Driven from Home; Or, Carl Crawford's Experience

“You—scoundrel!” he hissed between his closed teeth.

“You seem excited,” sneered Stark. “Is it possible that you object to the search?”

“If the missing box is found on my premises,” said Gibbon, in a white heat, “it is because you have concealed it there.”

Phil Stark shrugged his shoulders.

“I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that settles it. I am afraid Mr Gibbon is guilty. I shall be glad to assist you to recover the stolen property. Did the box contain much that was of value?”

“I must caution you both against saying anything that will compromise you,” said one of the officers.

“I have nothing to conceal,” went on Stark, brazenly. “I am obliged to believe that this man committed the burglary. It is against me that I have been his companion for the last week or two, but I used to know him, and that will account for it.”

The unhappy bookkeeper saw the coils closing around him.

“I hope you will see your way to release me,” said Stark, addressing himself to Mr. Jennings. “I have just received information that my poor mother is lying dangerously sick in Cleveland, and I am anxious to start for her bedside to-day.”

“Why did you come round here this morning?” asked Mr. Jennings.

“To ask Mr. Gibbon to repay me ten dollars which he borrowed of me the other day,” returned Stark, glibly.

“You—liar!” exclaimed Gibbon, angrily.

“I am prepared for this man’s abuse,” said Stark. “I don’t mind admitting now that a few days since he invited me to join him in the robbery of the safe. I threatened to inform you of his plan, and he promised to give it up. I supposed he had done so, but it is clear to me now that he carried out his infamous scheme.”

Mr. Jennings looked amused. He admired Stark’s brazen effrontery.

“What have you to say to this charge, Mr. Gibbon?” he asked.

“Only this, sir, that I was concerned in the burglary.”

“He admits it!” said Stark, triumphantly.

“But this man forced me to it. He threatened to write you some particulars of my past history which would probably have lost me my position if I did not agree to join him in the conspiracy. I was weak, and yielded. Now he is ready to betray me to save himself.”

“Mr. Jennings,” said Stark, coldly, “you will know what importance to attach to the story of a self-confessed burglar. Gibbon, I hope you will see the error of your ways, and restore to your worthy employer the box of valuable property which you stole from his safe.”

“This is insufferable!” cried the bookkeeper “You are a double-dyed traitor, Phil Stark. You were not only my accomplice, but you instigated the crime.”

“You will find it hard to prove this,” sneered Stark. “Mr. Jennings, I demand my liberty. If you have any humanity you will not keep me from the bedside of my dying mother.” “I admire your audacity, Mr. Stark,” observed the manufacturer, quietly. “Don’t suppose for a moment that I give the least credit to your statements.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Gibbon. “I’m ready to accept the consequences of my act, but I don’t want that scoundrel and traitor to go free.”

“You can’t prove anything against me,” said Stark, doggedly, “unless you accept the word of a self-confessed burglar, who is angry with me because I would not join him.”

“All these protestations it would be better for you to keep till your trial begins, Mr. Stark,” said the manufacturer. “However, I think it only fair to tell you that I am better informed about you and your conspiracy than you imagine. Will you tell me where you were at eleven o’clock last evening?”

“I was in my room at the hotel—no, I was taking a walk. I had received news of my mother’s illness, and I was so much disturbed and grieved that I could not remain indoors.”

“You were seen to enter the office of this factory with Mr. Gibbon, and after ten minutes came out with the tin box under your arm.”

“Who saw me?” demanded Stark, uneasily.

Carl Crawford came forward and answered this question.

“I did!” he said.

“A likely story! You were in bed and asleep.”

“You are mistaken. I was on watch behind the stone wall just opposite. If you want proof, I can repeat some of the conversation that passed between you and Mr. Gibbon.”

Without waiting for the request, Carl rehearsed some of the talk already recorded in a previous chapter.

Phil Stark began to see that things were getting serious for him, but he was game to the last.

“I deny it,” he said, in a loud voice.

“Do you also deny it, Mr. Gibbon?” asked Mr. Jennings.

“No, sir; I admit it,” replied Gibbon, with a triumphant glance at his foiled confederate.

“This is a conspiracy against an innocent man,” said Stark, scowling. “You want to screen your bookkeeper, if possible. No one has ever before charged me with crime.”

