Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp

“It was a sailboat,” explained John, rather reluctantly.

“A sailboat! Whose?”

“Mine.”

“I don’t understand at all.”

“I had a mast put in, and a sail rigged up, two or three days since,” said John, compelled at last to explain.

“Why did you do this without my permission?” demanded the squire angrily.

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Morton quietly, “it will be better to postpone inquiries until your son has changed his clothes.”

Squire Haynes, though somewhat irritated by this interference, bethought himself that it would be churlish not to thank his son’s preserver.

“I am indebted to you, sir,” he said, “for your agency in saving the life of this rash boy. I regret that you should have got wet.”

“I shall probably experience nothing more than temporary inconvenience.”

“You have been some months in the village, I believe, Mr. Morton. I trust you will call at an early day, and enable me to follow up the chance which has made us acquainted.”

“I seldom make calls,” said Mr. Morton, in a distant tone. “Yet,” added he, after a pause, “I may have occasion to accept your invitation some day. Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning,” returned the squire, looking after him with an expression of perplexity.

“He boards at the Frosts’, doesn’t he, John?” asked Squire Haynes, turning to his son.

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s something in his face that seems familiar,” mused the squire absently. “He reminds me of somebody, though I can’t recall who.”

It was not long before the squire’s memory was refreshed, and he obtained clearer information respecting the young man, and the errand which had brought him to Rossville. When that information came, it was so far from pleasing that he would willingly have postponed it indefinitely.

CHAPTER XXIX. MR. MORTON’S STORY

The planting-season was over. For a month Frank had worked industriously, in conjunction with Jacob Carter. His father had sent him directions so full and minute, that he was not often obliged to call upon Farmer Maynard for advice. The old farmer proved to be very kind and obliging. Jacob, too, was capable and faithful, so that the farm work went on as well probably as if Mr. Frost had been at home.

One evening toward the middle of June, Frank walked out into the fields with Mr. Morton. The corn and potatoes were looking finely. The garden vegetables were up, and to all appearance doing well. Frank surveyed the scene with a feeling of natural pride.

“Don’t you think I would make a successful farmer, Mr. Morton?” he asked.

“Yes, Frank; and more than this, I think you will be likely to succeed in any other vocation you may select.”

“I am afraid you’re flattering me, Mr. Morton.”

“Such is not my intention, Frank, but I like to award praise where I think it due. I have noticed in you a disposition to be faithful to whatever responsibility is imposed upon you, and wherever I see that I feel no hesitation in predicting a successful career.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, looking very much pleased with the compliment. “I try to be faithful. I feel that father has trusted me more than it is usual to trust boys of my age, and I want to show myself worthy of his confidence.”

“You are fortunate in having a father, Frank,” said the young man, with a shade of sadness in his voice. “My father died before I was of your age.”

“Do you remember him?” inquired Frank, with interest.

“I remember him well. He was always kind to me. I never remember to have received a harsh word from him. It is because he was so kind and indulgent to me that I feel the more incensed against a man who took advantage of his confidence to defraud him, or, rather, me, through him.”

“You have never mentioned this before, Mr. Morton.”

“No. I have left you all in ignorance of much of my history. This morning, if it will interest you, I propose to take you into my confidence.”

The eagerness with which Frank greeted this proposal showed that for him the story would have no lack of interest.

“Let us sit down under this tree,” said Henry Morton, pointing to a horse-chestnut, whose dense foliage promised a pleasant shelter from the sun’s rays.

They threw themselves upon the grass, and he forthwith commenced his story.

“My father was born in Boston, and, growing up, engaged in mercantile pursuits. He was moderately successful, and finally accumulated fifty thousand dollars. He would not have stopped there, for he was at the time making money rapidly, but his health became precarious, and his physician required him absolutely to give up business. The seeds of consumption, which probably had been lurking for years in his system, had begun to show themselves unmistakably, and required immediate attention.

