A Young Inventor's Pluck: or, The Mystery of the Willington Legacy

"So, I've heard," replied Deb, "but I wouldn't mind that if only you get free."

"I'll try my best," replied Jack taking up his kit of tools.

"When will you be back?" she asked as he started to go.

"I can't say. It depends on the job. Don't worry if it is late."

"All right; I'll keep the supper warm till you come."

So young, and yet a perfect housekeeper!

"She'll make some fellow a good wife one of these days," said Jack to himself as he strode along.

It was a fine day, and the walk by the river side was a delightful one, but the young machinist scarcely noticed the surroundings. His mind was busy with the numerous difficulties that had risen round him, and he endeavored to lay out a definite plan of action by which to extricate himself.

When he arrived at the farm, he found his acquaintance of the previous day hard at work on the patent rake, which he had taken almost entirely apart.

"Just in time, young man!" exclaimed farmer Farrell, wiping the perspiration from his brow; "I thought, seeing as how you didn't come this morning, I'd see what I could do myself. But the job's a leetle too much for me. I've got the pesky thing apart and can't put two pieces together again."

"That's because you don't understand machinery and haven't the tools," replied the young machinist, and taking off his coat, he set to work at once.

He picked out the worn screws and bolts and substituted the new ones which he had brought. Then he sorted out the various parts in their proper order, and examined each critically.

"This bit of iron that guides the pressure spring is warped," he remarked. "Did the rake pull hard when the left side was lower than the right?"

"Yes, and squeaked, too."

"Then, that's the cause of it, and all the oil in the world wouldn't help it."

"Can you fix it?" asked the farmer, anxiously.

"I can if I can get a hot fire," replied Jack.

"I'll start it up at once," returned farmer Farrell, and he disappeared into the house.

When he had the fire well under way, Jack heated the part, and gave it the proper shape. Then he put the machine together, adjusted it carefully, and oiled the parts.

"Guess it's all right now," he said, lifting it over.

"We'll soon see," returned the farmer. Going to the barn he brought out one of the horses and hitched him to the machine. Then he mounted the seat and drove up and down the field several times.

"Works like a charm!" he declared. "You understand your trade and no mistake. How much for the job?"

This question was a stickler to Jack. He did not wish to ask too much, and he could not afford to ask too little.

"They would charge you three dollars at the machine shops," he said.

"Then I suppose that's what it's worth," continued the farmer. He was a whole-souled man, and was taken by Jack's outspoken manner. "But there's the other things to do yet," he continued.

"I know it; so we'll put this job at two dollars," said the young machinist.

"Never mind, I'm satisfied to pay three," laughed farmer Farrell. "Come into the barn; I've found quite a lot of stuff that needs doctoring, and I want you to put everything in first-class shape."

"I'll do my best."

Farmer Farrell led the way, and Jack was soon as busy as a bee, putting the machines in running order and overhauling other farming implements.

"Why didn't you stop this morning?" asked the farmer, presently. He had intended going reaping, but Jack's handy use of tools interested him and made him linger.

In an easy manner that did not interfere with his work, the young machinist narrated the particulars of what had occurred to detain him.

"Well, now, that beats all! Trouble piling right up on top of ye! Wonder if I don't know this Mosey," continued the farmer, reflectively. "Is he a short man with a red beard?"

"Yes."

"Didn't he use to work over to Redrock?"

"I believe he did."

"Then I reckon I do. He's a bad egg. I used to sell the company he worked for hay for packing, and Mosey used to weigh it. Several times, when I was sure it was correct, he reported short, and when I spoke to him about it, he said it would never be right until I made it right with him, or, in other words, paid him for his good will."

"How did it turn out?" asked Jack, interested in the story.

"Oh, I spoke of it to the owners, but they believed his side of the story, and I lost their trade. But, all the same, he was discharged a month later for being drunk. If I ain't mistaken, I saw him pass early yesterday morning."

"I just wish I could lay hands on him," returned the young machinist; "I don't believe he would keep out of the way if he wasn't guilty."

"Maybe I'll see him," said the farmer. "If I do I'll watch him, and let you know."