“Then how does it happen, Mr. Stark, that you were confined at the Joliet penitentiary for a term of years?”

“Did he tell you this?” snarled Stark, pointing to Gibbon.

“No.”

“Who then?”

“A customer of mine from Chicago. He saw you at the hotel, and informed Carl last evening of your character. Carl, of course, brought the news to me. It was in consequence of this information that I myself removed the bonds from the box, early in the evening, and substituted strips of paper. Your enterprise, therefore, would have availed you little even if you had succeeded in getting off scot-free.”

“I see the game is up,” said Stark, throwing off the mask. “It’s true that I have been in the Joliet penitentiary. It was there that I became acquainted with your bookkeeper,” he added, maliciously. “Let him deny it if he dare.”

“I shall not deny it. It is true,” said Gibbon. “But I had resolved to live an honest life in future, and would have done so if this man had not pressed me into crime by his threats.”

“I believe you, Mr. Gibbon,” said the manufacturer, gently, “and I will see that this is counted in your favor. And now, gentlemen, I think there is no occasion for further delay.”

The two men were carried to the lockup and in due time were tried. Stark was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, Gibbon to five. At the end of two years, at the intercession of Mr. Jennings, he was pardoned, and furnished with money enough to go to Australia, where, his past character unknown, he was able to make an honest living, and gain a creditable position.

CHAPTER XXVIII

AFTER A YEAR

Twelve months passed without any special incident. With Carl it was a period of steady and intelligent labor and progress. He had excellent mechanical talent, and made remarkable advancement. He was not content with attention to his own work, but was a careful observer of the work of others, so that in one year he learned as much of the business as most boys would have done in three.

When the year was up, Mr. Jennings detained him after supper.

“Do you remember what anniversary this is, Carl?” he asked, pleasantly.

“Yes, sir; it is the anniversary of my going into the factory.”

“Exactly. How are you satisfied with the year and its work?”

“I have been contented and happy, Mr. Jennings; and I feel that I owe my happiness and content to you.”

Mr. Jennings looked pleased.

“I am glad you say so,” he said, “but it is only fair to add that your own industry and intelligence have much to do with the satisfactory results of the year.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“The superintendent tells me that outside of your own work you have a general knowledge of the business which would make you a valuable assistant to himself in case he needed one.”

Carl’s face glowed with pleasure.

“I believe in being thorough,” he said, “and I am interested in every department of the business.”

“Before you went into the factory you had not done any work.”

“No, sir; I had attended school.”

“It was not a bad preparation for business, but in some cases it gives a boy disinclination for manual labor.”

“Yes; I wouldn’t care to work with my hands all my life.”

“I don’t blame you for that. You have qualified yourself for something better. How much do I pay you?”

“I began on two dollars a week and my board. At the end of six months you kindly advanced me to four dollars.”

“I dare say you have found it none too much for your wants.”

Carl smiled.

“I have saved forty dollars out of it,” he answered.

Mr. Jennings looked pleased.

“You have done admirably,” he said, warmly. “Forty dollars is not a large sum, but in laying it by you have formed a habit that will be of great service to you in after years. I propose to raise you to ten dollars a week.”

“But, sir, shall I earn so much? You are very kind, but I am afraid you will be a loser by your liberality.”

Mr. Jennings smiled.

“You are partly right,” he said. “Your services at present are hardly worth the sum I have agreed to pay, that is, in the factory, but I shall probably impose upon you other duties of an important nature soon.”

“If you do, sir, I will endeavor to meet your expectations.”

“How would you like to take a journey Carl?”

“Very much, sir.”

“I think of sending you—to Chicago.”

Carl, who had thought perhaps of a fifty-mile trip, looked amazed, but his delight was equal to his surprise. He had always wished to see the West, though Chicago can hardly be called a Western city now, since between it and the Pacific there is a broad belt of land two thousand miles in extent.

“Do you think I am competent?” he asked, modestly.

“I cannot say positively, but I think so,” answered Mr. Jennings.

“Then I shall be delighted to go. Will it be very soon?”

“Yes, very soon. I shall want you to start next Monday.”

“I will be ready, sir.”

