will. My name is Jerry Martin. Wot was in de package?”
“Some papers belonging to my father.”
The boy wanted to question Jerry for further particulars, but the young oarsman did not care to say too much, and hurried off, to seek the tramp again.
That evening found our hero at Mrs. Price’s, footsore and downhearted. He had seen nothing of Crazy Jim, and it looked as if the precious packet was gone for good.
Jerry could not help but wonder what Alexander Slocum’s next move would be. Would the man endeavor to hunt him out or would he write to his father?
The next morning, on his way to Mr. Randolph Islen’s place of business, Jerry met Nellie Ardell.
“Did you find Mr. Slocum’s?” she asked.
“I did; and had a very disagreeable visit,” returned our hero.
“I knew you would have,” she went on. “I wish he was not my landlord.”
Jerry asked her how Tommy was, and then they parted, and five minutes more brought our hero to the book-bindery.
Mr. Islen was not yet in, but he soon arrived, and smiled as Jerry presented himself.
“On hand, I see, my young friend. Well, how did you make out? Did you obtain a position?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s rather hard. Mr. Grice!” he called out.
The foreman of the book-bindery came in and Jerry was introduced to him. Quite a chat followed, at the end of which Jerry was hired to work in the stock department at a salary of six dollars a week.
The salary was not large, but it would pay his expenses, and that was all he wished for at present.
“I won’t have to write home for money,” he thought.
Mr. Grice wanted Jerry to come to work immediately, but our hero begged to speak to Mr. Islen in private for a moment, and when they were left alone told his story from beginning to end.
The rich book-binder listened with interest, and tapped meditatively upon his desk when Jerry had finished.
“This is rather a strange story, Upton,” he said. “What would you like me to do?”
“I would like you to give me some advice, sir. What had I best do?”
“You can do a number of things. What would be the best I cannot say. You might hire a lawyer to look into the case, and again you might have this Slocum arrested for locking you in the office. The loss of the packet complicates matters. Did it have your name on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you had better wait, and in the meantime advertise for the packet, offering a reward. That tramp may be watching for such an advertisement.”
This was sound advice; but Jerry had no money, and said so.
“I will pay for the advertisement and take it out of your pay,” said Mr. Islen; and the notice was written out without delay and sent off by the office boy.
The young oarsman now felt a trifle lighter in heart. He reasoned that the packet would be of no value to the tramp and that he would be glad to surrender it in hope of a reward. He did not remember at the time that he had written Alexander Slocum’s name and address on the outside wrapper; yet such was a fact.
When Jerry entered the bindery he found several pairs of curious eyes bent upon him from boys of about his own age. Without delay Mr. Grice set our hero to work.
“What is your name?” asked one of the boys, as soon as he had a chance.
“Dick Lenning. Say, do you know you have got the job Grice was going to give my brother?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s so. Jack was coming to work to-morrow. It ain’t fair to take the bread out of a fellow’s mouth like that,” growled Dick Lenning.
“I fancy Mr. Islen gave me my position—” Jerry ventured.
“Oh! So it was the boss put you in. Well, it ain’t fair anyway. Where do you come from—Brooklyn?”
“No, Lakeview.”
“Never heard of it. Must be some country village. You look like a hayseed.”
As Dick Lenning spoke he gazed around to see if Mr. Grice had gone. Then he added in a whisper:
“You have to set up the drinks for the crowd before you can work here, see?”
“Drinks,” repeated our hero.
“Sure; all the new hands do that.”
“I—I rather think I won’t.”
“You are too mean.”
“It’s not that; I don’t drink.”
“You are a country jay, and no mistake.”
Dick Lenning leaned forward and shoved Jerry with his elbow, at the same time putting one foot behind the youth. He wanted to trip our hero up, but Jerry was on guard, and, resisting him, the young oarsman caused him to slip down against a bench upon which rested a pot of book-binders’ glue.
The glue tipped over and part of it went down Lenning’s leg, causing him to yell like a wild Indian.
“I’ll hammer you for that!”