It was close on to six o'clock when Jack finished the work. During the afternoon he had done jobs for which he asked five dollars, and farmer Farrell, who knew that he would have been charged twice as much in the town, paid the bill without a murmur.

Ten minutes later, with his kit under his arm, and the new five-dollar bill tucked safely in his vest pocket, the young machinist started for home.

The sun was setting, and the road, shaded for its greater part by large trees, was growing dark rapidly.

About midway of the distance to Corney stood an old mill, abandoned several years before, whose disused water-wheel still hung idly over the swiftly flowing river beneath.

It was a ghostly looking structure, and having the reputation of being haunted, was seldom visited, except by adventurous tourists and by amateur photographers, who remained at a safe distance to take views of the really picturesque locality.

As Jack passed the mill, he saw a man approach from the opposite direction. Judge of his astonishment when he recognized the individual as Andy Mosey!

He had seen the young machinist at the same instant, and turning rapidly from the road, he darted to one side of the mill.

For a second Jack stood still, hardly able to move. But he quickly recovered, and dropping his kit, which was heavy, he started in pursuit.

"He shall not escape me," he resolved. "He is larger than I, but I am not afraid to meet him face to face."

There was a large shed attached to the mill, and entering this, the young machinist looked carefully around to see if he could find any trace of the man. But a brief search assured him that the place had not been disturbed for months.

Passing through the partly open door, he entered the lower floor of the mill, and found himself in the presence of Dennis Corrigan, Mosey's brother-in-law.

"What do you want here?" demanded Corrigan, springing up from the bench upon which he had been seated.

Jack could hardly form a proper reply. With two men against him, he realized that he was in a bad fix.

"Why, I didn't know that you were here, Corrigan," he began. "I thought-"

Jack never finished the sentence. He heard a noise behind him, but before he could turn to see what it was, he received a cruel blow on the head, and then all became a dark, terrible blank.

CHAPTER VII

INTO THE RIVER

Slowly and painfully, with a dull ache in his head, and an uncertain look in his eyes, Jack returned to his senses. A thin stream of blood trickled down his neck, and putting up his hand he felt a large lump under the hair.

"It must have been Mosey who struck me," was his first thought as he gathered his scattered faculties together. "Well, thank God, he didn't kill me."

It was some time before he felt any desire to rise, and when he finally did so, he found himself weaker than he had anticipated.

"The coward!" was the young machinist's comment. "To strike me unawares. I knew he disliked me, but hasn't he wronged me enough already?"

Jack did not know-nor, indeed, could he have understood-the bitter hatred the Irishman bore him.

The only pride of Andy Mosey's life was his bull pup and his son Mike, and to have the young machinist occupying a position he thought his son should have, had always been more than this hot-tempered fellow was inclined to bear.

The place in which Jack found himself was totally dark, whether because it had no windows, or because it was night, he could not tell.

He groped around, and seeing a ray of light coming up from beneath, applied his eye to what proved to be a knot-hole in the floor.

He was surprised to find the river flowing directly below, and knew at once that he was in the lowest part of the old mill, opposite the ancient wheel.

"They must have carried me here," he said to himself. "I wonder how long ago?"

He felt his way along the walls, and at last reached the door. He was on the point of lifting the latch, when it was thrown open, and by the the rays of a lantern that at first dazzled him, he saw himself confronted by Dennis Corrigan and Andy Mosey.

"So ye'v cum to yer sinses at last, have ye?" was Mosey's greeting, as he set down the lantern. "Ye wint down moighty easy, so ye did."

"I'd like to know what right you have to treat me in this shameful manner," demanded Jack, indignantly.

"Never moind," returned the Irishman; "it will teach ye a lesson not to tell lying stories about me."

"I haven't said anything but what I believe to be true," replied Jack, pointedly.

"Sure, now, is that raly so? Well, ye can suffer for thinking wrong," continued Mosey. "Oi niver-"

"Oh, stop your everlasting jaw!" broke in Corrigan, who was more practical in his way than his brother-in-law. "Never mind what you've done, and what you haven't done. The question is, what are we to do with the boy, now he's here?"

The Irishman scratched his head.

"It won't do to let him go," he said.

"Suppose we search his pockets," suggested Corrigan.

Jack uttered an exclamation.

