THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY

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THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY


  A STORY FOR BOYS

  BY
  GEORGE BARTON

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK, CINCINNATI, CHICAGO
  BENZIGER BROTHERS
  PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE

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COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                         PAGE

      I. In Which a Bully Comes to Grief                             7

     II. Herbert Finds Himself the Innocent Cause of Much Trouble   14

    III. Proving that Birds of a Feather Flock Together             24

     IV. In Which Fortune Unexpectedly Favors David Harkins         33

      V. In Which David Harkins Becomes the Victim of Peculiar
         Circumstances                                              39

     VI. In Which David Harkins Quits This Life and Takes His
         Secret with Him                                            48

    VII. In Which Herbert Meets Adversity and Learns the
         Meaning of Hard Work                                       58

   VIII. Herbert Becomes Ambitious and is Fascinated by the
         Smell of Printers’ Ink                                     66

     IX. Having Become a Newspaper Writer Herbert Looks for New
         Worlds to Conquer                                          77

      X. Which Tells of How Herbert Came to Leave the Town of
         Cleverly                                                   88

     XI. Herbert is Awed and Amazed by His First Sight of a Great
         City                                                       98

    XII. In Which Herbert Becomes Acquainted With Some of the
         Methods of Modern Journalism                              109

   XIII. Herbert Makes a Hit and Tides Over a Temporary Financial
         Difficulty                                                120

    XIV. In Which Herbert is Given an Unusual Opportunity to
         Distinguish Himself                                       127

     XV. In Which Herbert Does Some Very Hard Work and Receives a
         Terrible Shock                                            135

    XVI. In Which Herbert Loses His Position and Retires in
         Disgrace                                                  143

   XVII. The Young Reporter Finds That the Door of Opportunity is
         Closed to Him                                             153

  XVIII. Wherein a Black Sheep Shows a Desire to Change His Color  161

    XIX. Persistence Has its Reward and Herbert Finally Meets the
         Mysterious Stranger                                       169

     XX. In Which a Stain is Removed from the Memory of an
         Innocent Man                                              180

    XXI. In Which a Telephone Call Produces Some Unexpected
         Results                                                   186

   XXII. Proving that Bad Persons, Like Bad Pennies, are
         Constantly Reappearing                                    194

  XXIII. In Which a Bad Man Reaches the End of His Rope            204

   XXIV. Wherein the Clouds Pass Away and the Sun Shines on
         Herbert Harkins                                           215

    XXV. Demonstrating the Truth of the Saying that All’s Well
         that Ends Well                                            225

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THE MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY




CHAPTER I IN WHICH A BULLY COMES TO GRIEF


“If you fellows don’t open that door and let me in, there’ll be trouble
in this town before long.”

The only answer was a mocking laugh from the group of boys to whom this
threat was addressed.

Herbert Harkins, his face red with rage, pounded his fist on the panels
of the schoolhouse without making the slightest impression upon his
fellow schoolboys.

“Open the door,” he cried again, in a loud voice.

Once more a peal of laughter sounded from within. The scene of this
incident was the Cleverly District School. The time was the second of
January, and the occasion was the annual frolic of the boys, known as
“barring out day.”

It was a custom which, originating down east, had spread to the little
town in New Jersey. The method was quite simple. After the Christmas
holidays the big boys put their heads together and decided on a plan
of campaign. When all of the details had been arranged, it was decided
to put them into execution at the first regular session of the new
year. The forenoon passed off as quietly as any other day, the boys
looking very sober and extremely attentive to their studies, and
keeping unusual order. The moment the schoolmaster left the house for
his dinner and the smaller children were started homeward, the doors
and windows were suddenly and securely locked, and the older pupils
proceeded to spend the afternoon in play and hilarity.

When Mr. Anderson, the teacher, returned about one o’clock, he was
surprised to find the schoolhouse in a state of siege. He made an
attempt to enter, but failed. It so happened that Herbert Harkins
was the only one of the larger boys who had been locked out. Under
ordinary circumstances he would have taken the incident good-naturedly;
but in this case he knew that the teacher was frail and delicate,
and Herbert’s regard and sympathy for Mr. Anderson aroused all his
manly instincts and brought his fighting blood to the boiling pitch.
The teacher who had been employed in this district only a few weeks,
was evidently of a sickly disposition. It was a cold day. He was
insufficiently clad, and the prospect of taking some sickness which
might perhaps lead to pneumonia and death made the poor man quite
miserable. His face was beginning to get blue with the intense cold;
but he was too weak to resort to any physical methods for opening the
door.

