"It does seem to be a good offer," said Jesse thoughtfully.
"I should think it was—twelve dollars a week and traveling expenses," said Grit enthusiastically.
"I wonder how this Mr. Weaver came to hear of you?"
"I can't think. That's what puzzles me," said Grit.
"He says that you have been recommended to him, I see."
"Yes. At any rate, I am very much obliged to the one who recommended me."
"What will your mother say?"
"She won't want to part with me; but when I tell her how good the offer is, she will get reconciled to it."
When Grit went home and read the letter to his mother, it was a shock to the good woman.
"How can I part from you, Grit?" she said, with a troubled look.
"It won't be for long, mother," said Grit hopefully. "I shall soon be able to send for you, and we can settle down somewhere near Boston. I've got tired of this place, haven't you?"
"No, Grit. I think Pine Point is very pleasant, as long as I can keep you with me. When you are gone, of course, it will seem very different. I don't see how I am going to stand it."
"It won't be for long, mother; and you'll know I am doing well."
"You can make a living with your boat, Grit."
"Yes, mother; but it isn't going to lead to anything. It's all very well now, but half a dozen years from now I ought to be established in some good business."
"Can't you put off going for a year, Grit?"
"A year hence there may be no such chance as this, mother."
"That is true."
"You'll give your consent, then, mother?"
"If you really think it is best, Grit—that is, if you've set your heart on it."
"I have, mother," said Grit earnestly. "I was getting tired of boating before this letter came, but I kept at it because there didn't seem to be anything else. Now it would seem worse than ever, and I'm afraid I should be very discontented."
"I wish you would call on your friend Mr. Jackson, at the hotel, and see what he thinks of it," said Mrs. Brandon. "He is an experienced man of business, and his judgment will be better than ours."
"I will do as you say, mother. I am sure he will recommend me to go."
Grit went to the hotel, arriving there about eight o'clock, and inquired for Mr. Jackson. He was told that that gentleman had started in the morning for Augusta, and would not return for a day or two. The young boatman was not, on the whole, sorry to hear this, for it was possible that the broker might not think favorably of the plan proposed, and he felt unwilling, even in that case, to give it up. He returned, and acquainted his mother with the result of his visit.
"Can't you wait till Mr. Jackson returns?" asked his mother.
"No, mother; I should run the risk of losing the chance."
The evening was spent in getting ready to go. Grit left in his mother's hands all the money he had, except the ten dollars he had last received, and gave an order for the sixty dollars in the hands of Mr. Lawrence, the lawyer, so that even if this Western journey were prolonged for three months, his mother would have enough to provide for her wants.
"Now, mother, I can leave home without any anxiety," he said.
"You will write me often, Grit?" said Mrs. Brandon anxiously.
"Oh, yes, mother; there is no danger I shall forget that."
"Your letters will be all I shall have to think of, you know, Grit."
"I won't forget it, mother."
Grit kissed his mother good-by, and bent his steps toward the railway station.
On the way he met Ephraim Carver.
"Where are you going, Grit?" asked the bank messenger.
"I am going to Boston."
"It seems to me you have a good deal of business in Boston."
"I hope to have."
"You ain't going to stay, are you?"
"I expect to stay. I've got an offer from a party there."
"Of what sort?"
"That letter will tell you."
Ephraim Carver looked over the letter, and he smiled to himself, for he recognized the handwriting of Colonel Johnson, though the letter was signed by another name.
"You're walking into the lion's den, young man," he thought; but he only said: "It seems to be a good offer. Why, you will be paid as much as I get. How old are you?"
"Almost sixteen."
"Boys get on more rapidly now than they did when I was of your age. Why, I'm more'n twenty years older than you are, and I haven't got any higher than twelve dollars a week yet."
Mr. Carver laughed in what seemed to be an entirely uncalled-for manner.
"I don't believe you'll keep your place long," thought the young boatman; but he, too, was not disposed to tell all he knew. So the two parted, each possessed of a secret in regard to the other.
Mr. Carver, however, was destined to receive the first disagreeable surprise. After parting from Grit he met Mr. Graves in the street.
"Good morning, Mr. Graves," he said, in his usual deferential manner, for he was a worldly-wise man, though he had committed one fatal mistake.
"Good morning, Mr. Carver," said the president of the bank gravely.
"Shall you have any errand for me this week?"
"I have something to say to you, Mr. Carver," said Mr. Graves, "and I may as well take the present opportunity to do so. We have concluded to dispense with your services, and you are at liberty to look elsewhere for employment."
"You are going to dispense with my services!" repeated Carver, in dismay.
"Such is the determination of the directors, Mr. Carver."
"But, sir, that is very hard on me. How am I to get along?"
"I hope you may find something else to do. We shall pay you a month's salary in advance, to give you an opportunity of looking about."
"But, Mr. Graves, why am I treated so harshly? Can't you intercede for me? I am a poor man."
"I feel for your situation, Mr. Carver, but I am compelled to say that I do not feel disposed to intercede for you."
"Haven't I always served the bank faithfully?"
