The Erie Train Boy

That morning, when Raymond Ferguson entered the breakfast-room rather later than usual, he found his father reading a paragraph in the Sun with every appearance of surprise.

"What is it, papa?" asked Raymond.

"Read that!"

Raymond took the paper, and his eye was drawn to some conspicuous headlines.

A NARROW ESCAPE FROM A TERRIBLE DEATH!

A BROKER'S DAUGHTER IN FLAMES!

SAVED BY A BOY'S HEROISM!

A TRAGIC SCENE AT A NEW YEAR'S PARTY!

"Why, it's Rose Wainwright!" said Raymond excitedly. "Whom do you think I saw on his way to the party last evening?"

"Fred Fenton."

"How did you hear it?" asked Raymond in surprise.

"Read the account and you will understand."

This is what Raymond read:

Last evening a terrible tragedy came near being enacted at the house of the well-known broker, John Wainwright. The occasion was a juvenile party given by his little daughter Rose, eleven years of age. One part of the entertainment provided was a series of tableaux upon a miniature stage at one end of the dining-room. All went well till the third tableau, in which the young hostess took part, She incautiously approached too near the footlights, when her white dress caught fire and instantly blazed up. All present were spellbound, and it seemed as if the little girl's fate was sealed. Luckily one of the young guests, Fred Fenton, retained his coolness and presence of mind. Without an instant's delay he sprang upon the stage, directed the little girl to lie down, and wrapped his coat around her. Thanks to his promptitude, she escaped with slight injuries. By the time the rest of those present recovered from the spell of terror, Rose was saved.

We understand that the brave boy who displayed such heroic qualities was formerly a train boy on the Erie Railroad, but is now employed in the office of Mr. Wainwright.

Raymond read this account with lowering brow. He felt sick with jealousy. Why had he not been lucky enough to receive an invitation to the party, and enact the part of a deliverer? He did not ask himself whether, if the opportunity had been afforded, he would have availed himself of it. It is fortunate for Rose that she had Fred to depend upon in her terrible emergency, and not Raymond Ferguson. There was little that was heroic about him. A hero must be unselfish, and Raymond was the incarnation of selfishness.

"Your cousin seems to have become quite a hero," said Mr. Ferguson, as Raymond looked up from the paper.

"Don't call him my cousin! I don't care to own him."

"I don't know," said his father, who was quite as selfish, but not as malicious as Raymond. "I am not sure but it will be considered a credit to us to have such a relative."

"Anybody could have done as much as he did," said Raymond in a tone of discontent. "Here's some news of your train-boy, Luella," he continued, as his sister entered the room.

"Has he been arrested?" asked Luella listlessly.

"Not at all! He turns out to be a hero," said her father.

"I suppose that is a joke."

"Read the paper and see."

The young lady read the account with as little pleasure as Raymond.

"How on earth came a boy like that at the Wainwrights' house?" she said with a curl of the lip. "Really, society is getting very much mixed."

"Perhaps," said her father, "it was his relationship to the future Countess Cattelli."

Luella smiled complacently. She had fallen in with an Italian count, an insignificant looking man, very dark and with jet black hair and mustache, of whom she knew very little except that he claimed to be a count. She felt that he would propose soon, and she had decided to accept him. She did not pretend to love him, but it would be such a triumph to be addressed as the Countess Cattelli. She would let Alfred Lindsay see that she could do without him.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A CONFIDENTIAL MISSION

When Fred met Mr. Wainwright at the office the next morning his employer greeted him with a pleasant smile, but did not stop to speak. Fred felt relieved, for it embarrassed him to be thanked, and since the evening previous no one had met him without speaking of his heroism. Now Fred was inclined to be modest, and he could not possibly feel that he had done anything heroic, though he was quite aware that he had saved the life of Rose Wainwright. He looked upon it rather as a fortunate opportunity for rendering his employer a valuable service.

At one o'clock Fred took his hat, intending to go to lunch. He lunched at a quiet place in Nassau Street, and never spent over twenty-five cents for this meal, feeling that he must give the bulk of his salary to his mother.

He was just going out when he heard his name called.