"What do you mean?" he demanded; "you wouldn't dare?"

Corrigan laughed. The young machinist did not yet know that this man was at heart a thorough villain.

"Wait and see," he remarked, coolly. "Put your back to the door, Andy, and don't let him escape."

Corrigan was a heavily built and powerful man, and in his present condition Jack knew that he was no match for such an opponent.

"What do you want?" asked the young machinist.

"Want to see what you have with you. Come, show up."

Jack's head still ached from the rough treatment it had received. He did not wish to court another such blow, and so did as demanded.

A knife, ten cents, the five-dollar bill farmer Farrell had given him, and a copy of his agreement with Mr. Benton were all the articles of value that he carried.

"Here's something for you, Andy," observed Corrigan, tossing over the ten-cent piece. "The price of a drink."

Corrigan quietly slipped the five-dollar bill into his own clothes. Then opening the agreement, he held it near the lantern and read it carefully. It seemed to interest him greatly, and muttering something to himself, he shoved it into the inside pocket of his coat.

"Do you intend to rob me outright?" exclaimed Jack, whose blood boiled at such treatment.

"If that's what you call it, I suppose we do," was Corrigan's reply.

The young machinist was now becoming more used to the situation, and he determined to submit no longer. He noticed that Mosey had unconsciously moved to one side, and watching his chance, he sprang for the door.

But Corrigan was too quick for him, and with a reach of his long arm he caught the young machinist by the collar, and held him until Mosey had again reached the door.

Jack's grit was up and he wrestled with all his strength. He caught his antagonist by the waist, and literally threw him to the floor.

"Hit him. Andy, hit him!" screamed Corrigan, trying to regain his feet.

Mosey approached Jack with the same stick he had used in the first encounter. The young machinist caught the blow upon the left arm, and retaliated by landing one square from the shoulder on the Irishman's nasal organ. He did not believe in pugilism, but knew something of the art of self-defense; and used his knowledge to good advantage.

He followed up the first blow by another, and had just gained the door for the second time, when Corrigan, with a vile exclamation, seized the heavy brass lantern, and swinging it over his head, brought it down with all force upon Jack's neck.

The blow half stunned the young machinist, and before he could recover he was on his back, with Corrigan on top of him.

"Phat shall we do?" asked Mosey in bewilderment. Jack's unexpected attack had surprised and dismayed him.

"Get that rope upstairs," gasped Corrigan, who was well-nigh winded; "we'll bind him so tight that he won't give us any more trouble."

The Irishman disappeared for a few moments.

When he returned he held a stout cord in his hand, with which the two bound the young machinist securely, hands and feet.

"We'll leave him here for the present," said Corrigan, when they had finished their work. "Come on," and taking up the lantern, which in spite of its rough usage still remained lit, he led the way up stairs followed by Mosey.

"Well, I'm in a pretty fix, and no mistake," was Jack's mental decision when alone. "So far, my exertions to gain freedom haven't amounted to anything. But if they think that I'm going to give up already, they are mistaken."

He tugged at the cords, and by a strong effort managed, though not without painful squeezing, to pull his feet free.

His hands, however, were placed altogether too closely to allow of a similar proceeding, and he endeavored to find some means of cutting the fastening.

He remembered that the latch of the door was a rusty one, and rough on its lower side. Walking over to this, he began to rub the cord along the edge in the hope of severing it, but the improvised saw-if it might be called such-was not a handy tool, and half an hour passed before he made any material progress.

"It's mighty slow work," he said to himself: "but it's bound to wear away sooner or later."

Presently a heavy step sounded outside on the stairs, and a moment later Andy Mosey pitched into the room.

He was in a sad state of intoxication, and his face was red with anger.

"Been tellin' foine sthories about me!" he exclaimed. "Saying I sthole yer match-box an' set foire to old Gray's house! Oi'll fix ye!"

He held a heavy stick in his hand, and as he spoke he brought it down with full force on Jack's head. The young machinist went down like a shot.

"Tellin' loies about me!" continued Mosey, as he dragged the half senseless body to the water's edge.

"Help! Help!" cried Jack, in a feeble voice.

But his cries were of no avail, and the next instant the young machinist was being swept by the rushing tide down the stream, to the roaring falls below.