"I advise you to ask yourself that question, Mr. Carver," said the president significantly. "You can answer it to your own conscience better than I or any one else can do for you."
"What does he mean?" thought Carver, startled.
Then it occurred to the messenger that nothing had been discovered, but that Mr. Graves, who had recently shown such partiality to Grit, wished to create a vacancy for him.
"Are you going to put Grit Morris in my place?" he asked angrily.
"What makes you think so?" asked Mr. Graves keenly.
"I knew you were partial to him," answered Carver, who reflected that it would not do to give the source of his information.
"I will at any rate answer your question, Mr. Carver. There is no intention of putting Grit in your place. We have every confidence in his fidelity and capacity, but consider him too young for the position."
"I was only going to say that Grit has another chance in Boston, so that there will be no need to provide for him."
"Grit has a chance in Boston!" said Mr. Graves, in surprise.
"Yes; he has just started for the city."
"What sort of a chance is it?"
"He has received an offer to travel at the West, with a salary of twelve dollars a week and expenses."
"That is strange."
"It is true. He showed me the letter."
"From whom did it come?"
"I don't remember."
Carver did remember, but for obvious reasons did not think it best to acquaint Mr. Graves.
"That is remarkable," thought Mr. Graves, as he walked home. "Grit is a smart boy, but such offers are not often made by strangers to a boy of fifteen. I must speak to Clark about it."
He found Mr. Clark at his house. He was the quiet man who had been employed by the bank as a detective, and who had come to report to the president.
There was a look of intelligence as he listened to the news about Grit.
"I tell you what I think of it," he said. "The rascals have found out the part which Grit took in circumventing them, and this letter is part of a plot. They mean the boy mischief."
"I hope not," said Mr. Graves anxiously. "I am attached to Grit, and I wouldn't have harm come to him for a good deal."
"Leave the matter in my hands. I will take the next train for Boston, and follow this clue. It may enable me to get hold of this Johnson, who is a dangerous rascal, because he has brains."
"Do so, and I will see you paid, if necessary, out of my own pocket."
Full of hope and joyful anticipation, Grit left home and pursued his journey to Boston. He had occasion to stop a couple of hours at Portland, and improved it by strolling down to the pier of the little steamers that make periodical trips to the islands in the harbor. Just outside a low saloon he unexpectedly ran across his stepfather.
"How are you, Grit?" said Brandon affably.
There was a flush on Brandon's face, and an unsteadiness of gait which indicated that he had succeeded in evading what is known as the Maine law. To Grit it was not a welcome apparition. Still, he felt it due to himself to be ordinarily polite.
"I am well," he answered briefly.
"And how's your mother?" asked Brandon.
"Quite well, thank you," Grit answered, as formally as if the question had been asked by a stranger.
"Does she miss me much?" asked his stepfather, with a smile.
"She has not mentioned it," responded our hero coldly.
"I am sorry that circumstances compel me to be absent from her for a time," continued Brandon.
"Oh, don't disturb yourself," said Grit. "She is quite used to being alone. I think she mentioned that you talked of going to Europe."
Brandon frowned, and his bitter disappointment was thus recalled to his mind.
"I don't know whether I shall or not," he answered. "It depends upon whether my—speculation turns out well. Where are you going?"
Grit hesitated as to whether he should answer correctly. He was not anxious to have Brandon looking him up in Boston, but it occurred to him that he should be traveling at the West, and, therefore, he answered:
"I have heard of a chance in Boston, and am going to see about it."
"All right, Grit!" said Brandon. "You have my consent."
It occurred to Grit that he did not stand in need of his stepfather's approval, but he did not say so.
"Yes, Grit, I send you forth with a father's blessing," said Brandon paternally. "By the way, have you a quarter about you?"
Grit thought that a quarter was rather a high price to pay for Brandon's blessing, but he was in good spirits, and this made him good-natured. Accordingly, he drew a quarter from his pocket and handed it to his stepfather.
"Thank you, Grit," said Brandon briskly, for he had felt uncertain as to the success of his application. "I like to see you respectful and dutiful. I will drink your good health, and success to your plans."
"You had better drink it in cold water, Mr. Brandon."
"That's all right," said Brandon. "Good-by!"
He disappeared in the direction of the nearest saloon, and Grit returned to the depot to take the train for Boston.
"I don't know that I ought to have given him any money," thought Grit, "but I was so glad to get rid of him that I couldn't refuse."
He reached Boston without further adventure, arriving at the Boston and Maine depot in Haymarket Square about four o'clock.
"I wonder whether it is too late to call on Mr. Weaver to-night," thought Grit.
He decided that it was not. Even if it were too late for an interview, he thought it would be wise to let his prospective employer understand that he had met his appointment punctually.
"Carriage, sir?" asked a hackman.
Grit answered in the negative, feeling that to one in his circumstances it would be foolish extravagance to spend money for a carriage. But this was succeeded by the thought that time was valuable, and as he did not know where Essex Street was, it might consume so much to find out the place indicated in the letter that he might miss the opportunity of seeing Mr. Weaver.
"How far is Essex Street from here?" he asked.
"Three or four miles," promptly answered the hackman.