Looking back, he saw that it was the broker himself who was speaking to him. Mr. Wainwright had his hat on, and seemed about going out, too.

"You must go to lunch with me to-day, Fred."

"Thank you, sir," answered Fred respectfully.

They walked through Wall Street together, the broker chatting pleasantly. On the way Fred met Raymond, who stared in surprise and disgust as he saw the intimate terms on which Fred appeared to be with his wealthy employer. Mr. Wainwright led the way into an expensive restaurant of a very select character, and motioned Fred to sit down at a table with him.

After the orders were given, he said: "I have invited you to lunch with me, as I could not speak at the office without being overheard. Of course the great service which you rendered me and mine last evening, I can never forget. I do not propose to pay you for it."

"I am glad of that, sir," said Fred earnestly.

"I feel that money is entirely inadequate to express my gratitude, but I shall lose no opportunity of advancing your interests and pushing you on in business."

"Thank you, sir."

"Indeed, it so happens that I have an opportunity even now of showing my confidence in you."

Fred listened with increased attention.

"Some months since," continued the broker, "a confidential clerk who had been employed in my office for years suddenly disappeared, and with him about fifteen thousand dollars in money and securities. As they were my property, and no one else was involved, I did not make the loss public, thinking that I might stand a better chance of getting them back."

"But, sir, I should think the securities would be sold, and the amount realized spent."

"Well thought of, but there was one hindrance. They were not negotiable without the indorsement of the owner in whose name they stood."

"Yes, sir, I see."

"Sooner or later, I expected to hear from them, and I have done so.

Yesterday this letter came to me from my defaulting clerk."

He placed a letter, with a Canadian postmark in Fred's hand.

"Shall I read it?'" asked Fred.

"Yes, do so."

This was the letter:

MR. WAINWRIGHT,

DEAR SIR – I am ashamed to address you after the manner in which I have betrayed your confidence and robbed you, but I do it in the hope of repairing to some extent the wrong I have committed, and of restoring to you a large part of the stolen bonds. If it depended on myself alone I should have little difficulty, but I had a partner in my crime. I may say indeed that I never should have robbed you had I not been instigated to it by another, This man, who calls himself Paul Bowman, I made acquaintance with at a billiard saloon in New York. He insinuated himself into my confidence, inquired my salary, denounced it as inadequate, and finally induced me to take advantage of the confidence reposed in me to abstract the securities which you lost. He had made all arrangements for my safe flight, accompanying me, of course. We went to Montreal first, but this is so apt to be the refuge of defaulters that we finally came to the small village from which I address these lines.

There was a considerable sum of money which we spent, also five hundred dollars in government bonds on which we realized. The other securities we have not as yet been able to negotiate. I have proposed to Bowman to restore them to you by express, and trust to your kindness to spare us a criminal prosecution, and enable us to return to the States, for which I have a homesick longing. But he laughs the idea to scorn, and has managed to spirit away the bonds and conceal them in some place unknown to me. Of course this makes me entirely dependent upon him. To make matters worse, I have fallen sick with rheumatism, and am physically helpless.

If you could send here a confidential messenger who could ascertain the hiding-place of the bonds, I would thankfully consent to his taking them back to you, and I would make no conditions with you. If you felt that you could repose confidence in me once more. I would willingly return to your employment, and make arrangements to pay you by degrees the value of the money thus far expended by Bowman and myself. There are still thirteen thousand five hundred dollars' worth of securities left untouched in their original packages.

We are living in a small village called St. Victor, thirty miles from the American line. We occupy a small cottage rather out of the village, and go by our own names. Do not write to me, for the letter would be seen by Paul Bowman, and defeat my plans, but instruct your messenger to seek a private interview with me. I am detained at home by sickness at present, but Bowman is away most of the day. He is fond of hunting, and spends considerable of the day in the woods, while his evenings are spent at the inn, where there is a pool table. I have managed to send this to the post office by a small girl who comes here in the morning to make the bed and sweep. Hoping earnestly that this communication may reach you, I sign myself

Your repentant clerk,

JAMES SINCLAIR.

Fred read this letter with great interest. "He seems to write in good faith," he said, as he handed it back.