“What did he do, Dick?”
“Knocked the glue over me. You country jay, you!” howled Dick Lenning, and, leaping up, he bore down on Jerry.
Lenning was a good deal of a bully. He was tall and strong, and evidently he thought he could make our hero submit to his will easily.
“Take that!” he fairly hissed, and aimed a blow at Jerry’s ear. The youth dodged it and caught his arm.
“Hold on!” Jerry ejaculated. “I don’t want to fight. You will only make trouble.”
“Let go!”
“Not until you promise to keep quiet.”
“I’ll promise nothing,” stormed Lenning, and began to struggle more excitedly than ever.
But he soon wore himself out, when Jerry got behind him and clasped hands over his breast. The bully was about to call on his friends to assist him, when a cry went up.
“Cheese it! Grice is coming this way.”
As if by magic the boys who had gathered around ran off to their work, leaving the bully and Jerry alone. Our hero released his opponent, and, turning around, Lenning glared at him vindictively.
“I’ll get even with you for this, see if I don’t,” he muttered in a hoarse whisper.
Then he followed his friends; and Mr. Grice came up and took Jerry to another part of the shop.
“I have changed my mind about letting you work here,” he said. “I want you to get used to the place before I put you among those other boys.”
Evening found our hero a good deal worn out, not so much by the work as by the close confinement of the bindery. How different life in the great metropolis was to life in the green fields of the country!
After supper Jerry determined to take a walk uptown, to get the outdoor exercise and also in hope of seeing something of the tramp who had taken the packet. He knew that looking for the tramp in the metropolis was a good deal like looking for a pin in a haystack, but imagined that even that pin could be found if one looked long and sharp enough for it.
The young oarsman sauntered forth toward Broadway, and thence past the Forty-second Street depot and up to Central Park. It was a long walk, but he did not mind it; in fact, it seemed to do him good, for it rested his mind.
The window displays interested Jerry not a little, and he took in everything that came along. So the time flew quickly, until, coming to a jeweler’s window, he saw it was after ten o’clock.
“I’ll have to be getting back,” he said to himself, and was on the point of returning when he saw that which surprised him greatly. A cab whirled past the corner upon which he was standing, and on the back seat he recognized Mr. Wakefield Smith.
The pickpocket was alone, and ere Jerry could stop him the cab rolled down the side street out of hearing.
Our hero did not stop long to consider what was best to do, but took to his heels and followed the cab as best he could.
The cab gained a distance of nearly two blocks, and Jerry was almost on the point of giving up, when it came to a halt in front of what looked like a private club-house. Wakefield Smith alighted and paid the cabman, who went about his business without delay.
“Stop there!” cried Jerry to the pickpocket, as the man mounted the steps of the house. But whether the man heard our hero or not, he paid no attention. When Jerry reached the spot he was standing on a low porch.
“Did you hear me?” went on Jerry, and, to prevent Smith from entering the place, our hero caught him by the button of his coat.
To Jerry surprise, the rascal offered no resistance. Instead, he came down the steps backward, and fell on his back on the sidewalk, his hat rolling toward the gutter.
“Shay, waz you do that fer?” he hiccoughed.
Jerry gazed at the pickpocket in wonder. Then the truth flashed over our hero. The man who had robbed him was beastly intoxicated.
It would be hard to express Jerry’s feelings when he found Mr. Wakefield Smith was suffering heavily from intoxication. For the moment he could do nothing but stare at the man as he lay helpless on the pavement.
“Waz you mean, boy?” went on Smith, and he tried in vain to get up. “Waz you knock me down for, I demand to know?”
“Do you recognize me?” said our hero sharply, as he looked the pickpocket squarely in the face.
“No—don’t know you from Adam, ’pon my word.”
“I am Jerry Upton, the boy you robbed the other night.”
At the words Smith straightened up for a moment and a look of alarm crossed his face.
“Jerry Upton,” he repeated, slowly.
“Yes. What have you done with my money?”
“Ain’t got a dollar of your money.”