"Is there any street-car line that goes there?"
"Oh, bless you, no."
Neither of these answers was correct, but Grit did not know this.
"How much will you charge to take me to No. —— Essex Street?"
"Seein' it's you, I'll take you for a dollar and a quarter."
Grit was about to accept this offer, when a quiet-looking man beside him said:
"The regular fare is fifty cents."
"Is it any of your business?" demanded the hackman angrily. "Do you want to take the bread out of a poor man's mouth?"
"Yes, if the poor man undertakes to cheat a boy!" answered the quiet man keenly.
"It's ridiculous expectin' to pay fifty cents for a ride of three or four miles," grumbled the hackman.
"The distance isn't over a mile and a quarter, and you are not allowed to ask over fifty cents. My boy, I advise you to call another hack."
"Jump in," said the hackman, fearful of losing his fare.
"I think I will get in, too, as I am going to that part of the city," said the small man, in whom my readers will probably recognize the detective already referred to.
"That'll be extra."
"Of course," said the detective. "I understand that, and I understand how much extra," said the stranger significantly.
As the man and boy rattled through the streets, they fell into a conversation, and Grit, feeling that he was with a friend, told his plan.
"Humph!" said the detective. "May I see this letter?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Do you know who recommended you to Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit's new friend.
"No, sir."
"And can't guess?"
"No, sir."
"Doesn't it strike you as a little singular that such an offer should come from a stranger?"
"Yes, sir; that did occur to me. Don't you think it genuine?" asked Grit anxiously.
"I don't know. I could tell better if I should see this Mr. Weaver."
"Won't you go in with me?"
"No; it might seem odd, and the proposal may be genuine. I'll tell you what to do, my boy. That is, if you feel confidence in me."
"I do, and shall be glad of your advice."
"Come to the Parker House after your interview, and inquire for Benjamin Baker."
"I will, sir, and thank you."
When the hack drew up in front of No. —— Essex Street, the stranger got out with Grit.
"I am calling close by," he said, "and won't ride any farther. Here is the fare for both."
"But, sir," said Grit, "it is not right that you should pay my fare for me."
"It is all right," said Mr. Baker. "I have more money than you, probably, my young friend. Besides, meeting with you has saved me some trouble."
This speech puzzled Grit, but he did not feel like asking any explanation.
He glanced with some interest at the house where he was to meet Mr. Weaver. It was a three-story brick house, with a swell front, such as used to be very popular in Boston thirty or forty years since. It was very quiet in appearance, and there was nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors on either side.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Baker," said Grit, as he ascended the steps to ring the bell.
"Good afternoon. Remember to call upon me at the Parker House."
"Thank you, sir."
Benjamin Baker turned down a side street, and Grit rang the bell.
It was opened by a tall, gaunt woman, with a cast in her eye.
"What's wanted?" she asked abruptly.
"I called to see Mr. Weaver—Mr. Solomon Weaver," said Grit.
"Oh, yes," said the woman, with a curious smile. "Come in."
The hall which Grit entered was dark and shabby in its general appearance. Our hero followed his guide to a rear room, the door of which was thrown open, revealing a small apartment, with a shabby collection of furniture. There was no carpet on the floor, but one or two rugs relieved the large expanse of floor.
"Take a seat, and I'll call Mr. Weaver," said the woman.
Somehow Grit's courage was dampened by the unpromising look of the house and its interior.
He had pictured to himself Mr. Weaver as a pleasant, prosperous-looking man, who lived in good style, and was liberally disposed.
He sat down in an armchair in the center of the room.
He had but five minutes to wait.
Then the door opened, and to Grit's amazement the man whom he had known as Colonel Johnson entered the room, and coolly locked the door after him.
Grit's face showed the astonishment he felt at the unexpected appearance of a man whom he knew to be the prime instigator of the attempt to rob the bank at Chester.
Colonel Johnson smiled grimly as he saw the effect produced by his presence.
"You didn't expect to see me?" he said.
"No, sir," answered Grit.
"I flatter myself you had done me the honor to call upon me," said Johnson, seating himself at a little distance from our hero.
"I came to see Mr. Solomon Weaver, from whom I received a letter," explained Grit. "If this is your house I may have made a mistake in the number."
"Not at all," answered Johnson. "Mr. Weaver is a friend of mine."
"Does he live here?"
"Oh, yes," said Johnson, smiling.
"He wrote me that he wished to send me on a Western trip."
"That's all right."
"Then the letter was genuine," said Grit, hoping that things might turn out right after all.
Could it be possible, he thought, that Colonel Johnson was the friend who had recommended him? It did not seem at all probable, but in his bewilderment he did not know what to think.
"Can I see Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit, desirous of putting an end to his uncertainty.
"Presently," answered Colonel Johnson. "He is busy just at present, but he deputed me to speak with you."
This was all very surprising, but would probably soon be explained.
"I shall be glad to answer any questions," said Grit.
"I suppose you can present good recommendations, as the position is a responsible one," said Johnson, with a half smile.
"Yes, sir."
"Whom, for instance?"
"Mr. Graves, president of the Chester Bank," said Grit.