CHAPTER VIII

SOMETHING ABOUT THE MODEL

Deb grew anxious when seven o'clock came and Jack did not put in an appearance. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not have minded it, but the events of the past two days combined to make her worry more than usual. She sat by the window, watching the stream of people returning from work, and then, when it was half after the hour, put on her hat and descended to the street below.

She walked slowly in the direction of the Redrock road, in hope of meeting her brother. At the end of three blocks, she came face to face with Mont Gray, who had just been finishing up some accounts at the tool works.

"Where are you going, may I ask?" he said, with a smile.

"To meet Jack," replied Deb. "He ought to be home by this time."

"Perhaps the work took longer than he expected," observed the young man. "You know he hates to leave a job until it's done."

"Oh, I know that. But I wish he would come, anyway; I can't bear to have him away now."

"Depend upon it, he can take good care of himself," added Mont. "Come, shall I walk home with you?"

"I suppose I might as well go," returned the girl, slowly, and turned back. "Oh, I'm so awfully nervous," she added.

"Your troubles have been too much for you," he answered, kindly. "They would have been for almost any one."

Though Mont's capital was, as we know, rather limited, he was anxious to help Deb and Jack all he could. Yet he hardly knew how to broach the subject.

"Did you-did Mr. Hammerby call again?" he asked, hesitatingly.

"Yes, and gave us a three days' notice to quit," replied the girl. "He-"

"He shall not put you out!" exclaimed the young man, vehemently. "It's an outrage! It's bad enough for my uncle to believe your brother guilty, but to put you out-"

"But we are not going," continued Deb.

"I don't blame you. If I can help you-?" he began.

"No, you don't understand," returned Deb, quickly. "It's real good of you to offer help, but we don't need it," and she told him of the money Mr. Benton was to pay over on the following morning.

"I'm glad to hear you're going to get some cash out of that man," remarked Mont. "Although even so, he made a sharp bargain with Jack."

A few minutes later they reached the house.

"Will you come up?" asked Deb.

"I haven't time," he replied. "I've got to do an errand for my uncle. Maybe afterward, if I have a chance I'll take a look for Jack, and come up with him."

"Oh, I wish you would," she returned, "I know it's dreadfully silly for me to be so easily worried, but I can't help it."

"Oh, it's all right, I suppose. If I was in his place maybe I'd like to be worried about, too," and away went Mont, whistling quite a merry air.

The young girl entered the kitchen and lit the lamp. It was now half-past eight, and as the people of the neighborhood were hard workers. who retired early, the streets were comparatively quiet.

She left the supper dishes upon the table, and putting some extra coal into the stove, set the tea and other things so that they might keep warm.

It was a dreary evening for her. She did not care much to read-actual life interested her far more than books-and now all her thoughts were centered on Jack.

"It's a pretty long walk from that farmer's place," she kept saying to herself. "But he will come soon, oh, he must come soon."

Her reflections were broken by hearing an unknown step upon the stairs, followed by a sharp rap at the door.

Hardly knowing whom to expect at this hour of the night, she bade the person enter.

The newcomer was Dennis Corrigan!

Deb did not know the man. She had seen him on the streets, but though he was fairly well dressed, she was not taken by his general appearance.

"Does Jack Willington live here?" asked Corrigan, with a hasty glance around the kitchen, to see who might be present.

"Yes, sir," replied Deb, and then realizing that the man might have news for her, she continued quickly: "Did he send you?"

"Yes, Miss. He said I was to get a model that he had here."

This assertion surprised the girl. What in the world could Jack want with his model this time of night?

"Where is my brother?" she asked.

Corrigan was not prepared to answer this question.

"He is-down the street," he stammered.

"Where?"

"Why-down in McGlory's saloon."

This reply was a fatal blunder for Corrigan, who by a little scheme of his own, had proposed to get the model into his possession without any difficulty.

"In McGlory's saloon!" repeated Deb, in amazement. "Why, Jack doesn't drink."

"Oh, yes, he does-once in a while," replied Corrigan, glibly.

"You're mistaken!" returned Deb, sharply. "What does he want the model for?"