“If you haven’t, you’ve drank it up,” Jerry ejaculated. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Zat’s all right, m’boy, all right, I assure you. Come on and have a good time with me.”
With great difficulty Wakefield Smith arose to his feet and staggered towards the house he had been on the point of entering. Jerry pulled him back and held him. As our hero did this he saw Smith drop a ten-dollar bill. Jerry picked it up.
“You are not going in there—you are going with me.”
“Where to?”
“To the nearest station house.”
The pickpocket gave a hiccough and a cry of alarm that was very much like a whine.
“To the station house?”
“Yes; come on.”
“Never.”
Smith struggled feebly to get away, but the boy held him with ease. Overcome, the man finally sat down on the curbstone and refused to budge.
“Shay, let us compromise,” he mumbled. “It was all a mistake.”
“It was no mistake.”
“If I give you ten dollars, will you call it off?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t git a cent, see?”
And with great deliberation the pickpocket closed one bleared eye and glared at Jerry.
“We’ll see about that later,” cried our hero, hotly, and catching the rascal by the collar the youth yanked him to a standing position. “Now come on, and no nonsense.”
Seeing that the youth was not to be fooled with, Wakefield Smith tried to dicker again, getting himself badly twisted in his plea that he would make everything all right. Jerry would not trust him and forced him to walk along until the nearest corner was reached. Here he suddenly made a clutch at an electric-light pole and held fast.
“Help! help! help!” he cried out at the top of his lungs. “Police!”
The young oarsman did not know what to make of this appeal for assistance, for it seemed to him that the authorities were the very people Mr. Wakefield Smith wished to avoid. He was destined, however to soon learn a trick that was brand new to him.
The pickpocket had hardly uttered his cry when a bluecoat put into appearance and came running to the spot.
“What’s the trouble here?” he demanded.
“Shay, officer, make that young fellow go away,” hiccoughed Mr. Wakefield Smith.
“What is he up to?”
“Trying to rob me, officer; reg’lar slick Aleck.”
At this cool assertion Jerry was dumbfounded.
“So you’re trying to rob this gent, eh?” said the bluecoat, turning to our hero and catching his arm. “I reckon I came just in time.”
“It’s a falsehood; he is the pickpocket,” rejoined Jerry as soon as he could speak.
“He looks like it,” said the officer, sarcastically.
“He didn’t rob me now, he robbed several nights ago. I just ran across him.”
“He’s a slick Aleck,” went on Mr. Wakefield Smith. “Don’t let him take my watch, officer!”
“No fear of that. Come along with me, young man.”
“If I have to go I want him to go, too.”
At these words Mr. Wakefield Smith’s face changed color.
“I can’t go, officer; have an important engagement at the—er—club.”
“He is a pickpocket and I’ll prove it at the station house,” said Jerry, warningly. “It is your duty to make him go along. I’ll help you carry him if it’s necessary.”
“And you’ll skip out, too, if you get the chance,” remarked the policeman, grimly.
“If you think that, handcuff me to this fellow.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do, sir.”
“Hang me if I don’t think you are honest, after all.”
“He’s a big thief!” bawled Mr. Wakefield Smith.
“Keep quiet and come along. They can straighten matters out at the precinct.”
The officer took Mr. Wakefield Smith by the arm and started to walk the prisoner away. With a dexterous twist the intoxicated man cleared himself and plunged down the street.
The bluecoat and Jerry made after him as quickly as they could, but a drawing school in the neighborhood had just let out, and they were detained by the crowd. Mr. Wakefield Smith stumbled across the street and down a side thoroughfare that was very dark. The officer and our hero went after him, but at the end of the second block he was no longer to be seen.
“Now you’ve let him escape,” said Jerry to the policeman. “I have a good mind to report you.”
“Go on with you!” howled the officer in return. “I reckon it was a put up job all around. Clear about your business or I’ll run you in for disorderly conduct!”
And he made such a savage dash at the young oarsman with his long club that our hero was glad to retreat.
