The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success

“And I thought I was carrying out your wishes in discouraging her visits.”

“You also thought that she might be a dangerous rival in my favor, and might deprive you and Alonzo of an expected share in my estate.”

“Oh, Uncle Oliver! how can you think so poorly of me?”

Mr. Carter eyed his niece with a half-smile.

“So I do you injustice, do I, Lavinia?” he returned.

“Yes, great injustice.”

“I am glad to hear it. I feel less objection now to telling you what are my future plans.”

“What are they?” asked Mrs. Pitkin apprehensively.

“I have lived for ten years under your roof, and have had no communication, as you say, with Rebecca. I think it is only fair now that I should show her some attention. I have accordingly installed her as mistress of my house in Madison Avenue, and shall henceforth make my home with her.”

Mrs. Pitkin felt as if the earth was sinking under her feet. The hopes and schemes of so many years had come to naught, and her hated and dreaded cousin was to be constantly in the society of the rich uncle.

“Rebecca has played her cards well,” she said bitterly.

“She has not played them at all. She did not seek me. I sought her.”

“How did you know she was in the city?”

“I learned it from—Philip!”

There was fresh dismay.

“So that boy has wormed his way into your confidence!” said Mrs. Pitkin bitterly. “After acting so badly that Mr. Pitkin was obliged to discharge him, he ran to you to do us a mischief.”

“Why was he discharged?” demanded Mr. Carter sternly. “Why did your husband seize the opportunity to get rid of a boy in whom he knew me to be interested as soon as he thought I was out of the way? Why, moreover, did he refuse the boy a reference, without which Philip could scarcely hope to get employment?”

“You will have to ask Mr. Pitkin. I am sure he had good reason for the course he took. He’s an impudent, low upstart in my opinion.”

“So he is, ma!” chimed in Alonzo, with heartiness.

“Ah! I have something to say to you, Alonzo,” said Mr. Carter, turning his keen glances upon the boy. “What became of that letter I gave to you to post just before I went away?”

“I put it in the letter-box,” said Alonzo nervously.

“Do you know what was in it?”

“No,” answered Alonzo, but he looked frightened.

“There were ten dollars in it. That letter never reached Phil, to whom it was addressed.”

“I—don’t know anything about it,” faltered Alonzo.

“There are ways of finding out whether letters have been posted,” said Mr. Carter. “I might put a detective on the case.”

Alonzo turned pale, and looked much discomposed.

“Of what are you accusing my boy?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, ready to contend for her favorite. “So that boy has been telling lies about him, has he? and you believe scandalous stories about your own flesh and blood?”

“Not exactly that, Lavinia.”

“Well, your near relation, and that on the testimony of a boy you know nothing about. When Lonny is so devoted to you, too!”

“I never noticed any special devotion,” said Mr. Carter, amused. “You are mistaken, however, about Philip trying to injure him. I simply asked Philip whether he had received such a letter, and he said no.”

“I dare say he did receive it,” said Mrs. Pitkin spitefully.

“We won’t argue the matter now,” said the old gentleman. “I will only say that you and Alonzo, and Mr. Pitkin also, have gone the wrong way to work to secure my favor. You have done what you could to injure two persons, one your own cousin, because you were jealous.”

“You judge me very hardly, uncle,” said Mrs. Pitkin, seeing that she must adopt a different course. “I have no bad feeling against Rebecca, and as to the boy, I will ask my husband to take him back into the store. I am sure he will do it, because you wish it.”

“I don’t wish it,” answered Mr. Carter, rather unexpectedly.

“Oh, well,” answered Mrs. Pitkin, looking relieved, “that is as you say.”

“I have other views for Philip,” said Mr. Carter. “He is with me as my private secretary.”

“Is he living with you?” asked his niece, in alarm.

“Yes.”

“There was no need of taking a stranger, Uncle Oliver. We should be glad to have Alonzo act as your secretary, though of course we should want him to stay at home.”

“I shall not deprive you of Alonzo,” said Mr. Carter, with a tinge of sarcasm in his tone. “Philip will suit me better.”

Mr. Carter turned and resumed his packing.

“Are you quite determined to leave us?” asked Mrs. Pitkin, in a subdued tone.

“Yes; it will be better.”

“But you will come back—say after a few weeks?”

“No, I think not,” he answered dryly.