“By the advice of his physician he sailed for the West India Islands, hoping that the climate might have a beneficial effect upon him. At that time I was twelve years old, and an only child. My mother had died some years before, so that I was left quite alone in the world. I was sent for a time to Virginia, to my mother’s brother, who possessed a large plantation and numerous slaves. Here I remained for six months. You will remember that Aunt Chloe recognized me at first sight. You will not be surprised at this when I tell you that she was my uncle’s slave, and that as a boy I was indebted to her for many a little favor which she, being employed in the kitchen, was able to render me. As I told you at the time, my real name is not Morton. It will not be long before you understand the reason of my concealment.

“My father had a legal adviser, in whom he reposed a large measure of confidence, though events showed him to be quite unworthy of it. On leaving Boston he divided his property, which had been converted into money, into two equal portions. One part he took with him. The other he committed to the lawyer’s charge. So much confidence had he in this man’s honor, that he did not even require a receipt. One additional safeguard he had, however. This was the evidence of the lawyer’s clerk, who was present on the occasion of the deposit.

“My father went to the West Indies, but the change seemed only to accelerate the progress of his malady. He lingered for a few months and then died. Before his death he wrote two letters, one to my uncle and one to myself. In these he communicated the fact of his having deposited twenty-five thousand dollars with his lawyer. He mentioned incidentally the presence of the lawyer’s clerk at the time. I am a little surprised that he should have done it, as not the faintest suspicion of the lawyer’s good faith had entered his thoughts.

“On receiving this letter my uncle, on my behalf, took measures to claim this sum, and for this purpose came to Boston. Imagine his surprise and indignation when the lawyer positively denied having received any such deposit and called upon him, to prove it. With great effrontery he declared that it was absurd to suppose that my father would have entrusted him with any such sum without a receipt for it. This certainly looked plausible, and I acknowledge that few except my father, who never trusted without trusting entirely, would have acted so imprudently.

“‘Where is the clerk who was in your office at the time?” inquired my uncle.

The lawyer looked somewhat discomposed at this question.

“‘Why do you ask?’ he inquired abruptly.

“‘Because,’ was the reply, ‘his evidence is very important to us. My brother states that he was present when the deposit was made.’

“‘I don’t know where he is,’ said the lawyer. ‘He was too dissipated to remain in my office, and I accordingly discharged him.’

“My uncle suspected that the clerk had been bribed to keep silence, and for additional security sent off to some distant place.

“Nothing could be done. Strong as our suspicions, and absolute as was our conviction of the lawyer’s guilt, we had no recourse. But from that time I devoted my life to the exposure of this man. Fortunately I was not without means. The other half of my father’s property came to me; and the interest being considerably more than I required for my support, I have devoted the remainder to, prosecuting inquiries respecting the missing clerk. Just before I came to Rossville, I obtained a clue which I have since industriously followed up.

“Last night I received a letter from my agent, stating that he had found the man—that he was in a sad state of destitution, and that he was ready to give his evidence.”

“Is the lawyer still living?” inquired Frank.

“He is.”

“What a villain he must be.”

“I am afraid he is, Frank.”

“Does he still live in Boston?”

“No. After he made sure of his ill-gotten gains, he removed into the country, where he built him a fine house. He has been able to live a life of leisure; but I doubt if he has been as happy as he would have been had he never deviated from the path of rectitude.”

“Have you seen him lately?” asked Frank.

“I have seen him many times within the last few months,” said the young man, in a significant tone.

Frank jumped to his feet in surprise. “You don’t mean–” he said, as a sudden suspicion of the truth dawned upon his mind.

“Yes,” said Mr. Morton deliberately, “I do mean that the lawyer who defrauded my father lives in this village. You know him well as Squire Haynes.”

“I can hardly believe it,” said Frank, unable to conceal his astonishment. “Do you think he knows who you are?”

“I think he has noticed my resemblance to my father. If I had not assumed a different name he would have been sure to detect me. This would have interfered with my plans, as he undoubtedly knew the whereabouts of his old clerk, and would have arranged to remove him, so as to delay his discovery, perhaps indefinitely. Here is the letter I received last night. I will read it to you.”