He continued the hunt for the pickpocket alone, but without avail, and, much disheartened, finally returned to his boarding-house. He was afraid he had seen the last of Mr. Wakefield Smith, and was glad he had gotten at least ten dollars from the pickpocket.
On the following morning Jerry went to work at the bindery as if nothing had happened. When he went in, Dick Lanning glared at our hero and stopped as if to speak, but changed his mind and walked off without saying a word.
During the day the young oarsman became much better acquainted with his work and began to like it.
That night, on leaving the bindery by the side entrance, which opened on a narrow lane, our hero saw Dick Lanning and several of his friends waiting for him.
He attempted to pass but Lenning put out his foot, and had Jerry not stopped he would have been tripped up.
“Let me pass,” said he, sharply, but instead of complying, Lenning took a stand in front of him and hit the youth on the shoulder.
“I said I’d git square,” he hissed, savagely. “If yer ain’t afraid, stand up and fight.”
“I’m not afraid,” replied Jerry, and pushed him up against the wall.
Without delay a rough-and-tumble fight ensued.
“Give it to him, Dick!”
“Do the hayseed up!”
“Knock him into the middle of next week!”
These and a dozen other cries arose on the air, and the crowd kept increasing until fully a hundred spectators surrounded the pair.
Dick Lanning had caught Jerry unfairly, but the youth soon managed to shake him off, and, hauling back, gave him a clean blow on the end of his unusually long nose, which caused the blood to spurt from that organ in a stream.
“He’s tapped Dick’s nose!”
“My! wasn’t that a blow, though!”
“The country lad is game!”
Wild with rage, Dick Lanning endeavored to close in again. Jerry stopped the movement this time by a blow on the chest which sent him staggering back several feet into the crowd.
“What’s the matter, Dick?”
“Don’t let him use you like that.”
“I’ll fix him!” howled the bully, and rushed at our hero a third time.
Again he hit Jerry, this time in the chin. But our hero’s blood was now up, and, calculating well, he struck a square blow in the left eye that knocked the bully flat.
“Dick is knocked out!”
“That country jay is a corker!”
“Git up, Dick. Yer eye is turnin’ all black!”
“Better let him go, he’s too much for you!”
Dick Lanning was slow in coming to the front. The eye was not only black, but it was closing rapidly.
“He’s got a stone in his fist—he don’t fight fair,” he growled to his friends.
“I have nothing in my fist,” retorted Jerry. “If he wants anymore, I fancy I can accommodate him, although I don’t care to fight.”
Dick Lanning was uneasy. He glanced toward his friends and passed a signal to one of his cronies.
“Police! skip!” cried the crony. “Come on, Dick, you don’t want to git caught!”
And he dragged Dick Lanning away, while the crowd scattered like magic. No policeman was in sight, nor did any appear. It was only a ruse to retire without acknowledging defeat.
But that fight taught Dick Lanning a severe lesson. He still remained down upon the young oarsman, but in the future he fought shy of our hero, knowing that Jerry would not stand his bullying manner.
On Saturday the shop closed down early, and, having nothing else to do, Jerry walked down to the newspaper office in hope of receiving some answer to the advertisement for the missing papers.
But no answer was forthcoming and, disappointed, he retraced his steps and sauntered in the direction in which Nellie Ardell and her little brother Tommy lived.
“I’ll call on them and see how she made out about her rent,” he said to himself, and mounted the stairs to her apartment.
There was a murmur of voices in the kitchen. The door was partly open and Jerry saw the girl and her little brother standing there, confronted by a burly man.
“That rent has got to be paid, that’s all there is to it,” the man was saying.
“I cannot pay to-day,” replied Nellie Ardell. “I will try to pay Monday.”
“It won’t do. I’ve given you notice, and if you can’t pay, you have got to leave.”
At this the girl burst into tears.
“Would you put me on the street?” she wailed.
“I’ll have to—it’s orders,” replied the burly man doggedly.
“Whose order?”
“Mr. Slocum.”