Knowing what he did of Colonel Johnson's attempt upon the bank, it was perhaps a rather odd choice to make, but the young boatman thought it might help him to discover whether Johnson knew anything of his recent employment by the bank.
"I have heard of Mr. Graves," said Johnson. "Has he ever employed you?"
"Yes, sir."
"In what capacity?" demanded Johnson searchingly.
"He sent me to this city with a package."
"What did the package contain?"
"I think it contained bonds."
"Haven't they a regular bank messenger?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's his name?"
"Ephraim Carver."
"Why was he not employed? Why should you be sent in his place?"
"I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit independently.
"Why? Don't you know?"
"Even if I did I should consider that I had no right to tell."
"You are a very conscientious and honorable young man," said Johnson sneeringly.
"Thank you, sir," returned Grit, choosing not to show that he understood the sneer.
"Where is your stepfather?" inquired Johnson, changing the subject abruptly.
"In Portland."
"How do you know?"
"I met him in the street while on my way through the city."
"Did you speak with him?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did he say?" asked Johnson suspiciously.
"He wished to borrow twenty-five cents," answered Grit, with a smile.
"Did you lend it to him?"
"Yes."
"Very dutiful, on my word!"
"I have no feeling of that sort for Mr. Brandon," said Grit frankly. "I thought it the easiest way to get rid of him."
Johnson changed the subject again.
"Is Ephraim Carver likely to lose his situation as bank messenger?" he asked.
"I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit, on his guard.
Johnson frowned, for he did not like Grit's independence.
"It is reported that you are intriguing for his position," he continued.
"That is not true."
"Do you think there is any likelihood of your being appointed in his place?"
"No, sir; I never dreamed of it."
"Yet there is a possibility of it. Don't suppose that I am particularly interested in this Carver. So far as I am concerned, I should not object to your succeeding him."
"What does all this mean?" thought Grit.
"If you should do so, I might have a proposal to make to you that would be to your advantage."
Knowing what he did, Grit very well understood what was meant. Johnson, no doubt, wished to hire him to betray the confidence reposed in him by the bank, and deliver up any valuable package entrusted to him for a money consideration. Like any right-minded and honorable boy, Grit felt that the very hint of such a thing was an insult to him, and his face flushed with indignation. For the moment he forgot his prudence.
"I don't think there is the least chance of my getting such a position," he said; "but even if I did, it would not do you any good to make me a proposal."
"How do you know what sort of a proposal I should make?" demanded Johnson keenly.
"I don't know," answered Grit, emphasizing the last word.
"It appears to me, young man, that you are a little ahead of time," said Johnson. "You shouldn't crow too soon."
"I think I will bid you good evening," said Grit, rising.
"Why so soon? You haven't seen Mr. Weaver."
"On the whole, I don't think I should wish to engage with him."
Our hero felt that if Mr. Weaver were a friend of the man before him, it would be safest to have nothing to do with him. On the principle that a man is known by the company he keeps, the friend of Colonel Johnson could hardly be a desirable person to serve.
"You seem to be in a hurry, especially as you have not seen my friend Weaver."
"You will be kind enough to explain to him that I have changed my plans," said Grit.
"Resume your seat for five minutes," said Johnson, "and I will call Weaver. You had better see him for yourself."
"Very well, sir."
He reflected that merely seeing Mr. Weaver would not commit him to anything.
Colonel Johnson rose to his feet, and placed his foot firmly on a particular spot in the floor.
To Grit's dismay, the floor seemed to sink beneath him, and chair and all were lowered a dozen feet into a subterranean cavity, too quickly for him to help himself.
He realized that the chair so conveniently placed in the center of the apartment rested on a trap-door.
Though Grit was not hurt by his sudden descent into the dark cavity under the room in which he had been seated, he was, nevertheless, somewhat startled. Indeed, it was enough to startle a person much older. For the first time it dawned upon him that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and Mr. Weaver was either an imaginary person, or his offer was not genuine. It was clear, also, from the tenor of Johnson's questions that he fully understood, or at least suspected, that his plan had been known in advance to the bank officials.
The young boatman understood how to manage a boat, but in the present case he found that he was out of his element. The tricks, traps, and devices of a great city he knew very little about. He had, indeed, read about trap-doors and subterranean chambers in certain sensational stories which had come into his possession, but he looked upon them as mere figments of the imagination, and did not believe they really existed. Now, here was he himself made an unexpected victim by a conspiracy of the same class familiar to him in novels.
Naturally, the first thing to do was to take a survey of his new quarters, and obtain some idea of his position. At first everything seemed involved in thick darkness, but as his eye became accustomed to it, he could see that he was in a cellar of about the same size as the room above, though there was a door leading into another. He felt his way to it, and tried to open it, but found that it was fastened, probably by a bolt on the other side. There was no other door.
"I am like a rat in a trap," thought Grit. "What are they going to do with me, I wonder?"
While it was unpleasant enough to be where he was, he did not allow himself to despond or give way to unmanly fears. There was no reason, he thought, to apprehend serious peril or physical violence. Colonel Johnson probably intended to frighten him, with a view of securing his compliance with the demands of the conspirators.