Herbert knocked again; but his appeal was received only with jeers and
shouts of derision. Mr. Anderson turned to him with a kindly smile, and
said:

“There is no need of doing anything more, Herbert. I thank you for your
good intentions; but I think the only thing left for me to do is to go
home for the day.”

As Herbert was about to reply he happened to glance upward and noticed
the smoke coming from the chimney on the top of the schoolhouse. He
remembered that the room was heated by means of an old-fashioned wood
fire, which was constantly replenished during the day. Whenever a fresh
or green log was placed on the fire, more or less smoke went up the
chimney. As Herbert gazed at the little curls of smoke making their
way skyward, he suddenly conceived a means of breaking up the siege in
the schoolhouse and procuring entrance for himself and the teacher. To
think was to act. A small pile of lumber lay in the roadway nearby.
Herbert walked over to it and picked out a wide, square board. It was
quite heavy; but by dint of much energy and persistence he managed
to get it under his arm and carry it to the schoolhouse. Mr. Anderson
wondered what he was about to do. The boys on the inside, too, gazed
at this unexpected activity with much interest. Herbert’s next move
was to secure a large ladder, which he put up against the side of the
house. Then reaching for the board, he made his way to the top of the
schoolhouse and in less than two minutes had placed it over the top of
the chimney. Then he hurried down the ladder again, and rejoining Mr.
Anderson, said calmly:

“I am willing to wager that we will be inside of that schoolroom before
you have time to count a hundred.”

And so it proved. The smoke, unable to find its way out of the chimney,
was thrown back into the schoolroom, and in a minute’s time the boys
were choking from the effects of the fumes. Some were in favor of
holding out, but when their eyes began to run water and they were
filled with a stifling sensation, they quickly decided to surrender.
The bars were taken down and the doors and windows thrown open.

Herbert, delighted with the success of his little scheme, remounted the
ladder, and going to the roof, took the board from the chimney. The
boys made no further attempts at disturbance; within fifteen minutes
order had been entirely restored, and the afternoon session went on as
if nothing had happened.

Most of the boys were filled with admiration at Herbert’s cleverness;
but a few of them murmured against him and threatened to punish him
for breaking up their fun. The largest of these boys was Arthur Black,
who was a year older than Herbert, and had the reputation of being
the bully of the school. After the children had been dismissed for
the afternoon, they gathered in groups outside the schoolhouse and
talked about the unusual event. Arthur Black raised his voice above
the others, declaring that he had a great notion to thrash the boy who
had dared to interfere with their sport. Some of the more timid pupils
approached Herbert and advised him to hurry home in order to escape
punishment. He smiled at their fears, however, and said he had no
reason for running away. Just then Arthur Black approached.

“What’s that you say?” he asked in an insulting voice.

“I said that I had no reason for running away,” replied Herbert quietly.

“Well, that’s because you haven’t got any sense,” was the ugly
rejoinder. “You’re a sneak and a busybody and ought to be thrown out of
the school.”

“Why?” asked Herbert.

“Because you spoiled our fun,” was the reply.

“I don’t think it’s much fun to keep a sick teacher out in the cold and
make him run the risk of losing his life. I--”

“Oh, we’ve had enough of your talk,” said Arthur, interrupting Herbert.

“But you will listen to what I have to say,” persisted Herbert manfully.

“No I won’t,” was the rejoinder, “and if you say another word I’ll
thrash you within an inch of your life.”

“Two can play at that game,” said Herbert coolly.

The other made no reply, but began to take off his coat, and flinging
it on the ground, started to roll up his shirt sleeves. Instantly the
other boys formed a ring about them. There was nothing left for Herbert
but to accept the invitation that was thrown down to him in such a
noisy way. He took off his coat, and in a trice the two boys were
engaged in a rough and tumble fight. It looked for a time as if Arthur
Black, who was the older and heavier of the two, would get the better
of Herbert. The boys crowded around the two fighters and urged them on
with yells and shouts of approval. Herbert kept comparatively cool, and
at a critical stage in the fight he pummeled Arthur so vigorously that
he cried for mercy. Indeed his nose was bleeding and one of his eyes
was beginning to show evidence of the contest. Picking up his hat and
coat, and hardly able to repress his tears, he hurried off towards his
home. Herbert was immediately proclaimed the hero of the hour. He had
thrashed the bully of the school, and from that moment he was the idol
of his schoolmates and the most popular boy in Cleverly.