The letter ran as follows:

“I have at length discovered the man of whom I have so long been in search. I found him in Detroit. He had recently removed thither from St. Louis. He is very poor, and, when I found him, was laid up with typhoid fever in a mean lodging-house. I removed him to more comfortable quarters, supplied him with relishing food and good medical assistance. Otherwise I think he would have died. The result is, that he feels deeply grateful to me for having probably saved his life. When I first broached the idea of his giving evidence against his old employer, I found him reluctant to do so—not from any attachment he bore him, but from a fear that he would be held on a criminal charge for concealing a felony. I have undertaken to assure him, on your behalf, that he shall not be punished if he will come forward and give his evidence unhesitatingly. I have finally obtained his promise to, do so.

“We shall leave Detroit day after to-morrow, and proceed to New England by way of New York. Can you meet me in New York on the 18th inst.? You can, in that case, have an interview with this man Travers; and it Will be well to obtain his confession, legally certified, to guard against any vacillation of purpose on his part. I have no apprehension of it, but it is as well to be certain.”

This letter was signed by Mr. Morton’s agent.

“I was very glad to get that letter, Frank,” said his companion. “I don’t think I care so much for the money, though that is not to be despised, since it will enable me to do more good than at present I have it in my power to do. But there is one thing I care for still more, and that is, to redeem my father’s memory from reproach. In the last letter he ever wrote he made a specific statement, which this lawyer declares to be false. The evidence of his clerk will hurl back the falsehood upon himself.”

“How strange it is, Mr. Morton,” exclaimed Frank, “that you should have saved the life of a son of the man who has done so much to injure you!”

“Yes, that gives me great satisfaction. I do not wish Squire Haynes any harm, but I am determined that justice shall be done. Otherwise than that, if I can be of any service to him, I shall not refuse.”

“I remember now,” said Frank, after a moment’s pause, “that, on the first Sunday you appeared at church, Squire Haynes stopped me to inquire who you were.”

“I am thought to look much as my father did. He undoubtedly saw the resemblance. I have often caught his eyes fixed upon me in perplexity when he did not know that I noticed him. It is fourteen years since my father died. Retribution has been slow, but it has come at last.”

“When do you go on to New York?” asked Frank, recalling the agent’s request.

“I shall start to-morrow morning. For the present I will ask you to keep what I have said a secret even from your good mother. It is as well not to disturb Squire Haynes in his fancied security until we are ready to overwhelm him with our evidence.”

“How long shall you be absent, Mr. Morton?”

“Probably less than a week. I shall merely say that I have gone on business. I trust to your discretion to say nothing more.”

“I certainly will not,” said Frank. “I am very much obliged to you for having told me first.”

The two rose from their grassy seats, and walked slowly back to the farmhouse.

CHAPTER XXX. FRANK CALLS ON SQUIRE HAYNES

The next morning Mr. Morton was a passenger by the early stage for Webbington, where he took the train for Boston. Thence he was to proceed to New York by the steamboat train.

“Good-by, Mr. Morton,” said Frank, waving his cap as the stage started. “I hope you’ll soon be back.”

“I hope so, too; good-by.”

Crack went the whip, round went the wheels. The horses started, and the stage rumbled off, swaying this way and that, as if top-heavy.

Frank went slowly back to the house, feeling quite lonely. He had become so accustomed to Mr. Morton’s companionship that his departure left a void which he hardly knew how to fill.

As he reflected upon Mr. Morton’s story he began to feel an increased uneasiness at the mortgage held by Squire Haynes upon his father’s farm. The time was very near at hand—only ten days off—when the mortgage might be foreclosed, and but half the money was in readiness.

Perhaps, however, Squire Haynes had no intention of foreclosing. If so, there was no occasion for apprehension. But about this he felt by no means certain.

He finally determined, without consulting his mother, to make the squire a visit and inquire frankly what he intended to do. The squire’s answer would regulate his future proceedings.

It was Frank’s rule—and a very good one, too—to do at once whatever needed to be done. He resolved to lose no time in making his call.

“Frank,” said his mother, as he entered the house, “I want you to go down to the store some time this forenoon, and get me half a dozen pounds of sugar.”

“Very well, mother, I’ll go now. I suppose it won’t make any difference if I don’t come back for an hour or two.”

“No, that will be in time.”