"He will find he has made a mistake," thought Grit. "I am not a baby, and don't mean to act like one."
He heard a noise, and, looking round, discovered the armchair in which he had descended being drawn up toward the trap-door. The door was opened by some agency, the chair disappeared, and again he was in darkness.
"They don't mean to keep me here in luxury," thought Grit. "If I sit down anywhere, it will have to be on the floor."
It was late in the afternoon, as we know, and it seemed likely that our hero would have to remain in the subterranean chamber all night. As there was no bed, he would have to lie down on the ground. Grit kneeled down, and ascertained that the floor was cemented, and not a damp earthen flooring as he had feared. He congratulated himself, for he was bound to make the best of the situation.
There was another source of discomfort, however. It was already past Grit's ordinary supper hour, and, except a very slight lunch, consisting of a sandwich bought in the cars, our hero had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and an early breakfast at that. Now, Grit was not one of those delicate boys who are satisfied with a few mouthfuls, but he had what is called a "healthy appetite," such as belongs to most boys who have good stomachs and spend considerable time in the open air. He began to feel an aching void in the region of his stomach, and thought, with a sigh, of the plain but hearty supper he should have had at home.
"I hope Colonel Johnson isn't going to starve me," he thought. "That is carrying the joke too far. It seems to me I never felt so hungry in all my life before."
Half an hour passed, and poor Grit's reflections became decidedly gloomy as his stomach became more and more troublesome. However, he was perfectly helpless, and must wait till the man, or men, who had him in their clutches, saw fit to provide for him.
Under these circumstances it may well be imagined that his heart leaped for joy when he heard the bolt of the only door, already referred to, slowly withdrawn with a rasping sound, as if it did not slide easily in its socket.
He turned his eyes eagerly toward the door.
It was opened, and a tall, overgrown youth entered with a small basket in his hand, which he set down on the floor while he carefully closed the door.
"Hello, there! Where are you?" he asked, for his eyes were not used to the darkness.
"Here I am," answered Grit. "I hope you've brought me some supper."
"Right you are!" said the youth. "Oh, now I see you."
The speaker was tall and overgrown, as I have said. He was also painfully thin, and his clothes were two or three sizes too small for him, so that his long, bony arms protruded from his coat-sleeves, and his legs appeared to have outgrown his pants. His face was long, and his cheeky were hollow.
"He reminds me of Smike, in 'Nicholas Nickleby,'" thought Grit.
"Take your supper, young one, and eat it quick," said the youth, for he was not more than eighteen.
Grit needed no second invitation. He quickly explored the contents of the basket. The supper consisted of cold meat and slices of bread and butter, with a mug of tea. To Grit everything tasted delicious, and he did not leave a crumb.
"My! haven't you got an appetite?" said the youth.
"I haven't had anything to eat since morning," said Grit apologetically—"that is, only a sandwich."
"Say, what are you here for?" asked the youth curiously.
"I don't know," answered Grit.
"Honor bright?"
"Yes, honor bright. Do you live here?"
"Yes," answered the youth soberly.
"Is this man—Colonel Johnson—any relation of yours?"
"No."
"Where are your folks?"
"Haven't got any. Never had any as I know of."
"Have you always lived here?"
"Always lived with him," answered the boy, jerking his thumb in an upward direction. "Sometimes here, sometimes in New York."
"Do you like to be with—him?"
"No."
"Why don't you run away?"
"Run away!" repeated the other, looking around him nervously. "He'd get me back, and half kill me."
"There's some mystery about this boy," thought Grit. "Do you think he will keep me here long?" he asked, in some anxiety.
"Can't say—maybe."
"What's your name?"
"Daniel."
"What's your other name?"
"Haven't got any."
"Daniel," said Grit, a thought striking him. "Do you ever go out—about the city, I mean?"
"Oh, yes; I go to the post-office and other places."
"Will you carry a message for me to the Parker House?"
"I darsn't," said Daniel, trembling.
"No one will know it," pleaded Grit. "Besides, I'll give you—five dollars," he added, after a pause.
"Have you got so much?" asked Daniel eagerly.
"Yes."
"Show it to me."
Grit did so.
"Yes, I'll do it," said the youth, after a pause; "but I must be careful so he won't know."
"All right. When can you leave the house?"
"In the morning."
"That will suit me very well. Now, shall I see you again to-morrow morning?"
"Yes, I shall bring you your breakfast."
"Very well; I will write a note, and will describe the gentleman you are to hand it to."
"You'll be sure to give me the money?"
"Yes, I will give it to you before you go, if you will promise to do my errand faithfully."
"I'll promise. I never had five dollars," continued Daniel. "There's many things I can buy for five dollars."
"So you can," answered Grit, who began to perceive that this overgrown youth was rather deficient mentally.
"You mustn't tell anybody that you are going to carry a message for me," said Grit, thinking the caution might be necessary.
"Oh, no, I darsn't," said Daniel quickly, and Grit was satisfied.
Our hero felt much more comfortable after he was left alone, partly in consequence of the plain supper he had eaten, partly because he thought he saw his way out of the trap into which he had been inveigled.