"Yes; Sinclair is not so wicked as weak. I quite believe him when he says that it was Bowman who instigated him to the deed."

"Do you think there is any chance of recovering the securities?" asked Fred.

"That depends upon whether I can secure a discreet and trustworthy messenger."

"Yes, sir; I suppose that is important."

"Perhaps you can suggest some one?" said the broker, eying Fred attentively.

Fred shook his head.

"I have too few acquaintances to think of anyone who would be fit," he answered.

"Would you undertake it yourself?" asked Mr. Wainwright.

"I?" stammered Fred in genuine surprise.

"Yes."

"But don't you think I am too young?"

"Perhaps your youth may be a recommendation."

"I don't see how, sir."

"By drawing away suspicion from you. Should I send a man, the appearance of a stranger in a small place like St. Victor – I think it has little more than a thousand inhabitants – would very likely excite the suspicions of this Bowman, and so defeat the chances of success."

"Yes, sir, I see that."

"Of course your youth presents this objection – that you may not have the requisite judgment and knowledge of the world for so delicate a mission."

"That is what I am afraid of, sir."

"Still, I have observed you closely, and have found you prompt, self-reliant, and possessed of unusual good sense. So, upon the whole, having no other person in my mind, I have decided to send you to St. Victor if you will consent to go."

"I will certainly go, sir, if you desire it, and will do my best to succeed."

"That is all that any one could do, whatever might be his age and experience. When will you be ready?"

"To-morrow, if you wish it, sir."

"The sooner the better. I shall provide you with ample funds to defray your expenses. As to instructions, I have none to give. You must be guided by circumstances, and fall back in times of perplexity upon your natural shrewdness. Now let us address ourselves to the dinner."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ST. VICTOR

"So this is St. Victor," said Fred, as he got out of the train on the Grand Trunk Railroad, and looked about him curiously.

It was a small, unpretending village, composed entirely of frame houses, of modest size, and a few small stores kept, as the signs indicated, by Frenchmen. On a little elevation stood a wooden Catholic church, surmounted by a cross.

"It seems a quiet place," thought Fred. "I shall find it dull enough, but if I accomplish my purpose I won't complain of that."

He scarcely needed to inquire for the village inn, for it was in plain sight, not a hundred yards from the station. As the town seemed to be peopled chiefly by French residents it would have been natural to conclude that the hotel also would be French. This, however, was not the case, for the Lion Inn (there was a swinging signboard adorned by the figure of a lion, the work of a fourth-rate sign painter) was kept by a short, stout, red-faced Englishman, who stood in the doorway as Fred came up, valise in hand.

"Is this the hotel?" asked Fred.

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"I should like to stay with you for a while."

"All right, sir. Come right in, and we'll accommodate you with a room.

Have you had supper?"

"No. I should like some, for I am very hungry."

"It shall be ready for you, sir, in a jiffy. Will 'am and heggs suit you, sir?"

"Yes, I shall relish them."

"James, take the young gentleman's bag up to No. 5."

"I should like water and towels, as I have had a long and dusty ride."

Fred was ushered into a small bedroom on the second floor, very plainly furnished, but the train boy was not accustomed to luxurious accommodations, and found it satisfactory. He indulged himself in a thorough ablution, then sat down at the window, which was in the front of the house.

Soon there was a knock at the door, and the boy James made his appearance.

"Please, sir, your supper's ready," he said.

"And so am I," returned Fred with alacrity.

He descended to a small dining-room, adjoining the bar. It was not more than twelve feet square, and from its size it might be inferred that the Lion Inn was seldom overrun with guests.

Fred sat down at the table alone, but presently a man of thirty-five or thereabouts entered and took a seat opposite him.

"Good evening, young man," he said. "Where do you come from?"

"Good evening," answered Fred, civilly. "I come from New York."

The other arched his brows.

"So do I," he said. "What sent you here to this out-of-the-way place?"

"There's good hunting hereabouts, isn't there?"

"Yes, are you fond of hunting?"

"I like it pretty well. I've just had a present of a handsome rifle."