She was growing a trifle suspicious. The article in question was valuable, and just now doubly so.

"I don't know what he's going to do with it. Got it handy?"

Involuntarily Deb glanced over to where the model stood covered with a cloth. She regretted the action an instant after, for Corrigan's eyes watched her closely.

"How far is that saloon from here?" she asked.

"Only a few blocks."

"Queer he didn't come for it himself."

"He was too busy. He asked me to go for him, and sent this paper as an order. He said you'd know all about it," replied Corrigan, and he handed out the agreement he had stolen from Jack.

Deb recognized the paper at once. Jack must certainly have given it to the man, and yet, for a reason she could not explain, she felt that all was not right.

One thing she remembered; her brother had repeatedly cautioned her not to let outsiders examine the model under any plea. To place it, therefore, in a stranger's hands seemed a risk she did not care to assume.

"What's the matter?" asked Corrigan, as Deb still hesitated. "Ain't it all right?"

He was growing uneasy, fearful of being interrupted just at the moment when the prize was almost within his grasp.

"I would rather have my brother come for it himself," said the girl finally.

"He can't come; he's too busy," persisted the intruder.

"It wouldn't take long to get it if he is only a few blocks away."

"Yes, but he doesn't want to leave. He has a chance of selling it to a man for big money, and he's afraid the man may back out if he leaves him."

Deb was sorely perplexed. The man might be speaking the truth, in which case she did not for the world wish Jack to lose the chance of striking a bargain.

"So I'll take it right along at once," continued Corrigan, stepping over to where the model stood.

But, at this instant, a bright idea came into the girl's head. She knew that she could trust Mr. Snitzer, or one of his sons, and was sure that any one of them would do her a favor willingly.

"You need not take so much trouble," she exclaimed, stepping between the man and the model. "Just leave the address of the place, and I will send it up at once."

This was a staggerer for Corrigan, and he knew not how to answer.

"No, I'll take it myself," he replied, roughly.

His words sent a dreadful chill to Deb's heart. In an instant she realized the man's true object, and her own helpless condition.

"What do you mean?" she cried in terror.

"I mean that if you won't give me the model I'll take it."

The words had hardly been uttered before Deb gave a terrible scream.

"Stop your noise!" hissed Corrigan, jumping to her side, and clapping his hand over her mouth.

The girl struggled to escape, but she was as a feather in this powerful fellow's arms, and half fainting, she felt herself borne into the next room, and the door locked upon her.

Then she heard Corrigan pick up the model, and hurry down the stairs and out of the house.

CHAPTER IX

MR. BENTON MAKES TROUBLE

"Help! Help!"

"Vas is dot?" exclaimed Mrs. Snitzer, who had been dozing in the rocking chair awaiting her son's return.

"Sounds like some von vas in troubles," replied her husband, from the sofa.

Both sprang to their feet and hurried to the door.

Mrs. Snitzer had scarcely opened it when a man rushed past her and out of the front hall-way.

"Help! Help!"

"It vas Deb, for sure!" cried the German woman, and she ascended the stairs as fast as her portly form would permit, closely followed by her husband.

It took but a moment to pass through the kitchen and unlock the door of the adjoining chamber. They found Deb half dead from fright, and vainly endeavoring to escape.

"Oh, Mrs. Snitzer, a man has just stolen Jack's model!" gasped the poor girl. "He ran down stairs."

"Ve saw him," put in Mr. Snitzer. "I go me after him," he continued, hurrying off as rapidly as his legs would move.

"Oh, what will Jack say when he hears that it's gone!" moaned Deb.

"Tell me apout it," said the kindly German woman.

She took the excited girl in her arms, and stroking the soft, curly hair, tried to calm Deb as best she could.

In a nervous voice the girl told her story. She was on the verge of hysterics, and it was only Mrs. Snitzer's quick sense of comprehension that enabled her fully to understand the situation.

In about ten minutes Mr. Snitzer returned. The look upon his face told plainly that he had failed in the pursuit.

"It vas no use," he said, "I couldn't see nodding of him;" and he dropped into a chair exhausted.

Deb's grief was hard to witness. It was bad enough to have Jack away, but to have some one steal his precious model, the idea of his life, was too dreadful to contemplate.