"To-morrow I hope to be free," he said to himself, as he lay down on the floor and sought the refreshment of sleep.
Fortunately for him, he was feeling pretty well fatigued, and though it was but eight o'clock, he soon lost consciousness of all that was disagreeable in his situation under the benignant influence of sleep.
When Grit awoke, he had no idea what time it was, for there was no way for light to enter the dark chamber.
"I hope it is almost breakfast-time," thought our hero, for he already felt the stirrings of appetite, and besides, all his hope centered in Daniel, whom he was then to see.
After awhile he heard the welcome sound of the bolt drawn back. Then a sudden fear assailed him. It might be some one else, not Daniel, who would bring his breakfast. If so, all his hopes would be dashed to the ground, and he could fix no limit to his captivity. But his fears were dissipated when he saw the long, lank youth, with the same basket which he had brought the night before.
"Good morning, Daniel," said Grit joyfully. "I am glad to see you."
"You're hungry, I reckon," said the youth practically.
"Yes; but I wanted to see you, so as to give you my message. Are you going out this morning?"
"Yes; I'm goin' to market."
"Can you go to the Parker House? You know where it is, don't you?"
"Yes; it is on School Street."
Grit was glad that Daniel knew, for he could not have told him.
Grit had written a note in pencil on a sheet of paper which he fortunately had in his pocket. This he handed to Daniel, with full instructions as to the outward appearance of Mr. Benjamin Baker, to whom it was to be handed.
"Now give me the money," said Daniel.
"Here it is. Mind, Daniel, I expect you to serve me faithfully."
"All right!" said, the lank youth, as he disappeared through the door, once more leaving Grit alone.
It was half-past nine o'clock in the forenoon, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, detective, sat smoking a cigar in the famous hotel on School Street, known as "Parker's."
"I hope nothing has happened to the boy," he said to himself, uneasily, as he drew out his watch. "It is time he was here. Have I done rightly in leaving him in the clutches of a company of unprincipled men? Yet I don't know what else I could do. If I had accompanied him to the door, my appearance would have awakened suspicion. If through his means I can get authentic information as to the interior of this house, which I strongly suspect to be the headquarters of the gang, I shall have done a good thing. Yet perhaps I did wrong in not giving the boy a word of warning."
Mr. Baker took the cigar from his mouth and strolled into the opposite room, where several of the hotel guests were either reading the morning papers or writing letters. He glanced quickly about him, but saw no one that resembled Grit.
"Not here yet?" he said to himself, "perhaps he can't find the hotel. But he looks too smart to have any difficulty about that. Ha! whom have we here?"
This question was elicited by a singular figure upon the sidewalk. It was a tall, overgrown boy, whose well-worn suit appeared to have been first put on when he was several years younger, and several inches shorter. The boy was standing still, with mouth and eyes wide open, staring in a bewildered way at the entrance of the hotel, as if he had some business therein, but did not know how to go about it.
"That's an odd-looking boy," he thought. "Looks like one of Dickens' characters."
Finally the boy, in an uncertain, puzzled way, ascended the steps into the main vestibule, and again began to stare helplessly in different directions.
One of the employees of the hotel went up to him.
"What do you want?" he demanded, rather roughly.
"Be you Mr. Baker?" asked the boy.
"No; I am not Mr. Baker."
"Where is Mr. Baker?"
"I don't know anything about Mr. Baker," answered the attendant impatiently.
"The boy told me I would find him here," said Daniel, for of course my reader recognizes him.
"Then the boy was playing a trick on you, most likely."
By this time Mr. Baker thought it advisable to make himself known.
"I am Mr. Benjamin Baker," he said, advancing. "Do you want to see me?"
Daniel looked very much relieved.
"I've got a note for you," he said.
"Give it to me."
Daniel did so, and was about to go out.
"Wait a minute, my young friend, there may be an answer," said the detective.
Mr. Baker read rapidly the following note:
"I am in trouble. I think the letter I received was only meant to entrap me. I have not seen Mr. Weaver, but I have had an interview with Colonel Johnson, who planned the robbery of the bank at Chester. He seems to know that I had something to do with defeating his plans, and has sounded me as to whether I will help him in case I act again as bank messenger. On my refusing, he touched a spring, and let me down through a trap-door in the floor of the rear room to a cellar beneath, where I am kept in darkness. The boy who gives you this brings me my meals. He doesn't seem very bright, but I have agreed to pay him well if he will hand you this, and I hope he will succeed. I don't know what Colonel Johnson proposes to do with me, but I hope you will be able to help me.
Grit."
Benjamin Baker nodded to himself while he was reading this note.
"This confirms my suspicions," he said to himself. "If I am lucky I shall succeed in trapping the trappers. Hark you, my boy, when are you going back?"
"As soon as I have been to the market."
"Very well; what did the boy agree to give you for bringing this note?"
"Five dollars," answered Daniel, his dull face lighting up, for he knew the power of money.
"Would you like five dollars more?"
"Wouldn't I?" was the eager response.
"Then don't say a word to anybody about bringing this note."