“And shall we not see you at all?”

“Oh, I shall call from time to time, and besides, you will know where I am, and can call whenever you desire.”

“People will talk about your leaving us,” complained Mrs. Pitkin.

“Let them talk. I never agreed to have my movements controlled by people’s gossip. And now, Lavinia, I shall have to neglect you and resume my packing. To-morrow I shall bring Philip here to help me.”

“Would you like to have Alonzo help you, Uncle Oliver?”

This offer, much to Alonzo’s relief, was declined. He feared that he should be examined more closely by the old gentleman about the missing money, which at that very moment he had in his pocket.

Mrs. Pitkin went down stairs feeling angry and baffled. All that she had done to retain her ascendency over Uncle Oliver had failed, and Mrs. Forbush and Philip seemed to have superseded herself and Alonzo in his regard. She conferred with Mr. Pitkin on his return from the store, but the more they considered the matter the worse it looked for their prospects.

Could anything be done?

CHAPTER XXIX

A TRUCE

No more distasteful news could have come to the Pitkins than to learn that Philip and their poor cousin had secured a firm place in the good graces of Uncle Oliver. Yet they did not dare to show their resentment. They had found that Uncle Oliver had a will of his own, and meant to exercise it. Had they been more forbearing he would still be an inmate of their house instead of going over to the camp of their enemies, for so they regarded Mrs. Forbush and Phil.

“I hate that woman, Mr. Pitkin!” said his wife fiercely. “I scorn such underhanded work. How she has sneaked into the good graces of poor, deluded Uncle Oliver!”

“You have played your cards wrong, Lavinia,” said her husband peevishly.

“I? That is a strange accusation, Mr. Pitkin. It was you, to my thinking. You sent off that errand boy, and that is how the whole thing came about. If he had been in your store he wouldn’t have met Uncle Oliver down at the pier.”

“You and Alonzo persuaded me to discharge him.”

“Oh, of course it’s Alonzo and me! When you see Rebecca Forbush and that errand boy making ducks and drakes out of Uncle Oliver’s money you may wish you had acted more wisely.”

“Really, Lavinia, you are a most unreasonable woman. It’s no use criminating and recriminating. We must do what we can to mend matters.”

“What can we do?”

“They haven’t got the money yet—remember that! We must try to re-establish friendly relations with Mr. Carter.”

“Perhaps you’ll tell me how?”

“Certainly! Call as soon as possible at the house on Madison Avenue.”

“Call on that woman?”

“Yes; and try to smooth matters over as well as you can. Take Alonzo with you, and instruct him to be polite to Philip.”

“I don’t believe Lonny will be willing to demean himself so far.”

“He’ll have to,” answered Mr. Pitkin firmly.

“We’ve all made a mistake, and the sooner we remedy it the better.”

Mrs. Pitkin thought it over. The advice was unpalatable, but it was evidently sound. Uncle Oliver was rich, and they must not let his money slip through their fingers. So, after duly instructing Alonzo in his part, Mrs. Pitkin, a day or two later, ordered her carriage and drove in state to the house of her once poor relative.

“Is Mrs. Forbush at home?” she asked of the servant.

“I believe so, madam,” answered a dignified man-servant.

“Take this card to her.”

Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo were ushered into a drawing-room more elegant than their own. She sat on a sofa with Alonzo.

“Who would think that Rebecca Forbush would come to live like this?” she said, half to herself.

“And that boy,” supplemented Alonzo.

“To be sure! Your uncle is fairly infatuated.”

Just then Mrs. Forbush entered, followed by her daughter. She was no longer clad in a shabby dress, but wore an elegant toilet, handsome beyond her own wishes, but insisted upon by Uncle Oliver.

“I am glad to see you, Lavinia,” she said simply. “This is my daughter.”

Julia, too, was stylishly dressed, and Alonzo, in spite of his prejudices, could not help regarding this handsome cousin with favor.

I do not propose to detail the interview. Mrs. Pitkin was on her good behavior, and appeared very gracious.

Mrs. Forbush could not help recalling the difference between her demeanor now and on the recent occasion, when in her shabby dress she called at the house in Twelfth Street, but she was too generous to recall it.

As they were about to leave, Mr. Carter and Philip entered the room, sent for by Mrs. Forbush.