It should be mentioned here that before Fred left New York Mr. Wainwright had given him a gun which would serve him as an excuse for his journey.

"We'll go out together to-morrow. My name's Bowman."

Fred heard the name with a thrill of excitement. Why, this must be the man referred to in Sinclair's letter as having instigated him to the crime. He surveyed Bowman with attention, taking stock of him, so to speak. He found him to be a man of middle height, rather spare than stout, with dark, shifty eyes and a sallow complexion. He wore a mustache, but no whiskers.

"I may find it worth while to get well acquainted with him," thought Fred. "I shall be glad to go out with you," he said aloud.

"That's all right! But how does a boy like you happen to be traveling so far from home?"

"I have a vacation," said Fred. "I have never been in Canada, and thought it would be something new to come here."

"I'm pretty tired of it, I can tell you."

"Then why do you stay?" asked Fred innocently.

"My partner's taken down with rheumatism, and I can't leave him," answered Bowman in a tone of hesitation. "When he gets well I may go back to New York."

"I doubt if you will," thought Fred.

"Were you in a business position in New York?" asked Bowman.

"I have been for some time train boy on the Erie Railroad," answered

Fred, feeling that it would never do to mention his connection with Mr. Wainwright.

"Train boys don't usually have money to spend on vacation trips," said Bowman shrewdly.

"That's true," laughed Fred. "If I had depended on my savings, I shouldn't have been able to go farther than Hoboken, or Coney Island, but a rich friend supplied me with a moderate sum for expenses."

"Then you were in luck."

Fred was a little afraid that Bowman would inquire the name of the rich friend, and made up his mind that he would evade answering. However, his companion showed no curiosity on the subject.

"Will you take a glass of ale with me?" asked Bowman, as he filled his own glass from a bottle beside his plate.

"No, thank you. I have no taste for it."

"I didn't like it myself at first but I've come to like it."

"Does your partner board with you at the hotel?" asked Fred.

"No," was the careless reply. "We have a small cottage just out of the village."

"I wonder how he gets along for meals," thought Fred.

However that might be, Paul Bowman didn't permit anxiety to interfere with his own appetite. He did ample justice to the supper, and so indeed did Fred. Fortunately the ham and eggs were well cooked, and the loaf of bread was fresh. In place of ale Fred contented himself with tea.

At length they rose from the table.

"This is a beastly hole – St. Victor, I mean," said Bowman, as he led the way to the reading-room, "but the eating is fair. An Englishman keeps the inn, and though he has no French kickshaws on his table, he gives you solid food and enough of it. Do you smoke? I believe I have a cigar somewhere, but I smoke a pipe myself."

"Thank you," answered Fred, "but I don't smoke. I used to smoke cigarettes, but a young man – an acquaintance of mine – died of cigarette-smoking, so the doctor said, and I gave it up."

"Smoking never hurt me that I know of," said Bowman. "Even if it did, what's a man to do in this dull hole? Shall you stay here long?"

"I don't know how long. It's a cheap place to stay in, isn't it?"

"Yes, it has that recommendation."

"Then I may stay a week possibly," said Fred in an off-hand way.

"I've been here six weeks," said Bowman.

"Then you have had a chance to get well acquainted with St. Victor."

"A good deal better than I want to be. I was just getting ready to leave, when my partner had a sharp attack of rheumatism."

"Is he from New York too?"

"No, from Philadelphia," answered Bowman cautiously, though he had no suspicion that Fred was other than he represented himself.

"I have never been in Philadelphia," said Fred indifferently. "What is your partner's name?"

"James Sinclair," answered Bowman after a moment's hesitation. "Have you ever heard that name before?"

"Yes."

"Where?" I asked Bowman quickly.

"I had a schoolmate of that name."

"Oh! Yes, I suppose the name is not an uncommon one. Do you play billiards?"

"I have seen it played."

"There is a poor table in the house. Such as it is, it may afford us a little recreation. Will you try a game?"

"Yes, if you will teach me."

Fred felt that it was his policy to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Bowman, as it might afford him an opportunity to obtain the information he desired. He had never played a game of billiards, but he was willing to try it.

"Come in, then," said Bowman.