“Mr. Slocum is a very hard-hearted man,” cried the girl, indignantly.
“That’s so,” Jerry put in as he entered.
“Oh, Jerry Upton!” Nellie Ardell cried, when she saw our hero. “This man wants to put me out of my rooms.”
“It’s a shame.”
“Who are you?” demanded the burly man. “Do you live here?”
“No. I am this young lady’s friend, however. Did Mr. Slocum say to put her out?”
“Yes.”
“What shall I do if they put me on the street?” wailed Nellie Ardell.
“I’m sure I don’t know. But Slocum sha‘n’t put you on the street if I can help it,” went on Jerry, suddenly.
“What will you do?”
“How much do you owe him?”
“Twelve dollars. I have four, but he won’t take it. He wants the entire amount.”
“I will let you have ten dollars,” said our hero, and brought out the bill Wakefield Smith had dropped.
“Oh, won’t that be robbing you?” cried Nellie Ardell, but her eyes glistened with pleasure.
“Never mind; take it and pay this man off.”
Nellie Ardell accepted the amount without further words.
“Now,” she said, as she paid the man, “I am going to move.”
“Move! What for?”
“I can get better rooms for less money just across the way.”
The burly man’s face fell. He was Alexander Slocum’s agent, and he knew that to get tenants for the rooms Nellie Ardell occupied would be difficult.
“It ain’t right to move now—in the middle of the summer.”
“You intended to put me out—if I couldn’t pay the rent.”
“That is different.”
“I have paid up promptly for many months. Mr. Slocum could have been a bit easier for once.”
“He is more than mean,” put in Jerry. “I would advise you to move by all means.”
“You seem to know a great deal about him,” sneered the agent.
“I do—and I’ll know more some day.”
The agent began to growl, but, seeing he could do nothing, he went off to inform Alexander Slocum that Nellie Ardell intended to move.
“You are more than kind to me, Jerry Upton,” exclaimed Nellie Ardell, when they and her little brother were left alone.
“I didn’t want to see you thrown out of your home,” said Jerry, soberly.
“I shall pay you back that money as soon as I possibly can,” she went on. “I expect to get about twenty dollars for sewing next week. One of the ladies I work for is out of town, but is coming back on Wednesday.”
“All right—take your time. When will you move? Maybe I can help carry some things for you.”
“I’ve a good mind to move this afternoon. Those other rooms are all ready.”
“Then do it, and I’ll pitch right in,” and in fun the young oarsman picked up several chairs.
“I will. Will you be kind enough to stay with Tommy a few minutes?”
“Certainly.”
Nellie Ardell went off at once, and was back in ten minutes. When she returned she had rented three small rooms for less money than she now paid.
She had not many articles of furniture and it did not seem the least bit like working to our hero to assist her in transferring them across the way. The two worked together, and as they labored they talked, Jerry telling her a good deal about his mission to New York and the girl relating her own experiences in keeping the wolf from the door.
“We were not always poor,” said Nellie Ardell. “When father was alive we lived in our own home in Brooklyn. But he grew interested in a Western land scheme and it took all of his money.”
“That was our trouble. I came to New York to see what I could do toward making Alexander Slocum give an accounting of the money he put in a California land scheme for my uncle.”
“Why, my father was in Slocum’s land scheme!” she ejaculated.
“Perhaps it was the same. This land scheme I speak of was called the Judge Martin—why, I don’t know.”
“It is the same. It was so called because the land once belonged to a Judge Martin of Colorado.”
Of course, Jerry was deeply interested, and, the moving finished, he and she sat down to talk the matter over.
From what our hero learned of Nellie Ardell he came to the conclusion that Alexander Slocum was every inch the villain he had taken him to be.
The real estate dealer had hoodwinked the girl completely, and she had surrendered to him all the documents her parent had left behind at the time of his death.
“It’s too bad,” said Jerry. “We must work together against him. But nothing can be done until my missing papers are recovered.”