"No, I won't. He'd strap me if I did."
"Shall you see the boy?"
"Yes, at twelve o'clock, when I carry his dinner."
"When you see him, tell him you've seen me, and it's all right. Do you understand?"
Daniel nodded.
"I may call up there some time this morning. If I do I want you to open the door and let me in."
Daniel nodded again.
"That will do. You can go."
Mr. Baker left the hotel with a preoccupied air.
Grit, left to himself, was subjected to the hardest trial, that of waiting for deliverance, and not knowing whether the expected help would come.
"At any rate I have done the best I could," he said to himself. "Daniel is the best messenger I could obtain. He doesn't seem to be more than half-witted, but he ought to be intelligent enough to find Mr. Baker and deliver my note."
The subterranean apartment, with its utter destitution of furniture, furnished absolutely no resources against ennui. Grit was fond of reading, and in spite of his anxiety might in an interesting paper or book have forgotten his captivity, but there was nothing to read, and even if there had been, it was too dark to avail himself of it.
"I suppose I sha'n't see Daniel till noon," he reflected. "Till then I am left in suspense."
He sat down in a corner and began to think over his position and future prospects. He was not wholly cast down, for he refused to believe that he was in any real peril. In fact, though a captive, he had never felt more hopeful, or more self-reliant than now. But he was an active boy, and accustomed to exercise, and he grew tired of sitting down.
"I will walk a little," he decided, and proceeded to pace up and down his limited apartment.
Then it occurred to him to ascertain the dimensions of the room, by pacing.
As he did so, he ran his hand along the side wall. A most remarkable thing occurred. A door flew open, which had appeared like the rest of the wall, and a narrow passageway was revealed, leading Grit could not tell where.
"I must have touched some spring," he thought. "This house is a regular trap. I wonder where this passageway leads?"
Grit stooped down, for the passage was but about four feet in height, and tried to peer through the darkness. But he could see nothing.
"Shall I explore it?" he thought.
He hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it would be prudent, but finally curiosity overruled prudence, and he decided to do so.
Stooping over, he felt his way for possibly fifty feet, when he came to a solid wall. Here seemed to be the end of the passage.
He began to feel slowly with his hand, when another small door, only about twelve inches square, flew open, and he looked through it into another subterranean apartment. It did not appear to be occupied, but on a small wooden table was a candle, and by the light of the candle Grit could see a variety of articles, including several trunks, one open, revealing its contents to be plate.
"What does it mean?" thought Grit.
Then the thought came to him, for, though he was a country boy, his wits had been sharpened by his recent experiences. "It must be a storehouse of stolen goods."
This supposition seemed in harmony with the character of the man who had lured him here, and now held him captive.
"If I were only outside," thought Grit, "I would tell Mr. Baker of this. The police ought to know it."
Just then he heard his name called, and, turning suddenly, distinguished by the faint light which the candle threw into the passage the stern and menacing countenance of Colonel Johnson.
"Come out here, boy!" he called, in an angry tone. "I have an account to settle with you."
There was nothing to do but to obey. Judging by his own interpretation of the discovery our hero was not surprised that his captor should be incensed. He retraced his steps, and found himself once more in the subterranean chamber facing an angry man.
"What took you in there?" demanded Colonel Johnson.
"Curiosity, I suppose," answered Grit composedly. He felt that he was in a scrape, but he was not a boy to show fear or confusion.
"How did you happen to discover the entrance?"
"It was quite accidental. I was pacing the floor to see how wide the room was, when my hand touched the spring."
"Why did you want to know the width of the room?" asked Johnson suspiciously.
"I didn't care much to know, but the time hung heavily on my hands, and that was one way of filling it up."
Colonel Johnson eyed the boy attentively. He was at a loss to know whether Grit really suspected the nature and meaning of his discovery, or not. If not, he didn't wish to excite suspicion in the boy's mind. He decided to insinuate an explanation.
"I suppose you were surprised to find the passageway," he remarked.
"Yes, sir."
"As you have always lived in the country, that is natural. Such arrangements are common enough in the city."
"I wonder whether trap doors are common," thought Grit, but he did not give expression to his thought.
"The room into which you looked is under the house of my brother-in-law, and the passage affords an easy mode of entrance."
"I should think it would be easier going into the street," thought Grit.
"Still I am annoyed at your meddlesome curiosity, and shall take measures to prevent your gratifying it again. I had a great mind when I first saw you to shut you up in the passage. I fancy you wouldn't enjoy that."
"I certainly shouldn't," said Grit, smiling.
"I will have some consideration for you, and put a stop to your wanderings in another way."
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a thick, stout cord, and directing Grit to hold his hands together, proceeded to tie his wrists. This our hero naturally regarded as distasteful.
"You need not do this," he said. "I will promise not to go into the passage."
"Humph! Will you promise not to attempt to escape?"
"No, sir, I can't promise that."
"Ha! you mean, then, to attempt to escape?"
"Of course!" answered Grit. "I should be a fool to stay here if any chance offered of getting away."
"You are candid, young man," returned Johnson. "There is no earthly chance of your escaping. Still, I may as well make sure. Put out your feet."