“And I may as well explain what are to be your duties. I am, as you know, manufacturing a special line of chairs which I am desirous of introducing to the trade. I shall give you the names of men in my line in Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland and Chicago, and it will be your duty to call upon them, explain the merits of the chair, and solicit orders. In other words, you will be a traveling salesman or drummer. I shall pay your traveling expenses, ten dollars a week, and, if your orders exceed a certain limit, I shall give you a commission on the surplus.”

“Suppose I don’t reach that limit?”

“I shall at all events feel that you have done your best. I will instruct you a little in your duties between now and the time of your departure. I should myself like to go in your stead, but I am needed here. There are, of course, others in my employ, older than yourself, whom I might send, but I have an idea that you will prove to be a good salesman.”

“I will try to be, sir.”

On Monday morning Carl left Milford, reached New York in two hours and a half and, in accordance with the directions of Mr. Jennings, engaged passage and a stateroom on one of the palatial night lines of Hudson River steamers to Albany. The boat was well filled with passengers, and a few persons were unable to procure staterooms.

Carl, however, applied in time, and obtained an excellent room. He deposited his gripsack therein, and then took a seat on deck, meaning to enjoy as long as possible the delightful scenery for which the Hudson is celebrated. It was his first long journey, and for this reason Carl enjoyed it all the more. He could not but contrast his present position and prospects with those of a year ago, when, helpless and penniless, he left an unhappy home to make his own way.

“What a delightful evening!” said a voice at his side.

Turning, Carl saw sitting by him a young man of about thirty, dressed in somewhat pretentious style and wearing eyeglasses. He was tall and thin, and had sandy side whiskers.

“Yes, it is a beautiful evening,” replied Carl, politely.

“And the scenery is quite charming. Have you ever been all the way up the river?”

“No, but I hope some day to take a day trip.”

“Just so. I am not sure but I prefer the Rhine, with its romantic castles and vineclad hills.”

“Have you visited Europe, then?” asked Carl.

“Oh, yes, several times. I have a passion for traveling. Our family is wealthy, and I have been able to go where I pleased.”

“That must be very pleasant.”

“It is. My name is Stuyvesant—one of the old Dutch families.”

Carl was not so much impressed, perhaps, as he should have been by this announcement, for he knew very little of fashionable life in New York.

“You don’t look like a Dutchman,” he said, smiling.

“I suppose you expected a figure like a beer keg,” rejoined Stuyvesant, laughing. “Some of my forefathers may have answered that description, but I am not built that way. Are you traveling far?”

“I may go as far as Chicago.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you have friends in Chicago?”

“Not that I am aware of. I am traveling on business.”

“Indeed; you are rather young for a business man.”

“I am sixteen.”

“Well, that cannot exactly be called venerable.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“By the way, did you succeed in getting a stateroom?”

“Yes, I have a very good one.”

“You’re in luck, on my word. I was just too late. The man ahead of me took the last room.”

“You can get a berth, I suppose.”

“But that is so common. Really, I should not know how to travel without a stateroom. Have you anyone with you?”

“No.”

“If you will take me in I will pay the entire expense.”

Carl hesitated. He preferred to be alone, but he was of an obliging disposition, and he knew that there were two berths in the stateroom.

“If it will be an accommodation,” he said, “I will let you occupy the room with me, Mr. Stuyvesant.”

“Will you, indeed! I shall esteem it a very great favor. Where is your room?”

“I will show you.”

Carl led the way to No. 17, followed by his new acquaintance. Mr. Stuyvesant seemed very much pleased, and insisted on paying for the room at once. Carl accepted half the regular charges, and so the bargain was made.

At ten o’clock the two travelers retired to bed. Carl was tired and went to sleep at once. He slept through the night. When he awoke in the morning the boat was in dock. He heard voices in the cabin, and the noise of the transfer of baggage and freight to the wharf.

“I have overslept myself,” he said, and jumped up, hurriedly. He looked into the upper berth, but his roommate was gone. Something else was gone, too—his valise, and a wallet which he had carried in the pocket of his trousers.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE LOST BANK BOOK

Carl was not long in concluding that he had been robbed by his roommate. It was hard to believe that a Stuyvesant—a representative of one of the old Dutch families of New Amsterdam—should have stooped to such a discreditable act. Carl was sharp enough, however, to doubt the genuineness of Mr. Stuyvesant’s claims to aristocratic lineage. Meanwhile he blamed himself for being so easily duped by an artful adventurer.

