Helping Himself; Or, Grant Thornton's Ambition

No sooner had the two entered the house than Willis Ford began.

“Mrs. Barton,” he said, “I’ll tell you now what brought me here.”

“Go ahead,” said the lady, encouragingly.

“I want you to take the boy I have brought with me to board.”

“Land sakes! I don’t keep a boardin’ house!”

“No; but if I will make it worth your while you will take him, won’t you?”

“How much will you give?” asked Mrs. Barton, shrewdly.

“Four dollars a week.”

“He’ll be a sight of trouble,” said the lady; but there was something in her tone that satisfied Ford that she was favorably inclined to the proposal.

“Oh, no, he won’t. He’s so small that you can twist him round your finger. Besides, Abner will be company for him. He will be with him most of the time.”

“Say five dollars and it’s a bargain,” said Mrs. Barton.

Ford hesitated. He did not care to spend more than he was obliged to, but it was of importance to obtain at least a temporary refuge for the boy, of whose care he was heartily tired. It seemed to him that five dollars would be enough to support the whole family in the style in which they were apparently accustomed to live. However, it was politic to make the sum sufficient to interest these people in retaining charge of the boy.

“Well,” he said, after a pause, “it’s more than I expected to pay, but I suppose I shall have to accept your terms. I conclude Mr. Barton will not object to your taking a boarder?”

“Oh, Joel is of no account,” returned Mrs. Barton, contemptuously. “I run this house!”

Willis Ford suppressed a smile. He could easily believe from Mrs. Barton’s appearance that she was the head of the establishment.

“There’s one thing more,” added Mrs. Barton; “you’re to pay the money to me. Jest as sure as it goes into Joel’s hands, it’ll go for drink. The way that man carries on is a disgrace.”

“I should prefer to pay the money to you,” said Ford.

“You’ll have to pay somethin’ in advance, if you want the boy to have anythin’ to eat. I’ve got to send to the village, and I haven’t got a cent in the house.”

Willis Ford took out a pocketbook. Extracting therefrom four five-dollar bills, he handed them to Mrs. Barton.

“There’s money for four weeks,” he said. “When that time is up I’ll send you more.”

Mrs. Barton’s eyes sparkled, and she eagerly clutched the money.

“I ain’t seen so much money for years,” she said. “I’ll jest look out Joel don’t get hold of it. Don’t you tell Joel or Abner how much you’ve paid me.”

“I’ll take care of that, Mrs. Barton. By the way, I must caution you not to believe any of the boy’s stories. He’s the son of a friend of mine, who’s put him under my care. The boy’s weak-minded, and has strange fancies. He thinks his name isn’t Sam Green, and that his father is rich. Why, only the other day he insisted his name was George Washington.”

“Land’s sake! How cur’us!” “Of course; you won’t pay any attention to what he says. He may take it into his head to run away. If he does, you must get him back.”

“You can trust me to do that!” said Mrs. Barton, with emphasis. “I ain’t goin’ to let no five-dollar boarder slip through my fingers!”

“That’s well! Now I must be going. You will hear from me from time to time.”

He passed through the front door into the yard.

“Good-by!” he said.

Herbert was about to follow him, but he waived him back.

“You are not to come with me, Sam,” he said. “I shall leave you for a few weeks with this good lady.”

Herbert stared at him in dismay. This was something he had never dreamed of.

CHAPTER XXIX – INTRODUCES MR. BARTON

When Herbert realized that he was to be left behind he ran after Willis Ford, and pleaded for the privilege of accompanying him. “Don’t leave me here, Mr. Ford!” he said. “I should die of homesickness!”

“So you would rather go with me?” Ford said, with an amused smile.

“Oh, yes, much rather!”

“I had not supposed you valued my company so highly. I ought to feel complimented. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I shall have to leave you here for a few weeks. This good lady will take good care of you.”

Herbert stole a glance at Mrs. Barton, who was watching him with mingled contempt and impatience, but he did not become any more reconciled to the prospect. He reiterated his request.

“I have had enough of this,” said Ford, sternly. “You will stop making a fuss if you know what is best for yourself. Good-by! You will hear from me soon.”

Herbert realized the uselessness of his resistance, and sank despondently upon the grass.

“Is he goin’ to stay here, marm?” asked Abner, curiously.

“Yes; he’s goin’ to board with us.”

“Ho, ho!” laughed Abner; “he’ll have a nice boardin’ place!”