“How do you do, Philip?” said Mrs. Pitkin, graciously. “Alonzo, this is Philip.”

“How do?” growled Alonzo, staring enviously at Phil’s handsome new suit, which was considerably handsomer than his own.

“Very well, Alonzo.”

“You must come and see Lonny,” said Mrs. Pitkin pleasantly.

“Thank you!” answered Phil politely.

He did not say it was a pleasure, for he was a boy of truth, and he did not feel that it would be.

Uncle Oliver was partially deceived by his niece’s new manner. He was glad that there seemed to be a reconciliation, and he grew more cordial than he had been since his return.

After awhile Mrs. Pitkin rose to go.

When she was fairly in the carriage once more, she said passionately:

“How I hate them!”

“You were awful sweet on them, ma!” said Alonzo, opening his eyes.

“I had to be. But the time will come when I will open the eyes of Uncle Oliver to the designs of that scheming woman and that artful errand boy.”

It was Mrs. Pitkin’s true self that spoke.

CHAPTER XXX

PHIL’S TRUST

Among the duties which devolved upon Phil was Mr. Carter’s bank business. He generally made deposits for Uncle Oliver, and drew money on his personal checks whenever he needed it.

It has already been said that Mr. Carter was a silent partner in the firm of which Mr. Pitkin was the active manager. The arrangement between the partners was, that each should draw out two hundred dollars a week toward current expenses, and that the surplus, if any, at the end of the year, should be divided according to the terms of the partnership.

When Phil first presented himself with a note from Mr. Carter, he was an object of attention to the clerks, who knew that he had been discharged by Mr. Pitkin. Yet here he was, dressed in a new suit provided with a watch, and wearing every mark of prosperity. One of the most surprised was Mr. G. Washington Wilbur, with whom, as an old friend, Phil stopped to chat.

“Is old Pitkin going to take you back?” he inquired.

“No,” answered Phil promptly. “He couldn’t have me if he wanted me.”

“Have you got another place?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the firm?”

“It isn’t in business. I am private secretary to Mr. Carter.”

Mr. Wilbur regarded him with surprise and respect.

“Is it a soft place?” he inquired.

“It’s a very pleasant place.”

“What wages do you get?”

“Twelve dollars a week and board.”

“You don’t mean it?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Say, doesn’t he want another secretary?” asked Mr. Wilbur.

“No, I think not.”

“I’d like a place of that sort. You’re a lucky fellow, Phil.”

“I begin to think I am.”

“Of course you don’t live at the old place.”

“No; I live on Madison Avenue. By the way, Wilbur, how is your lady-love?”

Mr. Wilbur looked radiant.

“I think I’m getting on,” he said. “I met her the other evening, and she smiled.”

“That is encouraging,” said Phil, as soberly as possible. “All things come to him who waits! That’s what I had to write in my copy-book once.”

Phil was received by Mr. Pitkin with more graciousness than he expected. He felt that he must do what he could to placate Uncle Oliver, but he was more dangerous when friendly in his manner than when he was rude and impolite. He was even now plotting to get Phil into a scrape which should lose him the confidence of Uncle Oliver.

Generally Phil was paid in a check payable to the order of Mr. Carter. But one Saturday two hundred dollars in bills were placed in his hands instead.

“You see how much confidence I place in your honesty,” said Mr. Pitkin. “You couldn’t use the check. This money you could make off with.”

“It would be very foolish, to say the least,” responded Phil.

“Of course, of course. I know you are trustworthy, or I would have given you a check instead.”

When Phil left the building he was followed, though he did not know it, by a man looking like a clerk.

Ah, Phil, you are in danger, though you don’t suspect it.

CHAPTER XXXI

PHIL IS SHADOWED

Phil felt that he must be more than usually careful, because the money he had received was in the form of bills, which, unlike the check, would be of use to any thief appropriating it. That he was in any unusual danger, however, he was far from suspecting.

He reached Broadway, and instead of taking an omnibus, started to walk up-town. He knew there was no haste, and a walk up the great busy thoroughfare had its attractions for him, as it has for many others.

Behind him, preserving a distance of from fifteen to twenty feet, walked a dark-complexioned man of not far from forty years of age. Of course Phil was not likely to notice him.