To be sure, it was not as bad as it might be. His pocketbook only contained ten dollars in small bills. The balance of his money he had deposited for safe keeping in the inside pocket of his vest. This he had placed under his pillow, and so it had escaped the notice of the thief.

The satchel contained a supply of shirts, underclothing, etc., and he was sorry to lose it. The articles were not expensive, but it would cost him from a dozen to fifteen dollars to replace them.

Carl stepped to the door of his stateroom and called a servant who was standing near.

“How long have we been at the pier?” he asked.

“About twenty minutes, sir.”

“Did you see my roommate go out?”

“A tall young man in a light overcoat?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir. I saw him.”

“Did you notice whether he carried a valise in his hand?”

“A gripsack? Yes, sir.”

“A small one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It was mine.”

“You don’t say so, sir! And such a respectable-lookin’ gemman, sir.”

“He may have looked respectable, but he was a thief all the same.”

“You don’t say? Did he take anything else, sir?”

“He took my pocketbook.”

“Well, well! He was a rascal, sure! But maybe it dropped on the floor.”

Carl turned his attention to the carpet, but saw nothing of the lost pocketbook. He did find, however, a small book in a brown cover, which Stuyvesant had probably dropped. Picking it up, he discovered that it was a bank book on the Sixpenny Savings Bank of Albany, standing in the name of Rachel Norris, and numbered 17,310.

“This is stolen property, too,” thought Carl. “I wonder if there is much in it.”

Opening the book he saw that there were three entries, as follows:

1883. Jan. 23. Five hundred dollars.

“    June 10. Two hundred dollars.

“    Oct. 21. One hundred dollars.

There was besides this interest credited to the amount of seventy-five dollars. The deposits, therefore, made a grand total of $875.

No doubt Mr. Stuyvesant had stolen this book, but had not as yet found an opportunity of utilizing it.

“What’s dat?” asked the colored servant.

“A savings bank book. My roommate must have dropped it. It appears to belong to a lady named Rachel Norris. I wish I could get it to her.”

“Is she an Albany lady, sir?”

“I don’t know.”

“You might look in the directory.”

“So I will. It is a good idea.”

“I hope the gemman didn’t take all your money, sir.”

“No; he didn’t even take half of it. I only wish I had been awake when the boat got to the dock.”

“I would have called you, sir, if you had asked me.”

“I am not much used to traveling. I shall know better next time what to do.”

The finding of the bank book partially consoled Carl for the loss of his pocketbook and gripsack. He was glad to be able to defeat Stuyvesant in one of his nefarious schemes, and to be the instrument of returning Miss Norris her savings bank book.

When he left the boat he walked along till he reached a modest-looking hotel, where he thought the charges would be reasonable. He entered, and, going to the desk, asked if he could have a room.

“Large or small?” inquired the clerk.

“Small.”

“No. 67. Will you go up now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any baggage?”

“No; I had it stolen on the boat.”

The clerk looked a little suspicious.

“We must require pay in advance, then,” he said.

“Certainly,” answered Carl, pulling out a roll of bills. “I suppose you make special terms to commercial travelers?”

“Are you a drummer?”

“Yes. I represent Henry Jennings, of Milford, New York.”

“All right, sir. Our usual rates are two dollars a day. To you they will be a dollar and a quarter.”

“Very well; I will pay you for two days. Is breakfast ready?”

“It is on the table, sir.”

“Then I will go in at once. I will go to my room afterwards.”

In spite of his loss, Carl had a hearty appetite, and did justice to the comfortable breakfast provided. He bought a morning paper, and ran his eye over the advertising columns. He had never before read an Albany paper, and wished to get an idea of the city in its business aspect. It occurred to him that there might be an advertisement of the lost bank book. But no such notice met his eyes.

He went up to his room, which was small and plainly furnished, but looked comfortable. Going down again to the office, he looked into the Albany directory to see if he could find the name of Rachel Norris.

There was a Rebecca Norris, who was put down as a dressmaker, but that was as near as he came to Rachel Norris.