CHAPTER II HERBERT FINDS HIMSELF THE INNOCENT CAUSE OF MUCH TROUBLE


When Herbert Harkins reached home he found that the story of his battle
with Arthur Black had preceded him. His mother was at the doorway
awaiting his arrival. She scanned his face anxiously.

“Are you hurt, Herbert?” she asked.

“Not a great deal, mother,” he said, with a trace of conscious pride in
his voice; “but I can’t say as much for the other fellow.”

“I was sorry to hear that you were quarreling,” she remarked gravely;
“it’s not gentlemanly.”

“But I could not let the other boys think I was a coward,” he cried
quickly.

His mother made no reply to this, but pointing toward the sitting room,
said simply:

“Your father is waiting to see you.”

Herbert started up the stairway, filled with misgivings. It was a rare
thing for his father to send for him, and the serious manner in which
his mother had delivered the message convinced him that it must be a
matter of importance. David Harkins was above everything else a just
man. He had started out in life with bright prospects, but through a
series of misfortunes over which he had no control, his little fortune
had been very much reduced and his health greatly impaired.

His doctor advised him to go into the country and engage in open air
work as much as possible. He cautioned him above all else to avoid the
occasions of excitement. The medical man assured him that his heart was
weak, and that it would not stand any severe or unusual strain. Mr.
Harkins examined various properties in the vicinity of the city, and
finally decided upon the neat little place at Cleverly. It contained
a garden and was within a reasonable distance of the city whence Mr.
Harkins’ employment called him several times a week. In the meantime
he cultivated the garden, and by dint of close economy managed to make
both ends meet. Mr. Harkins was engaged in looking over some papers
when Herbert entered the room. He laid them down immediately and turned
to the boy with a look in which affection and reproach were mingled.

“Herbert, I hear bad reports about you.”

“I’m sorry for that, father,” was the response, “because I don’t
believe I deserve them.”

Mr. Harkins glanced at Herbert keenly, and the look which he received
in return seemed to satisfy him, for he said:

“Tell me in your own way all about this quarrel--give me all the
details, and do not attempt to hide anything.”

Herbert told everything clearly and quickly. As he concluded his father
nodded his head as if to indicate that he understood and then sighed
deeply. Herbert noticed this, and said with trembling voice:

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Don’t you think I did right?”

“I do.”

“But why are you so sad?”

“Because I regret this thing very much--because I am sorry you
quarreled with Arthur Black.”

“But you said I was justified.”

“I did; but unfortunately you have offended a powerful man. I suppose
you are old enough to understand these things. John Black, Arthur’s
father, is not only the richest man in Cleverly, but he is the
president of the bank, and I--I owe him money.”

David Harkins put his head in his hands as he spoke, and leaning on his
desk, sat there for some time buried in thought. Herbert was silent for
awhile, then rushing up to his father, cried out impulsively:

“I’m awfully sorry, father; I didn’t intend to do anything wrong. I
never thought of injuring you. If I can repair the damage in any way
I’ll be only too glad to do so. Tell me what to do.”

“Do,” cried his father, with a sudden return of his natural dignity;
“why do nothing; you are guilty of no wrong and have nothing to regret.
However,” with a sigh which he could not conceal, “I’m sure we will
hear more about this before the evening is over.”

And so they did. About eight o’clock that night there was a loud
rapping at the door, and a stout, pompous man was ushered into the
parlor. He had iron gray hair, heavy bristling eyebrows and scowled in
the most severe manner. He looked about the little room in a disdainful
manner, and then dropped abruptly into the easiest chair at hand. His
manner was aggressive. He carried a heavy cane and pounded it on the
floor impatiently while awaiting the arrival of Mr. Harkins.

Such was John Black, bank president, capitalist and the most unpopular
man in Cleverly.

“See here, Harkins,” he cried out abruptly as Herbert’s father entered
the room, “I came to see you about that boy of yours.”

“What about him?” asked Mr. Harkins quietly.

“A great deal about him,” spluttered the banker, “he’s a young rowdy;
that’s what he is. He set on my boy Arthur at school to-day and beat
him in the most brutal manner.”

“A boys’ fight?” queried Herbert’s father lifting his eyebrows.

“You may call it a boys’ fight,” thundered the other; “I call it an
outrage. Why that child of mine came home with his nose bleeding--do
you understand sir--with his nose bleeding.”