“Abner, you jest shut up, or I’ll take a stick to you! You needn’t make him any more homesick than he is. Just try ef you can’t amuse him.”

“Say, Sam, I guess we’ll have a stavin’ time together,” said Abner, really pleased to have a companion. “What’ll we do? Want to play leapfrog?”

“I don’t feel like playing,” answered Herbert, despondently.

“We might go fishin’,” suggested Abner. “There’s a pond only a quarter of a mile from here.”

“I don’t know how to fish,” said Herbert.

“Don’t know how to fish? What do you know how to do?”

“We don’t have any chance in New York.”

“Say,” exclaimed Abner, with sudden interest, “is New York a nice place?”

“I wish I was back there. I never shall be happy anywhere’s else.”

“Tell me what you fellows do there. I dunno but I’d like to go myself.”

Before Herbert had a chance to answer Mrs. Barton broke in:

“Abner, you take care of Sam while I go to the village.”

“What are you goin’ there for, marm?”

“I’m going to buy some sausages for dinner. We haven’t got anything in the house.”

“Me and Sam will go, if you’ll give us the money.”

“I know you too well, Abner Barton. I won’t trust you with the money. Ef I gave you a five-dollar bill, I’d never see any on’t back again.”

“Say, mam, you haven’t got a five-dollar bill, have you?” asked Abner, with distended eyes.

“Never you mind!”

“I’ll tell dad ef you don’t give me some.”

“You jest dare to do it!” returned Mrs. Barton, in a menacing tone. “Your father ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. It’s money for Sam’s board.”

“My name isn’t Sam,” expostulated Herbert, who had a natural preference for his own appellation.

“That’s what I’m goin’ to call you. You can call yourself George Washington, or General Jackson, ef you want to. Mebbe you’re Christopher Columbus.”

“My name is Herbert Reynolds,” said Herbert, annoyed.

“That’s what you call yourself to-day. There’s no knowin’ who you’ll be to-morrow.”

“Don’t you believe me, Mrs. Barton?” asked Herbert, distressed.

“No, I don’t. The man who brung you—I dis-remember his name—”

“Willis Ford.”

“Well, Willis Ford, then! It seems you know his name. Well, he told me you was loony, and thought you was somebody else than your own self.”

“He told you that I was crazy?” ejaculated Herbert.

“Yes; and I have no doubt it’s so.”

“It’s a wicked lie!” exclaimed Herbert, indignantly; “and I’d like to tell him so to his face.”

“Well, you won’t have a chance for some time. But I can’t stand here talkin’. I must be goin’ to the store. You two behave yourselves while I’m gone!”

Herbert felt so dull and dispirited that he did not care to speak, but Abner’s curiosity had been excited about New York, and he plied his young companion with questions, which Herbert answered wearily. Though he responded listlessly, and did not say any more than he felt obliged to, he excited Abner’s interest.

“I mean to go to New York some time,” he said. “Is it far?”

“It’s as much as a thousand miles. It may be more.”

“Phew! That’s a big distance. How did you come?”

“We came in the cars.”

“Did it cost much?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Ford paid for the tickets.”

“Has he got plenty of money?”

“I don’t think he has. He used to be pa’s clerk.”

“I wish we had enough money. You and me would start some fine mornin’, and mebbe your father would give me something to do when we got there.”

For the first time Herbert began to feel an interest in the conversation.

“Oh, I wish we could,” he said, fervently. “I know pa would give you a lot of money for bringing me back.”

“Do you really think he would?” asked Abner, briskly.

“I know he would. But your mother wouldn’t let us go.”

“She wouldn’t know it,” said Abner, winking.

“You wouldn’t run away from home?” questioned Herbert.

“Why wouldn’t I? What’s to keep me here? Marm’s always scoldin’, and dad gets drunk whenever he has any money to spend for drink. I reckon they wouldn’t care much if I made myself scarce.”

Herbert was not sure whether he ought not to feel shocked. He admitted to himself, however, that if he had a father and mother answering the description of Abner’s, that he would not so much regret leaving them. At any rate, Abner’s words awoke a hope of sometime getting away from the place he already hated, and returning to his city home, now more valued than ever.

“We can’t go without money,” he said, in a troubled voice.

“Couldn’t we walk?”

“It’s too far, and I’m not strong.”

“I could walk it, ef I took time enough,” asserted Abner, positively. “Hello! there’s dad!”