He led the way into a room opposite the office, where stood a venerable-looking billiard table, probably twenty years old. It had been given to the landlord some years before by a gentleman, and it had seen hard service since then.

They played one game, and were about to commence another when a small girl with black hair cut short entered the room.

"Monsieur Bowman," she said, "your friend would like to see you. He feels quite bad."

"Plague take it!" said Bowman pettishly. "I can do him no good, but I suppose I shall have to go."

"Is it your partner?" asked Fred.

"Yes."

"If you don't mind I will walk over with you."

"Glad of your company. Claudine, tell Mr. Sinclair that I will be with him directly."

"Oui, monsieur," and the little girl vanished.

"I wish Sinclair would get well or something," grumbled Bowman, as they walked to the lower end of the main street of the village. "It's hard luck for me to be tied to a sick man."

"Still he has the worst of it," suggested Fred, who was not altogether pleased with the cold selfishness of his companion.

"Yes, I suppose so; but it isn't right that I should suffer for his misfortune."

"Do you employ a doctor?"

"Yes; I called in a doctor once – a Frenchman – Dr. St. Hilaire. He left some medicines, and Sinclair takes them."

"He doesn't seem to get better, then?"

"At any rate he is very slow about it," said Bowman, who spoke as if his unfortunate friend were in fault.

At last they reached the cottage. It was very small, containing three rooms and an attic. Bowman opened the door, and entered what might perhaps be designated as the sitting-room, though it contained a bed, on which, propped up by pillows, lay James Sinclair.

"What's amiss with you, Sinclair?" grumbled Bowman.

"Everything is amiss. You have left me alone all day."

"What good could I do you if I were here? It would only mope me to death."

"I have had nothing to eat since morning, except a boiled egg."

"Why not? Couldn't you send Claudine after food?"

"Of what use would that be, when I had no money to give her? I warrant you have had your regular meals."

"I took my meals at the hotel – it was more convenient."

"I warrant me you took care to provide for yourself. At least give me some money so that I may not quite starve."

"Money, money, all the time! Do you know, Sinclair, our stock is running very low?"

"I demand my share of it as long as it lasts. You take advantage of my helplessness – "

"There's a dollar! Mind you make it last as long as possible," said Bowman. "It will be well to put off your complaints till another time, for I have brought company."

He signaled to Fred, who had remained outside, to enter, and the boy did so. He regarded the sick man with interest and sympathy, not alone because he seemed in sorry plight, and ill treated by his companion in crime, but also because he was clearly the less guilty of the two, and seemed disposed to make amends to the man whom he had wronged.

James Sinclair, unprepared for the advent of a boy, regarded him with surprise.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"My name is Fred Fenton," answered the train boy, remembering that Bowman was as yet ignorant of his name.

"He is a guest at the inn," explained Bowman carelessly. "He arrived to-night. He will be some company for me in this dull hole. We were playing a game of billiards when Claudine broke in and told me you wanted to see me. I expected to find you at the point of death," he finished impatiently.

"That may come sooner than you think," said Sinclair. "May I ask where you come from, young man?" he added, in a tone of suppressed eagerness which Fred well understood.

"I come from New York," answered the boy, trying to throw a degree of significance into this brief answer.

"From New York!" said Sinclair, in some excitement, and trying to read in Fred's face whether he was the expected messenger. "You have come for your health, I suppose?"

"Not exactly for that, for my health is always good, but I thought it might be a pleasant place to spend an unexpected holiday that has been granted me."

"Pleasant!" repeated Bowman scornfully. "If you can find anything pleasant at St. Victor, you will have greater luck than I."

"Is Claudine in the kitchen?" asked the sick man. "Claudine!" he called, raising his voice.

"Yes, monsieur," answered the little handmaid, appearing at the door.

"Go to the baker's and buy a loaf of bread. Here is money. Is there any tea left?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Then buy a cupful of milk and half a pound of sugar. I am almost famished. A cup of tea and some toast will put new life into me."

Claudine departed on her errand, and Sinclair once more fixed his eyes on Fred. There was a question he very much wished to ask, but in Bowman's presence he could not do it safely.