“That child as you call him,” ventured Mr. Harkins, a note of amusement
in his voice, “is, I believe, nearly seventeen years old.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” shouted the other.

“Nothing, except that he’s nearly two years older than my boy.”

“Age is not the only thing--”

“No,” interrupted Mr. Harkins, “weight should be considered. Arthur is
not only older, but he is much heavier than Herbert.”

“Do you mean to say,” exclaimed the banker in amazement, “that you are
taking up for that boy?”

“Oh, no,” said Mr. Harkins pleasantly, “that’s not necessary. Herbert
seems to be fully capable of taking up for himself.”

“Take care, Harkins,” said the rich man, banging his cane angrily on
the floor; “take care; don’t attempt to trifle with me!”

David Harkins paid no attention to this outburst, but sat silent
wondering what would come next. His curiosity was soon satisfied.

John Black arose with a gesture of impatience.

“There is no need of my wasting any more time here,” he exclaimed. “I
came over to give you a chance to set yourself straight.”

“To set myself straight?” queried Harkins.

“Yes; if you have that boy of yours apologize to Arthur at school
to-morrow, we’ll call it quits.”

David Harkins stood looking at the banker as if he had taken leave of
his senses. The silence lasted so long that it became embarrassing.

“Come, come, what do you say to my proposal?” asked John Black. “I
don’t want to be too hard on your young one. Do as I say and the matter
will drop. Your answer.”

“No!” shouted Harkins. “No; a hundred times no! Herbert did perfectly
right in thrashing that bully of a son of yours. I’m proud of him for
doing it. And if he would dare to apologize for it I’d disown him as a
son.”

John Black grew almost livid with rage. He hurried to the door. When he
reached it he looked back and shook his cane at Harkins.

“You will regret this insult; blast you, I’ll make you sorry for what
you said.”

Mrs. Harkins entered the room just as the banker retired. She hurried
over to her husband.

“I heard loud voices, David,” she said. “I am sorry you quarreled with
Mr. Black.”

Her husband looked at her fondly. His face was pale, although he was
smiling.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said; “but he irritated me beyond endurance.
Besides I told him the truth. Between ourselves,” he added, “I’m really
proud of Herbert.”

“But you must not tell that to Herbert,” she said anxiously; “it might
be the means of spoiling him.”

“Oh, never fear, I won’t tell him; but I won’t be unjust to the boy
either. I’ll deal fairly with him.”

Indeed, as has already been indicated, a love of justice was one of the
most striking traits of David Harkins’ character, and unconsciously he
was doing all in his power to plant the same virtue in the mind and
heart of his only son.

“In spite of what you say, David,” remarked Mrs. Harkins, “I regret
this incident. I do not believe in signs or any nonsense of that sort,
but some strange voice within me says that this thing will have a fatal
ending.”

“Oh, cheer up,” was the bright response of the husband. “It’s folly to
look on the dark side of life. Anyhow, what will be, must be. All that
we can do in this life is to try and live decently. A friend of mine
used to say that it was a good thing always to hope for the best and
prepare for the worst.”

With this bit of philosophy Mr. Harkins turned to his desk and resumed
his work. As his wife closed the door, however, the cheerful look left
his face, and lines of care and worry began to appear. Despite his
protests to the contrary, he regretted his encounter with John Black.
But his sense of right and justice was too acute to permit him to make
peace at the price of truth.

While he was thinking over the events of the day, there was a ring of
the door-bell, and in a moment Mrs. Harkins appeared to present Mr.
Horace Coke, the lawyer of Cleverly and one of the good friends of the
family. Mr. Coke was one of the old fashioned attorneys at law. He
wore a suit of black broadcloth and carried a cane and a high silk hat
in his hand. He had a smooth, round face, was always in a good humor,
loved children and dogs, and lived in constant peace and harmony with
his friends and neighbors.

Mr. Harkins hastened to give him the most comfortable chair in the
room, and Mrs. Harkins, who had remained, waited expectantly to
hear the occasion of the visit. The visitor stroked his chin in an
absent-minded way and seemed ill at ease. He was not smiling either,
which was a strange thing for Horace Coke. Presently he said abruptly:

“It’s a lovely evening Dave, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Harkins, “it is a lovely evening.”

But he knew in his heart that the lawyer had not called to make this
useless comment on the weather. He knew that something more important
was to come, so he sat silent and waited.

“Dave,” said the lawyer, clearing his throat, “I’m here on a very, very
unpleasant errand. It was in the line of my professional duty though,
and I couldn’t get out of it.”