Herbert looked up, and, following Abner’s glance, saw a man approaching the farmhouse. Mr. Barton—for it was he—was a tall man, shabbily attired, his head crowned with a battered hat, whose gait indicated a little uncertainty, and betrayed some difficulty about the maintenance of his equilibrium.

“Is that your father?” asked Herbert.

“It’s the old man, sure enough. He’s about half full.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s been drinkin’, as usual; but he didn’t drink enough to make him tight. Guess his funds give out.”

Herbert was rather shocked at Abner’s want of respect in speaking of his father, but even to him Mr. Barton hardly seemed like a man who could command a son’s respect.

“Wonder whether dad met marm on the way?” said Abner, musing.

By this time, Mr. Barton had entered the yard, and caught sight of his son and Herbert.

“Abner,” said he, in a thick voice, “who’s that boy?”

“Then he didn’t meet marm,” thought Abner. “He’s a boy that’s goin’ to board with us, dad,” he answered.

“You don’t say! Glad to make your acquaintance, boy,” he said, straightening up.

“Thank you, sir,” answered Herbert, faintly.

CHAPTER XXX – A MODEL HOUSEHOLD

“When did you come?” asked Barton, steadying himself against a tree.

“Half an hour ago,” answered Abner, for Herbert was gazing, with a repulsion he found it difficult to conceal, at Barton, whose flushed face and thick utterance indicated his condition very clearly.

“Who came with him?” continued Barton.

“You’d better ask marm. She attended to the business. It was a young man.”

“Where is she?”

“Gone to the village to buy some sassiges for dinner.”

“Good!” exclaimed Barton, in a tone of satisfaction. “I’ll stay at home to dinner to-day. Did the man pay your mother any money?”

“I s’pose so, or she wouldn’t be buyin’ sassiges. Old Schickman won’t trust us any more.”

“The money should have been paid to me. I’ll see about it when your marm comes back from the store.”

“You’d spend it all for drink, dad,” said Abner.

“How dare you speak so to your father, you ungrateful young dog!”

He essayed to reach Abner to strike him, but his dutiful son dodged easily, and his father, being unsteady on his legs, fell on the ground.

Abner laughed, but Herbert was too much shocked to share in his enjoyment.

“Come here and help me up, you Abner!” said his father.

“Not much, dad! If you hadn’t tried to lick me you wouldn’t have fallen!”

“Let me help you, sir!” said Herbert, conquering his instinctive disgust and approaching the fallen man.

“You’re a gentleman!” murmured Barton, as he took the little boy’s proffered hand and, after considerable ado, raised himself to a standing position. “You’re a gentleman; I wish I had a boy like you.”

Herbert could not join in the wish. He felt that a father like Joel Barton would be a great misfortune.

But just then Mrs. Barton entered the yard, marching with long strides like a man’s.

“Here’s marm!” announced Abner.

Barton steadied himself as he turned to look at his wife.

“I want to see you, Mrs. B.,” he said. “When are you goin’ to have dinner?”

“Never, if I depended on you to supply the vittles!” she answered, bluntly.

“Don’t speak so before a stranger,” said Barton, with a hiccough. “You hurt my feelin’s.”

“Your feelin’s are tough, and so are mine by this time.”

“What have you got there?”

“Some sassiges. Ef you want your share, you’ll have to be on time. I shan’t save you any.”

“How much money did the man pay you, Mrs. B.?”

“That’s my business!” retorted his wife, shortly.

“Mrs. B.,” said her husband, straightening up, “I want you to understand that I’m the master of this house, and it’s my right to take care of the money. You’ll oblige me by handin’ it over.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort, Joel Barton! You’d only spend it for drink.”

“Would you grudge me the few pennies I spend for drink? My system requires it. That’s what the doctor says.”

“Then you must find the money for it yourself. My system requires something to eat, and, ef I take a boarder, he’s got to have something to eat, too.”

“Mrs. B., I didn’t think your heart was so hard,” said Barton, in a maudlin tone.

“Look here, Joel Barton; you might as well stop such foolish talk. It won’t do no good. I can’t stay here all day. I must go and be gettin’ dinner.”

Had Barton succeeded in raising money from his wife, he would probably have returned at once to the tavern, and his place would have been vacant at the dinner table. Failing in this, he lay back and fell asleep, and was not roused till dinner time.

Mrs. Barton was a fair cook, and Herbert ate with an unexpected relish. It is needless to say that Abner also did full justice to the meal.

“I say, Sam,” he said, “I’m glad you’ve come.”