Before he left, another matter was discussed and settled. In her new quarters Nellie Ardell had a small room she did not really need, and she offered to board Jerry at three dollars and a half a week. As this would be an acceptable saving just at present, our hero accepted the offer and agreed to make the change on the following Monday.
Sunday passed quietly. Jerry spent part of the day in writing a long letter home, telling the folks just how matters stood and urging them not to worry, as he felt certain all would come out right in the end, and that he was quite content to remain in New York and support himself until he had settled matters with Alexander Slocum. The letter was finished late in the afternoon, and after taking supper he went out to post it.
The novelty of life in the city had not yet passed, and, the letter put into a corner box, the young oarsman sauntered on and on, taking in the many strange sights.
He had gone a distance of half a dozen blocks when he came to a church. The doors were wide open, and as the congregation were singing, he stopped to listen to the music.
When the music stopped, our hero passed on down the street, which seemed to grow poorer as he advanced. The new houses gave place to those that were very old, and on all sides Jerry could see the effects of grinding poverty.
“It’s a great city,” he thought. “And it is true that one half doesn’t know how the other half lives.”
“Please, mister, will you give me five cents?”
Jerry stopped in his walk and looked down to see who had addressed him. It was a little girl, and she was crying bitterly.
“Five cents?” he repeated.
“Yes, mister; please don’t say no. I’ve asked so many for the money already and they won’t give me a cent.”
“What are you going to do with five cents?”
“I’ve got to bring it home to daddy.”
“To daddy—you mean your father?”
“He’s a sort of a father, but he’s not my real papa,” sobbed the little girl. “He took me when papa died.”
“What does your—your daddy want with the five cents?”
At this question the little girl’s face flushed.
“I—I daren’t tell you—daddy would whip me,” she whimpered.
“Does he drink?”
“I daren’t tell you.”
“Does he send you out very often to beg?”
“He sends me out when he’s—when he’s—but I daren’t tell you. He would whip me most to death.”
“Where do you live?”
“Over there.”
And the little girl pointed to a long row of rear tenements, the very worst-looking in the neighborhood.
“And what is daddy’s name?”
“His real name is James MacHenry, but the folks around here all call him Crazy Jim,” she answered.
Jerry started back in surprise. Crazy Jim was the tramp who had been seen walking off with his packet of documents!
“So you live with Crazy Jim?” said our hero, to the little girl, slowly.
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have you lived with him?”
“Oh, a long while, sir.”
“Take me to him.”
At this request she drew back in horror.
“Oh, I can’t do that, indeed I can’t,” she faltered.
“Why not?”
“I took a man to him once—a charity officer—and daddy—whip—whipped me for it.”
“Then show me where he lives,” went on Jerry after a pause. “You needn’t let him see you. I must have a talk with him. Perhaps I’ll give him some money.”
The little girl still hesitated, but finally led the way up the street into a horrible-looking alley and pointed to a dingy tenement-house.
“Daddy is up there on the top floor in the back.”
“And is that where you live?” asked Jerry, with a shudder he could not repress.
“Yes, of course.”
“It’s not a nice place.”
“Oh, no,” and something like a tear glistened in the girl’s eye.
“Here is ten cents for you,” added Jerry. “You had better keep it for yourself. Are you hungry?”
“A little. I only had some bread to-day for dinner and supper.”
“Then go down to the restaurant on the corner and get something to eat for the money. You need it.”
The little girl ran off to do as bidden, and our hero entered the dilapidated tenement. Four dirty men and women sat on the stoop smoking and drinking from a tin pail.
“Who are ye lookin’ fer?” asked one of the men, roughly.
“Crazy Jim,” answered Jerry, briefly, and brushed past him.
The hallway was dark, and it was with difficulty that the young oarsman found the rickety stairs, every step of which creaked as he trod upon it.
Arriving at the top floor, the youth noticed a shaft of light streaming from beneath a door in the rear. He knocked loudly.
There was a movement within, the door was flung back, and Jerry found himself confronted by a tall, round-shouldered individual, with long, unkempt hair and a wild look in his small black eyes.