Mrs. Frost did not ask Frank where he was going. She had perfect faith in him, and felt sure that he would never become involved in anything discreditable.

Frank passed through the village without stopping at the store. He deferred his mother’s errand until his return. Passing up the village street, he stopped before the fine house of Squire Haynes. Opening the gate he walked up the graveled path and rang the bell.

A servant-girl came to the door.

“Is Squire Haynes at home?” inquired Frank.

“Yes, but he’s eating breakfast.”

“Will he be through soon?”

“Shure and I think so.”

“Then I will step in and wait for him.”

“Who shall I say it is?”

“Frank Frost.”

Squire Haynes had just passed his cup for coffee when Bridget entered and reported that Frank Frost was in the drawing-room and would like to see him when he had finished his breakfast.

“Frank Frost!” repeated the squire, arching his eyebrows. “What does he want, I wonder?”

“Shure he didn’t say,” said Bridget.

“Very well.”

“He is captain of the boys’ company, John, isn’t he?” asked the squire.

“Yes,” said John sulkily. “I wish him joy of his office. I wouldn’t have anything to do with such a crowd of ragamuffins.”

Of course the reader understands that this was “sour grapes” on John’s part.

Finishing his breakfast leisurely, Squire Haynes went into the room where Frank was sitting patiently awaiting him.

Frank rose as he entered.

“Good morning, Squire Haynes,” he said, politely rising as he spoke.

“Good morning,” said the squire coldly. “You are an early visitor.”

If this was intended for a rebuff, Frank did not choose to take any notice of it.

“I call on a little matter of business, Squire Haynes,” continued Frank.

“Very well,” said the squire, seating himself in a luxurious armchair, “I am ready to attend to you.”

“I believe you hold a mortgage on our farm.”

Squire Haynes started. The thought of Frank’s real business had not occurred to him. He had hoped that nothing would have been said in relation to the mortgage until he was at liberty to foreclose, as he wished to take the Frosts unprepared. He now resolved, if possible, to keep Frank in ignorance of his real purpose, that he might not think it necessary to prepare for his attack.

“Yes,” said he indifferently; “I hold quite a number of mortgages, and one upon your father’s farm among them.”

“Isn’t the time nearly run out?” asked Frank anxiously.

“I can look if you desire it,” said the squire, in the same indifferent tone.

“I should be glad if you would.”

“May I ask why you are desirous of ascertaining the precise date?” asked the squire. “Are you intending to pay off the mortgage?”

“No, sir,” said Frank. “We are not prepared to do so at present.”

Squire Haynes felt relieved. He feared for a moment that Mr. Frost had secured the necessary sum, and that he would be defeated in his wicked purpose.

He drew out a large number of papers, which he rather ostentatiously scattered about the table, and finally came to the mortgage.

“The mortgage comes due on the first of July,” he said.

“Will it be convenient for you to renew it, Squire Haynes?” asked Frank anxiously. “Father being absent, it would be inconvenient for us to obtain the amount necessary to cancel it. Of course, I shall be ready to pay the interest promptly.”

“Unless I should have sudden occasion for the money,” said the squire, “I will let it remain. I don’t think you need feel any anxiety on the subject.”

With the intention of putting Frank off his guard, Squire Haynes assumed a comparatively gracious tone. This, in the case of any other man, would have completely reassured Frank. But he had a strong distrust of the squire, since the revelation of his character made by his friend Mr. Morton.

“Could you tell me positively?” he asked, still uneasy. “It is only ten days now to the first of July, and that is little enough to raise the money in.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said the squire. “I said unless I had sudden occasion for the money, because unforeseen circumstances might arise. But as I have a considerable sum lying at the bank, I don’t anticipate anything of the kind.”

“I suppose you will give me immediate notice, should it be necessary. We can pay four hundred dollars now. So, if you please, the new mortgage can be made out for half the present amount.”

“Very well,” said the squire carelessly. “Just as you please as to that. Still, as you have always paid my interest regularly, I consider the investment a good one, and have no objection to the whole remaining.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Frank, rising to go.

Frank took his hat, and, bowing to the squire, sought the front door. His face wore a perplexed expression. He hardly knew what to think about the interview he had just had.