Herbert was hardly prepared to agree with him.

“Now we’ll have to live better,” Abner explained. “Mam and I gen’ally have to skirmish round for vittles. We don’t often get meat.”

This frank confession rather alarmed Herbert. He was not over self-indulgent, but he had never lacked for nourishing food, and the prospect of an uncertain supply was not encouraging.

When dinner was over—there was no second course—they left the table. Joel Barton made a fresh attempt to extort a small sum from his wife, but was met with an inflexible refusal. Mrs. Barton proved deaf alike to entreaties and threats. She was a strong, resolute woman, and not one to be intimidated.

When Barton left the house, his look of disappointment had given place to one of cunning.

“Come here, Abner!” he said, beckoning to his son and heir.

“What for?”

“Never you mind.”

“But I do mind. Do you want to catch hold of me?”

“No; it’s only a little matter of business. It’s for your good.”

Abner accompanied his father as far as the fence.

“Now, what do you want?” he asked, with his eyes warily fixed on his father.

“I want you to find out where your marm keeps that money,” said Barton, in a coaxing tone.

“What for?”

“You’re to take it and bring it to me.”

“And go without eatin’?”

“I’ll buy the provisions myself. I’m the head of the family.”

“Do you want me to hook money from marm?”

“‘Twon’t be hookin’. The money by right belongs to me. Ain’t I the head of the family?”

“I dunno about that. Marm’s the boss, and always has been,” chuckled Abner.

Joel frowned, but immediately tried another attack.

“Of course I’ll give you some of it, Abner,” he resumed. “If there’s five dollars I’ll give you a quarter.”

“I’ll see about it, dad.”

“Get it for me before evenin’, if you can. I shall need it then.”

Abner returned to Herbert, and frankly related the conversation that had taken place between himself and his father.

Herbert was shocked. He did not know what to think of the singular family he had got into.

“You won’t do it, will you?” he asked, startled.

“No, I won’t. I want a quarter bad enough, but I’d rather mam would keep the money. She’ll spend it for vittles, and dad would spend it for drink. Wouldn’t you like to go a-fishin’? It’s fine weather, and we’ll have fun.”

Herbert assented, not knowing how to dispose of his time. Abner turned the conversation again on New York. What Herbert had already told him had powerfully impressed his imagination.

“Haven’t you got any money?” he asked.

“No,” answered Herbert. “Mr. Ford took away all I had, except this.”

He drew from his pocket a nickel.

“That won’t do no good,” said Abner, disappointed. “Stop a minute, though,” he added, after a minute’s pause. “Wouldn’t your folks send you some money, if you should write to them?”

“Yes,” answered Herbert, his face brightening. “Why didn’t I think of that before? If I could get me paper and ink I’d write at once to papa. I know he’d either send the money or come for me.”

“We’ll go to the post office,” said Abner. “There you can buy some paper and a postage stamp. You’ve got just money enough. There’s a pen and ink there.”

“Let us go at once,” said Herbert, eagerly.

The boys took their way to the village. The letter was written and posted, and a burden was lifted from the boy’s mind. He felt that his father would seek him out at once, and he could bear his present position for a short time. But, alas! for poor Herbert—the letter never came into his father’s hands. Why, the reader will learn in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXXI – THE HOUSEKEEPER’S CRIME

It is not to be supposed that during this time the family of the missing boy were idle. The mysterious disappearance of his only son filled his father’s heart with anguish, and he took immediate steps to penetrate the mystery. Not only was the fullest information given to the police, but an experienced detective connected with a private agency was detailed for the search. The matter also got into the papers, and Herbert, in his Western home, little suspected that his name had already become a household word in thousands of families.

Days passed, and in spite of the efforts that were being made to discover him, no clew had been obtained by Herbert’s friends, either as to his whereabouts, or as to the identity of the party or parties hat had abducted him. It is needless to say that Grant heartily sympathized with the afflicted father, and was sad on his own account, for he had become warmly attached to the little boy whose instant companion he had been in his hours of leisure.

The only one in the house who took the matter coolly was Mrs. Estabrook, the housekeeper. She even ventured to suggest that Herbert had run away.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Estabrook?” exclaimed the father, impatiently. “You ought to know my poor boy better than that!”

“Boys are a worrisome set,” returned the housekeeper, composedly. “Only last week I read in the Herald about two boys who ran away from good homes and went out to kill Indians.”