“Indeed,” was the non-committal reply.

“No,” pursued Mr. Coke, “you see I am here representing a client.”

“Might I ask the name of your client?”

“Yes; it is John Black.”

Mr. Harkins started as he heard this name. It was not altogether
unexpected, yet the sound gave him an uncomfortable feeling. Mrs.
Harkins, too, was very much depressed by the announcement. Herbert had
entered the room quietly during the conversation; but when he heard
what Mr. Coke had said, he paused at the threshold.

“Well,” said Mr. Harkins finally, “what about Mr. Black?”

“It seems,” replied the lawyer, “that you have had a financial
transaction with Mr. Black.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That he has your note for one thousand dollars.”

“That is correct.”

“Well, Mr. Black sends me here to collect it.”

“Mr. Coke, isn’t this a rather unusual method of doing business? I
borrowed this money from Mr. Black at the bank to pay off the mortgage
on my house. I understood that it was to run for several years,
although we had no written agreement regarding the time. But I never
heard of a banker sending a lawyer to collect a note.”

“It is unusual,” confessed the lawyer, “but Mr. Black has the legal
right to do it if he sees fit. He says the endorsers of the note are
no good and he instructs me, if payment is not made within twenty-four
hours, to proceed against you.”

He arose to go. As he reached the door he turned and said:

“Dave, I don’t think this is a square deal; but I’m only acting as a
lawyer for a client. If I had the money to spare, I’d give it to you
myself.”

He said good-night and departed. Mrs. Harkins turned to her husband.

“Can you meet this demand, Dave?”

He looked at her in a strained sort of way. It was a half minute before
he spoke. He said simply:

“I haven’t the faintest idea where I am going to get the money.”




CHAPTER III PROVING THAT BIRDS OF A FEATHER FLOCK TOGETHER


Herbert was deeply impressed with the scene that had taken place
between his father and Mr. Coke. It was quite early in the evening, and
putting on his hat and coat, he quietly left the house for the purpose
of taking a walk around the town and thinking over the meaning of the
events which were following each other so quickly. He was filled with
remorse at the thought of having been the innocent cause of bringing
disaster on their modest household; but deep down in his heart he felt
that he had done the right thing in spite of the unexpected results
that had followed. Herbert had always been a sturdy and resolute boy.

He had regard for the feelings and rights of others, but was always
quick to resent any attempt to impose upon his own good nature. When
he first entered the school at Cleverly he did not give promise of
being a very bright pupil. In fact there were times when the teacher
was disposed to consider him a very dull boy; but little by little the
ability that slumbered with him was awakened, and by degrees he began
to show evidences of more than ordinary talent. He was not quick to
learn; but was always numbered among the plodders at the school. In
spite of his apparent slowness, he began to advance in his classes, and
when he had reached his sixteenth year was near the head of the boys
in his grade. For one thing he retained the knowledge that he acquired
with so much labor. He had what the teacher called bull-dog tenacity.
In other words, when he started out to accomplish a certain task he
never rested till it was entirely completed.

Mr. Harkins, who was a man of very unusual ability, was extremely
anxious to give his son the very best education in his power. His
ambition was to develop Herbert both morally and mentally, and he
looked forward with great hope to the time when he would finish his
tuition at the Cleverly district school. After that it was his wish
that he should enter St. Joseph’s College in the adjoining city, in
order to obtain a higher education. The Jesuits who were in charge of
that institution, had offered four free scholarships to the boys who
obtained the highest average in a competitive examination that was to
be held in the spring of the year. The father and son had frequently
discussed this subject.

“Herbert,” said Mr. Harkins, “this is no child’s play. If you make up
your mind to go into this thing, it will mean hard work. There will be
very little time for sports.”

“I appreciate that, father,” Herbert would say soberly. “And when the
time comes I intend to pin myself down to the hardest kind of work. I
know what it means, and I have no fear of the result.”

So it was that the boy trudged along in his somewhat heavy way, doing
the routine that fell to all the pupils of the Cleverly School. While
he did not display any special flashes of brilliancy, his averages were
always good, and sometimes unusually large.