"You are not going to tie my feet, too, are you?" asked Grit, in some dismay.
"To be sure I am. I can't trust you after what you have done this morning."
It was of no use to resist, for Colonel Johnson was a powerful man, and Grit, though strong, only a boy of sixteen.
"This doesn't look much like escaping," thought Grit. "I hope he won't search my pockets and discover my knife. If I can get hold of that, I may be able to release myself."
Colonel Johnson had just completed tying the last knot when the door, which had been left unbolted, was seen to open, and the half-witted boy, Daniel, entered hastily.
"How now, idiot!" said Johnson harshly. "What brings you here?"
"There's a gentleman up-stairs wants to see you, master," said Daniel, with the scared look with which he always regarded his tyrant.
"A gentleman!" repeated Johnson hastily. "Who let him in?"
"I did, sir."
"You did!" thundered Johnson. "How often have I told you to let in nobody? Do you want me to choke you?"
"I—forgot," faltered the boy. "Besides, he said he wanted to see you particular."
"All the more reason why I don't want to see him. What does he look like?"
"He's a small man, sir."
"Humph! Where did you leave him?"
"Room above, sir."
"I'll go up and see him. If it's somebody I don't want to see, I'll choke you."
"Yes, sir," said Daniel humbly.
As Johnson went out, Daniel lingered a moment, and, in a hoarse whisper, said to Grit: "It's him."
"Who is it?" asked Grit puzzled.
"It's the man you sent me to."
"Good! You're a trump, Daniel," said Grit joyfully.
A minute after a confused noise was heard in the room above. Daniel turned pale.
"Tell him where I am, Daniel," said Grit, as the boy timidly left the room.
We must now follow Johnson up-stairs.
In the room above, sitting down tranquilly in an arm-chair, but not in that in the center of the room, was a small, wiry man of unpretending exterior.
"What is your business here, sir?" demanded Johnson rudely.
"Are you the owner of this house?" asked Benjamin Baker coolly.
"Yes. That does not explain your presence here, however."
"I am in search of a quiet home, and it struck me that this was about the sort of a house I would like," answered Baker.
"Then, sir, you have wasted your time in coming here. This house is not for sale."
"Indeed! Perhaps I may offer you enough to make it worth your while to sell it to me."
"Quite impossible, sir. This is my house, and I don't want to sell."
"I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me over the house to let me see its arrangements, as I may wish to copy them if I build."
"It strikes me, sir, you are very curious, whoever you are," said Johnson angrily. "You intrude yourself into the house of a quiet citizen, and wish to pry into his private arrangements."
"I really beg your pardon, Mr. —— I really forget your name."
"Because you never heard it. The name is of no consequence."
"I was about to say, if you have anything to conceal, I won't press my request."
"Who told you I had anything to conceal?" said Johnson suspiciously.
"I inferred it from your evident reluctance to let me go over your house."
"Then, sir, I have only to say that you are mistaken. Because I resent your impertinent intrusion, you jump to the conclusion that I have something to conceal."
"Just so. There might, for example, be a trap-door in this very room——"
Colonel Johnson sprang to his feet and advanced toward his unwelcome guest.
"Tell me what you mean," he said savagely. "I am not the man to be bearded in my own house. You will yet repent your temerity in thrusting yourself here."
Benjamin Baker also rose to his feet, and, putting a whistle to his mouth, whistled shrilly.
Instantly two stalwart policemen sprang into the apartment from the hall outside.
"Seize that man!" said the detective.
"What does this mean?" asked Johnson, struggling, but ineffectually.
"It means, Colonel Johnson, alias Robert Kidd, that you are arrested on a charge of being implicated in the attempt to steal a parcel of bonds belonging to the National Bank of Chester, Maine."
"I don't know anything about it," said Johnson sullenly. "You've got the wrong man."
"Possibly. If so, you'll be released, especially as there are other charges against you. Guard him, men, while I search the house."
"Here, boy, show me where my young friend is concealed," said Baker to Daniel, who was timidly peeping in at the door.
A minute later and Baker cut the cords that confined the hands and feet of Grit.
"Now," said he quickly, "have you discovered anything that will be of service to me?"
Grit opened for him the dark passage. The detective walked to the end, and saw the room into which it opened.
"Do you know, Grit," he said, on his return, "you have done a splendid day's work? With your help I have discovered the headquarters of a bold and desperate gang of thieves, which has long baffled the efforts of the Boston police. There is a standing reward of two thousand dollars for their discovery, to which you will be entitled."
"No, sir; it belongs to you," said Grit modestly. "I could have done nothing without you."
"Nor I without your information. But we can discuss this hereafter."
Johnson ground his teeth when Grit was brought upstairs, free, to see him handcuffed and helpless.
"I believe you are at the bottom of this, you young rascal!" he said.
"You are right," said the detective. "We have received very valuable information from this boy, whom you supposed to be in your power."
"I wish I had killed him!" said Johnson furiously.
"Fortunately, you were saved that crime, and need expect nothing worse than a long term of imprisonment. Officers, take him along."