“Herbert was not that kind of a boy,” said Grant. “He had no fondness for adventure.”

“I have known Herbert longer than you, young man,” retorted the housekeeper, with a sneer.

“It is very clear that you didn’t know him as well,” said Mr. Reynolds.

Mrs. Estabrook sniffed, but said nothing. Without expressly saying so, it was evident that she dissented from Mr. Reynolds’ opinion.

The broker’s loss unfitted him for work, and he left the details of office work to his subordinates, while nearly all his time was spent in interviews with the police authorities or in following up faint clews. His loss seemed to strengthen the intimacy and attachment between him and Grant, in whom he confided without reserve. When at home in the evening he talked over with Grant, whom he found a sympathetic listener, the traits of the stolen boy, and brought up reminiscences, trifling, perhaps, but touching, under the circumstances. To Mrs. Estabrook he seldom spoke of his son. Her cold and unsympathetic temperament repelled him. She had never preferred to feel any attachment for Herbert, and the boy, quick to read her want of feeling, never cared to be with her.

One morning, after Mr. Reynolds and Grant had gone out, Mrs. Estabrook, on going to the hall, saw a letter on the table, which had been left by the postman. As curiosity was by no means lacking in the housekeeper’s composition, she took it up, and peered at the address through her glasses.

It was directed to Mr. Reynolds in a round, schoolboy hand.

Mrs. Estabrook’s heart gave a sudden jump of excitement.

“It’s Herbert’s handwriting,” she said to herself.

She examined the postmark, and found that it was mailed at Scipio, Illinois.

She held the letter in her hand and considered what she should do. Should the letter come into the hands of Mr. Reynolds, the result would doubtless be that the boy would be recovered, and would reveal the name of his abductor. This would subject her favorite, Willis Ford, to arrest, and probably imprisonment.

“He should have been more careful, and not allowed the boy to write,” said the housekeeper to herself. “Willis must have been very imprudent. If I only knew what was in the letter!”

The housekeeper’s curiosity became so ungovernable that she decided to open it. By steaming it, she could do it, and if it seemed expedient, paste it together again. She had little compunction in the matter. In a few minutes she was able to withdraw the letter from the envelope and read its contents.

This is what Herbert wrote:

“Scipio, ILL.

“DEAR PAPA: I know you must have been very anxious about me. I would have written you before, but I have had no chance. Willis Ford found me playing in the street, and got me to go with him by saying you had sent for me. I thought it strange you should have sent Mr. Ford, but I didn’t like to refuse, for fear it was true. We went on board a steamer in the harbor, and Mr. Ford took me in a stateroom. Then he put a handkerchief to my face, and I became sleepy. When I waked up, we were at sea. I don’t know where I went, but when we came to land, some time the next day, we got into the cars and traveled for a couple of days. I begged Mr. Ford to take me home, but it made him cross. I think he hates you and Grant, and I think he took me away to spite you. I am sure he is a very wicked man.

“Finally we came to this place. It is a small place in Illinois. The people who live here are Mr. and Mrs. Barton and their son Abner. Mr. Joel Barton is a drunkard. He gets drunk whenever he has money to buy whisky. Mrs. Barton is a hard-working woman, and she does about all the work that is done. Mr. Ford paid her some money in advance. She is a tall woman, and her voice sounds like a man’s. She does not ill treat me, but I wish I were at home. Abner is a big, rough boy, a good deal older and larger than I am, but he is kind to me and he wants to come to New York. He says he will run away and take me with him, if we can get enough money to pay our fares. I don’t think we could walk it so far. Abner might, for he is a good deal stronger than I am, but I know I should get very tired.

“Now, dear papa, if you will send me money enough to pay for railroad tickets, Abner and I will start just as soon as we get it. I don’t know as he ought to run away from home, but he says his father and mother don’t care for him, and I don’t believe they do. His father doesn’t care for anything but whisky, and his mother is scolding him all the time. I don’t think she would do that if she cared much for him, do you?

“I have filled the paper, and must stop. Be sure to send the money to your loving son,

“HERBERT REYNOLDS.”

“How easy you write!” said Abner, in wonder, as he saw Herbert’s letter growing long before his eyes. “It would take me a week to write as long a letter as that, and then I couldn’t do it.”

“I can’t write so easy generally,” said the little boy, “but, you see, I have a good deal to write about.”

“Then there’s another thing,” said Abner. “I shouldn’t know how to spell so many words. You must be an awful good scholar.”