Arthur Black was the opposite of Herbert in almost every way. For years
he had been one of the favored pupils at the Cleverly School. The fact
that his father was rich and influential made all those connected with
the school disposed to treat him with more than ordinary consideration.
He was a bright boy, but extremely indolent; and as a consequence was
a source of constant trouble to his teachers. Arthur had the faculty
of being able to recite his lessons without having given much time to
their study; but as the weeks and months went by he became more and
more indifferent and finally drifted down near the rear of his class
where he bid fair to remain until the end of his school days. Arthur
was very much annoyed at the progress made by Herbert Harkins, and
publicly said that it was due to the fact that Herbert was one of the
teacher’s favorites. No charge could be more unfair than this, but it
was circulated through the town, much to the annoyance of Herbert and
his parents.

Herbert thought of all these things as he made his way along the main
street of the town. He was filled with an intense desire to assist his
father, and in a vague sort of way wondered whether it would not be a
good thing to leave school and go to work for that purpose. The thought
was worth considering anyhow, and he made up his mind to speak to his
father before he left home the next morning. Just as he reached the
post office pavement, he noticed a small group of men and boys standing
there engaged in an animated discussion. As he approached nearer, he
saw Arthur Black and a friend of his named Harry Adler talking for the
benefit of the crowd. Adler was many years the senior of both Herbert
and Arthur. He had the reputation of being a very worthless boy, and
although he was rapidly approaching manhood he gave no indication
of changing his habits. He was a type of many other boys who can be
described in a single sentence as cigarette smoking youths who will
not work. He said on one occasion that he was too proud to do menial
labor, but in spite of this he was not ashamed to live off the small
earnings of a poor mother who was compelled to take in sewing in order
to feed and clothe the members of her family. Adler had persistently
refused to go to school, and only two years before had run away from
home and made his way by degrees to New York City. He remained there
for several weeks, and then wrote begging letters home asking for
sufficient money to pay his carfare back to Cleverly. He did not even
have the manliness to be ashamed of this incident, but looked upon it
as one of the big achievements in his life. Ever after that he stood
on the street corners and talked in a loud way about his adventures in
the big city, much to the amazement and interest of the small boys who
stood with open mouths and eagerly listened to all that he had to say.

As Herbert reached the group he heard Arthur Black detailing the story
of the fight at the schoolhouse. He informed his hearers that Herbert
was a sneaking busybody, and that after school was over he had given
him the punishment he so richly deserved.

“But when my back was turned,” he said, “that rascal of a Herbert
Harkins gave me a blow in the face that made my nose bleed. He wouldn’t
dare to have done it if we had been standing face to face.”

This was too much for Herbert to stand, and turning toward the crowd
with flashing eyes, he cried out:

“The story that Arthur Black has told you isn’t true. He was the one at
fault, and as far as the fight was concerned I think his nose and the
color of his eyes tell the story of the battle better than I can.”

Adler interrupted Herbert at this point to say in a sneering tone:

“See here, young man, if it comes to a question of truth between you
and Arthur Black, the people of this town will believe Arthur.”

“I don’t know about that,” retorted Herbert angrily. “Anyhow I would be
willing to leave it to the people that know us both.”

The minute Herbert had spoken he was sorry that his impulsive nature
had led him into the conversation. In order to avoid any further
trouble he hurried away; but Arthur Black and Harry Adler did not
propose to let him off so easily.

“Hello there, little boy,” cried Adler in a taunting voice. “Are you
going to run away again, just as you did this afternoon?”

Herbert made no reply, but kept on his way. Then Arthur Black joined in
the conversation.

“He’d better run away,” he said, “if he knows which side his bread is
buttered on. I want to tell you, Herbert Harkins, that you are going
to suffer for daring to insult me. You say you won the fight this
afternoon. Well, if you did, it will be the dearest victory you ever
bought. Before another day goes by you will find that your whole family
is likely to be thrown out into the street, and that you will be on
your way to the poorhouse, where you belong. Perhaps you won’t be so
ready to meddle next time.”

Herbert halted instantly. He hurried back to where the others were
standing and made towards Arthur Black. Just as he passed by, Adler
quietly slipped his right foot out on the sidewalk, and Herbert
tripping over it, fell at full length on the pavement. He jumped up
smarting with anger and the shock of the fall. He rushed toward Adler,
but in the twinkling of an eye, before a blow had been struck, his mind
reverted to the scene that had taken place at his home only a short
while before. Instantly he was filled with remorse. He realized that it
would be most unfortunate for him to get into a street brawl at a time
like this. He felt confident of his ability to chastise both Arthur
Black and Harry Adler; but he realized the scene that it would cause
and the possibility of one or all of them being taken up by the town
constable; so without any explanation whatever he lowered his arms and
walked down the street again.