Then he set himself to looking over the other members of the Norris family. Finally he picked out Norris & Wade, furnishing goods, and decided to call at the store and inquire if they knew any lady named Rachel Norris. The prospect of gaining information in this way did not seem very promising, but no other course presented itself, and Carl determined to follow up the clew, slight as it was.

Though unacquainted with Albany streets, he had little difficulty in finding the store of Norris & Wade. It was an establishment of good size, well supplied with attractive goods. A clerk came forward to wait upon Carl.

“What can I show you?” he asked.

“You may show me Mr. Norris, if you please,” responded Carl, with a smile.

“He is in the office,” said the clerk, with an answering smile.

Carl entered the office and saw Mr. Norris, a man of middle age, partially bald, with a genial, business-like manner.

“Well, young man?” he said, looking at Carl inquiringly.

“You must excuse me for troubling you, sir,” said Carl, who was afraid Mr. Norris would laugh at him, “but I thought you might direct me to Rachel Norris.”

Mr. Norris looked surprised.

“What do you want of Rachel Norris?” he asked, abruptly.

“I have a little business with her,” answered Carl.

“Of what nature?”

“Excuse me, but I don’t care to mention it at present.”

“Humph! you are very cautious for a young man, or rather boy.”

“Isn’t that a good trait, sir?”

“Good, but unusual. Are you a schoolboy?”

“No, sir; I am a drummer.”

Mr. Norris put on a pair of glasses and scrutinized Carl more closely.

“I should like to see—just out of curiosity—the man that you travel for,” he said.

“I will ask him to call whenever he visits Albany. There is his card.”

Mr. Norris took it.

“Why, bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “It is Henry Jennings, an old schoolmate of mine.”

“And a good business man, even if he has sent out such a young drummer.”

“I should say so. There must be something in you, or he wouldn’t have trusted you. How is Jennings?”

“He is well, sir—well and prosperous.”

“That is good news. Are you in his employ?”

“Yes, sir. This is the first time I have traveled for him.”

“How far are you going?”

“As far as Chicago.”

“I don’t see what you can have to do with Rachel Norris. However, I don’t mind telling you that she is my aunt, and—well, upon my soul! Here she is now.”

And he ran hastily to greet a tall, thin lady, wearing a black shawl, who at that moment entered the office.

CHAPTER XXX

AN ECCENTRIC WOMAN

Miss Norris dropped into a chair as if she were fatigued.

“Well, Aunt Rachel, how are you feeling this morning?” asked her nephew.

“Out of sorts,” was the laconic reply.

“I am very sorry for that. I suppose there is reason for it.”

“Yes; I’ve been robbed.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Norris. “Lost your purse? I wonder more ladies are not robbed, carrying their money as carelessly as they do.”

“That isn’t it. I am always careful, as careful as any man.”

“Still you got robbed.”

“Yes, but of a bank book.”

Here Carl became attentive. It was clear that he would not have to look any farther for the owner of the book he had found in his stateroom.

“What kind of a bank book?” inquired Mr. Norris.

“I had nearly a thousand dollars deposited in the Sixpenny Savings Bank. I called at the bank to make some inquiries about interest, and when I came out I presume some rascal followed me and stole the book–”

“Have you any idea who took it?”

“I got into the horse cars, near the bank; next to me sat a young man in a light overcoat. There was no one on the other side of me. I think he must have taken it.”

“That was Stuyvesant,” said Carl to himself.

“When did this happen, Aunt Rachel?”

“Three days since.”

“Why didn’t you do something about it before?”

“I did. I advertised a reward of twenty-five dollars to anyone who would restore it to me.”

“There was no occasion for that. By giving notice at the bank, they would give you a new book after a time.”

“I preferred to recover the old one. Besides, I thought I would like to know what became of it.”

“I can tell you, Miss Norris,” said Carl, who thought it time to speak.

Hitherto Miss Norris had not seemed aware of Carl’s presence. She turned abruptly and surveyed him through her glasses.

“Who are you?” she asked.

This might seem rude, but it was only Miss Rachel’s way.

“My name is Carl Crawford.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, Miss Norris, but I hope you will.”

“Humph! that depends. You say you know what became of my bank book?”

“Yes, Miss Norris.”

“Well?”

“It was taken by the young man who sat next to you.”