“Squire Haynes talks fair enough,” he soliloquized; “and, perhaps, he means what he says. If it hadn’t been for what Mr. Morton told me, I should have confidence in him. But a man who will betray a trust is capable of breaking his word to me. I think I’ll look round a little, and see if I can’t provide for the worse in case it comes.”

Just after Frank left the house, John entered his father’s presence.

“What did Frank Frost want of you, father?” he asked.

“He came about the mortgage.”

“Did he want to pay it?”

“No, he wants me to renew it.”

“Of course you refused.”

“Of course I did no such thing. Do you think I am a fool?”

“You don’t mean to say that you agreed to renew it?” demanded John, in angry amazement.

Squire Haynes rather enjoyed John’s mystification.

“Come,” said he, “I’m afraid you’ll never make a lawyer if you’re not sharper than that comes to. Never reveal your plans to your adversary. That’s an important principle. If I had refused, he would have gone to work, and in ten days between now and the first of July, he’d have managed in some way to scrape together the eight hundred dollars. He’s got half of it now.”

“What did you tell him, then?”

“I put him off by telling him not to trouble himself—that I would not foreclose the mortgage unless I had unexpected occasion for the money.”

“Yes, I see,” said John, his face brightening at the anticipated disaster to the Frosts. “You’ll take care that there shall be some sudden occasion.”

“Yes,” said the squire complacently. “I’ll have a note come due, which I had not thought about, or something of the kind.”

“Oh, that’ll be bully.”

“Don’t use such low words, John. I have repeatedly requested you to be more careful about your language. By the way, your teacher told me yesterday that you are not doing as well now as formerly.”

“Oh, he’s an old muff. Besides, he’s got a spite against me. I should do a good deal better at another school.”

“We’ll see about that. But I suspect he’s partly right.”

“Well, how can a feller study when he knows the teacher is determined to be down upon him?”

“‘Feller!’ I am shocked at hearing you use that word. ‘Down upon him,’ too!”

“Very well; let me go where I won’t hear such language spoken.”

It would have been well if Squire Haynes had been as much shocked by bad actions as by low language.

This little disagreement over, they began again to anticipate with pleasure the effect of the squire’s premeditated blow upon the Frosts.

“We’ll come up with ‘em?” said John, with inward exultation.

Meanwhile, though the squire was entirely unconscious of it, there was a sword hanging over his own head.

CHAPTER XXXI. SQUIRE HAYNES SPRINGS HIS TRAP

As intimated in the last chapter, Frank determined to see if he could not raise the money necessary to pay off the mortgage in case it should be necessary to do so.

Farmer Maynard was a man in very good circumstances. He owned an excellent farm, which yielded more than enough to support his family. Probably he had one or two thousand dollars laid aside.

“I think he will help me,” Frank said to himself, “I’ll go to him.”

He went to the house, and was directed to the barn. There he found the farmer engaged in mending a hoe-handle, which had been broken, by splicing it.

He unfolded his business. The farmer listened attentively to his statement.

“You say the squire as much as told you that he would renew the mortgage?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wouldn’t trouble myself then; I’ve no doubt he’ll do it.”

“He said, unless he should have some sudden occasion for the money.”

“All right. He is a prudent man, and don’t want to bind himself. That is all. You know the most unlikely things may happen; but I don’t believe the squire’ll want the money. He’s got plenty in the bank.”

“But if he should?”

“Then he’ll wait, or take part. I suppose you can pay part.”

“Yes, half.”

“Then I guess there won’t be any chance of anything going wrong.”

“If there should,” persisted Frank, “could you lend us four hundred dollars to make up the amount?”

“I’d do it in a minute, Frank, but I hain’t got the money by me. What money I have got besides the farm is lent out in notes. Only last week I let my brother-in-law have five hundred dollars, and that leaves me pretty short.”

“Perhaps somebody else will advance the money,” said Frank, feeling a little discouraged at the result of his first application.

“Yes, most likely. But I guess you won’t need any assistance. I look upon it as certain that the mortgage will be renewed. Next fall I shall have the money, and if the squire wants to dispose of the mortgage, I shall be ready to take it off his hands.”