Adler turned to Arthur Black with a sneer on his lips.

“I guess you’ve got that fellow sized up all right,” he said. “He’s a
coward; he’s afraid to fight.”

Herbert heard this with burning cheeks. He hurried on his way home,
stopping to look neither to the right nor to the left. His mind was
filled with conflicting emotions. He thought of the threat that hung
over his father, and of the reflection that had been made upon his own
personal courage; but try as he would he could not get the sound of
that word “coward” out of his ears.

When he reached home the sense of shame had grown so strong that he
could not stand the strain any longer. He halted on the doorstep
irresolute. The next moment he turned on his heel and walked back
to the corner where he had met Arthur Black and Harry Adler. Black
had left, but Adler was still there entertaining some of the smaller
boys with stories of his own greatness. Herbert walked up to him with
flashing eyes:

“Adler, I’ve got a crow to pick with you.”

“Go ahead with the picking,” sneered the older boy, and Herbert flushed
hotly at the contemptuous tone.

“A few minutes ago you referred to me as a coward.”

“Well, what of it?”

“I want you to take that word back; I won’t stand for it.”

Adler broke out into a coarse laugh.

“Why, the little fellow is feeling his oats,” he cried; “he looks like
a bantam rooster.”

“Never mind what I look like,” retorted Herbert hotly. “I want to know
whether you’ll take that word back.”

“Don’t get excited, little chap.”

“Will you take it back? Say yes or no!” demanded Herbert.

“I say no,” drawled Adler.

“Then I say take that!”

As he spoke, Herbert reached up and gave the fellow a resounding slap
on the cheek. Adler was so dazed at the unexpected assault that he
stood still gazing stupidly at his assailant. The small boys in the
group were secretly delighted at the indignity put upon their worthless
companion, but were discreetly silent. Herbert walked off tingling with
delight at having satisfied his outraged feelings.




CHAPTER IV IN WHICH FORTUNE UNEXPECTEDLY FAVORS DAVID HARKINS


Herbert Harkins prepared to go to bed that night with a very heavy
heart. He could not rid himself of the notion that he was the cause of
the troubles that were gathering so rapidly about their home. Sleep is
said to be the best medicine for a troubled mind; but unfortunately
Herbert was not able to go to sleep. Usually he was in the land of
dreams as soon as his head touched the pillow, but this night he was
afflicted with a peculiar nervousness that could not be overcome.
More than this he was greatly disturbed over the agitated condition
of his father. He knew that he was sitting at his desk in the front
room downstairs. He had spoken to him when he came home, and now from
the light that was shining up the stairway he knew that his father was
still awake. Presently he heard the movement of a chair, and then the
steady tramping of feet indicating that Mr. Harkins was walking up and
down the room.

Suddenly this monotonous sound was broken by a sharp rap on the front
door. Herbert heard his father respond to the summons. The bolt was
drawn back, the door opened, and then came a sound like the cry of
recognition from two men. The door was softly closed again, and then
came the steady mumbling of voices. This continued so long that Herbert
became frightened. He got out of bed in the dark, and going into the
hallway crept downstairs silently, step by step, until he had reached
the doorway leading into the parlor. The light was turned down and the
room was quite dim; but he could see his father and another man seated
at a table engaged in earnest conversation. The stranger wore a full
beard, and his head was covered with a great shock of red hair, in much
disorder. The two men were so much engaged that they did not notice the
half frightened boy standing near the doorway. Herbert on his part was
so much interested in what he saw that for the time being he forgot the
situation in which he had placed himself.

At times the two men were so close together that it would hardly
have been possible to have drawn a sheet of paper between them. The
stranger, in order to illustrate some point that he was making in his
talk, threw his arm violently in the air, and in doing so overturned a
little China ornament that was on the table, sending it crashing to the
floor. Both men started violently at this unexpected happening, and
then glanced nervously around the room as if to see whether anyone were
listening. At the first sound of the falling ornament, Herbert started
to run upstairs; but when the conversation was resumed some strange
power seemed to draw him back to the doorway again. His intention was
to take one last look and go away. He knew that he had no right there,
and that his father might be very angry if he thought that he was out
of bed and listening to the conversation; but some strange will over
which he appeared to be powerless, kept him rooted to the spot. The
two men talked in such a low tone at first that all he could hear was
the mumbling of voices. Presently, however, his father becoming more
earnest, said excitedly to the other man in a louder voice:

“I won’t do it. I tell you I can’t do it. It’s not right to you.”