Whatever the man’s designs might be, he satisfied himself at first with simply keeping our hero in view. But as they both reached Bleecker Street, he suddenly increased his pace and caught up with Phil. He touched the boy on the shoulder, breathing quickly, as if he had been running.

Phil turned quickly.

“Do you want me, sir?” he asked, eying the stranger in surprise.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I am mistaken. Are you in the employ of Mr. Oliver Carter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah I then you are the boy I want. I have bad news for you.”

“Bad news!” repeated Phil, alarmed. “What is it?”

“Mr. Carter was seized with a fit in the street half an hour since.”

“Is he—dead?” asked Phil, in dismay.

“No, no! I think he will come out all right.”

“Where is he?”

“In my house. I didn’t of course know who he was, but I found in his pocket a letter directed to Oliver Carter, Madison Avenue. There was also a business card. He is connected in business with Mr. Pitkin, is he not?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil; “where is your house?”

“In Bleecker Street, near by. Mr. Carter is lying on the bed. He is unconscious, but my wife heard him say: ‘Call Philip.’ I suppose that is you?”

“Yes, sir; my name is Philip.”

“I went around to his place of business, and was told that you had just left there. I was given a description of you and hurried to find you. Will you come to the house and see Mr. Carter?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, forgetting everything except that his kind and generous employer was sick, perhaps dangerously.

“Thank you; I shall feel relieved. Of course you can communicate with his friends and arrange to have him carried home.”

“Yes, sir; I live at his house.”

“That is well.”

They had turned down Bleecker Street, when it occurred to Phil to say:

“I don’t understand how Mr. Carter should be in this neighborhood.”

“That is something I can’t explain, as I know nothing about his affairs,” said the stranger pleasantly. “Perhaps he may have property on the street.”

“I don’t think so. I attend to much of his business, and he would have sent me if there had been anything of that kind to attend to.”

“I dare say you are right,” said his companion.

“Of course I know nothing about it. I only formed a conjecture.”

“Has a physician been sent for?” asked Phil.

“Do you know of any we can call in?”

“My wife agreed to send for one on Sixth Avenue,” said the stranger. “I didn’t wait for him to come, but set out for the store.”

Nothing could be more ready or plausible than the answers of his new acquaintance, and Phil was by no means of a suspicious temperament. Had he lived longer in the city it might have occurred to him that there was something rather unusual in the circumstances, but he knew that Mr. Carter had spoken of leaving the house at the breakfast-table, indeed had left it before he himself had set out for the store. For the time being the thought of the sum of money which he carried with him had escaped his memory, but it was destined very soon to be recalled to his mind.

They had nearly reached Sixth Avenue, when his guide stopped in front of a shabby brick house.

“This is where I live,” he said. “We will go in.”

He produced a key, opened the door, and Phil accompanied him up a shabby staircase to the third floor. He opened the door of a rear room, and made a sign to Phil to enter.

CHAPTER XXXII

PHIL IS ROBBED

When he was fairly in the room Phil looked about him expecting to see Mr. Carter, but the room appeared unoccupied. He turned to his companion, a look of surprise on his face, but he was destined to be still more surprised, and that not in a pleasant way. His guide had locked the door from the inside and put the key in his pocket.

“What does that mean?” asked Phil, with sudden apprehension.

“What do you refer to?” asked his guide with an unpleasant smile.

“Why do you lock the door?”

“I thought it might be safest,” was the significant answer.

“I don’t believe Mr. Carter is in the house at all,” said Phil quickly.

“I don’t believe he is either, youngster.”

“Why did you tell me he was here?” demanded Phil, with rising indignation.

“I thought you wouldn’t come if I didn’t,” replied his companion nonchalantly.

“Answer me one thing, is Mr. Carter sick at all?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then I am trapped!”

“Precisely. You may as well know the truth now.”

Phil had already conjectured the reason why he had been enticed to this poor dwelling. The two hundred dollars which he had in his pocket made him feel very uncomfortable. I think I may say truly that if the money had been his own he would have been less disturbed. But he thought, with a sinking heart, that if the money should be taken from him, he would himself fall under suspicion, and he could not bear to have Mr. Carter think that he had repaid his kindness with such black ingratitude. He might be mistaken. The man before him might not know he had such a sum of money in his possession, and of course he was not going to give him the information.

“I am glad Mr. Carter is all right,” said Phil. “Now tell me why you have taken such pains to get me here?”

“Why, as to that,” said his companion, “there were at least two hundred good reasons.”

Phil turned pale, for he understood now that in some way his secret was known.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not wholly able to conceal his perturbed feelings.

“You know well enough, boy,” said the other significantly. “You’ve got two hundred dollars in your pocket. I want it.”

“Are you a thief, then?” said Phil, with perhaps imprudent boldness.

“Just take care what you say. I won’t be insulted by such a whipper-snapper as you. You’d better not call names. Hand over that money!”

“How do you know I have any money?” Phil asked, trying to gain a little time for deliberation.

“No matter. Hand it over, I say!”

“Don’t take it!” said Phil, agitated. “It isn’t mine!”

“Then you needn’t mind giving it up.”

“It belongs to Mr. Carter.”

“He has plenty more.”

“But he will think I took it. He will think I am dishonest.”

“That is nothing to me.”

“Let me go,” pleaded Phil, “and I will never breathe a word about your wanting to rob me. You know you might get into trouble for it.”

“That’s all bosh! The money, I say!” said the man sternly.

“I won’t give it to you!” said Phil boldly.

“You won’t, hey? Then I shall have to take it. If I hurt you, you will have yourself to blame.”

So saying the man seized Phil, and then a struggle ensued, the boy defending himself as well as he could. He made a stouter resistance than the thief anticipated, and the latter became irritated with the amount of trouble he had to take it. I should be glad to report that Phil made a successful defense, but this was hardly to be expected. He was a strong boy, but he had to cope with a strong man, and though right was on his side, virtue in his case had to succumb to triumphant vice.

Phil was thrown down, and when prostrate, with the man’s knee on his breast, the latter succeeded in stripping him of the money he had so bravely defended.

“There, you young rascal!” he said, as he rose to his feet; “you see how much good you have done. You might as well have given up the money in the first place.”

“It was my duty to keep it from you, if I could,” said Phil, panting with his exertions.

“Well, if that’s any satisfaction to you, you’re welcome to it.”

He went to the door and unlocked it.

“May I go now?” asked Phil.

“Not much. Stay where you are!”

A moment later and Phil found himself alone and a prisoner.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A TERRIBLE SITUATION

Phil tried the door, but now it was locked on the outside, and he found that he was securely trapped. He went to the window, but here, too, there was no chance of escape. Even if he had been able to get safely out, he would have landed in a back-yard from which there was no egress except through the house, which was occupied by his enemies.

“What shall I do?” Phil asked himself, despairingly. “Mr. Carter will be anxious about me, and perhaps he may think I have gone off with the money!”

This to Phil was the worst of his troubles. He prized a good reputation and the possession of an honorable name, and to be thought a thief would distress him exceedingly.

“What a fool I was to walk into such a trap!” he said to himself. “I might have known Mr. Carter would not be in such a neighborhood.”

Phil was too severe upon himself. I suspect that most of my boy readers, even those who account themselves sharp, might have been deceived as easily. The fact is, rogues are usually plausible, and they are so trained in deception that it is no reflection upon their victims that they allow themselves to be taken in.

Hours passed, and still Phil found himself a prisoner. Each moment he became more anxious and troubled.

“How long will they keep me?” he asked himself. “They can’t keep me here forever.”

About six o’clock the door was opened slightly, and a plate of bread and butter was thrust in, together with a glass of cold water. Who brought it up Phil did not know, for the person did not show himself or herself.

Phil ate and drank what was provided, not that he was particularly hungry, but he felt that he must keep up his strength.

“They don’t mean to starve me, at any rate,” he reflected. “That is some consolation. While there is life, there is hope.”

A little over an hour passed. It became dark in Phil’s prison, but he had no means of lighting the gas. There was a small bed in the room, and he made up his mind that he must sleep there.

All at once there was a confused noise and disturbance. He could not make out what it meant, till above all other sounds he heard the terrible cry of “Fire!”

“Fire! Where is it?” thought Phil.

It was not long before he made a terrible discovery. It was the very house in which he was confined! There was a trampling of feet and a chorus of screams. The smoke penetrated into the room.

“Heavens! Am I to be burned alive!” thought our poor hero.

He jumped up and down on the floor, pounded frantically on the door, and at last the door was broken open by a stalwart fireman, and Phil made his way out, half-suffocated.