“Don’t be a fool,” responded the red-haired man in a deep bass voice.
“This will save you, and it cannot do me any harm. I’ll never miss it,
I can assure you.”

“But it seems so unjust,” urged his father; “it doesn’t seem quite
square to act with you in this way. After all these years I should not
be placed in the position of taking this from you.”

“I am the best judge of that,” growled the other man in his heavy
voice; “take it and say no more about it.”

As he spoke he pushed a package in the direction of Mr. Harkins, who
still with reluctance, picked it up and placed it in his pocket. This
act seemed to relieve his feelings, because he said right away in a
voice that sounded lighter and more contented:

“Well, I guess it is all for the best. I’ll take it, and you can rest
assured that you’ll lose nothing by your kindness.”

Their voices became lower again at this point, and Herbert, sorry for
having remained so long, hurried back to bed and was soon in the land
of slumber. Father, mother and son met at the breakfast table the next
morning, and all seemed to be in a more cheerful frame of mind than
they had been for some days. Mr. Harkins was bubbling over with good
spirits. He turned to his wife in a laughing manner, and said:

“I’ve got a surprise for you this morning--a bit of good news that will
make you feel good.”

“What is it?” asked the wife curiously.

“Simply that I have the money and I am going to pay off that obligation
to John Black before the clock strikes another hour.”

The poor woman was so overjoyed at this unexpected news that she ran
over and gave her husband a hearty kiss.

“This is good news, David,” she said. “How on earth did you manage to
raise the money in such a short time?”

“Oh ho!” he replied merrily; “it’s news you are after, is it? Well you
can’t have it just now. This money came from a gentleman who is a very
good friend of mine. His name will have to remain a secret for the
present at least.”

Herbert sat and listened to this conversation with a feeling of dismay.
He felt like crying out and telling his father that he had been present
at the mysterious midnight interview and had heard things that were not
intended for his ears; but his lips refused to frame the words, and he
sat there feeling very mean and very guilty. Finally both conscience
and curiosity got the better of him. He made up his mind to confess
his little indiscretion--for it was not anything more serious than an
indiscretion--and then to ask his father to tell him the name of the
strange man who had appeared at such an unusual hour and under such
unusual circumstances. Mr. Harkins had his hat and coat on preparing to
leave the house when Herbert arose from the table and said to him in a
voice that quivered with nervousness:

“Father, I could not sleep last night.”

“I am very sorry to hear that, my son,” was the kindly reply. “Probably
you are not feeling well. You had better stop in and see Dr. Smith on
your way from school this afternoon.”

“No, no; it’s not that,” stammered Herbert; “it’s something I want to
tell you. When I found that I could not sleep I got out of bed--”

“I am in a hurry now, Herbert,” exclaimed his father, talking very
rapidly and moving towards the door. “I must get down and see Mr.
Coke. You can tell me this story when you come home from school this
afternoon.”

And the next moment the street door closed with a bang and Mr. Harkness
was on his way to the bank. Herbert sat down in a chair feeling very
much disappointed. He felt somehow or other that his father had become
involved, and if he had been able to speak, that much mystery might
have been dissipated.




CHAPTER V IN WHICH DAVID HARKINS BECOMES THE VICTIM OF PECULIAR
CIRCUMSTANCES


David Harkins left his home that morning, walking rapidly and gaily
humming a tune to himself. He felt better and happier than he had
for many weeks before. The thought of canceling the note and freeing
himself from the obligation which he was under to John Black lifted an
immense weight from his mind and enabled him to take a cheerful view
of life. As he walked along he mentally matured plans for increasing
his income during the year to come and placing his family in a position
where they would not be compelled to feel concerned regarding the
future.

In a few minutes he reached the office of Horace Coke, the lawyer, who
was installed in a little second story room of a modest house on the
main street. The apartment was very much like the lawyer--simple and
old-fashioned, but entirely adequate for the needs of the law. There
was a plain, flat-top desk, littered with legal papers. An office boy
who hoped eventually to become a member of the bar, sat copying a
deed; and the silence in the room was broken by the steady scratching
of his pen. The shelves about the room were filled with law books
covered with calfskin and bearing their titles in little gold letters
on a slip of black over what might be called their backbones. Mr. Coke
himself was puffing away at a big black cigar--which, by the way,
was his only dissipation. He was looking over some papers when David
Harkins entered the room, but jumped from his chair immediately and
greeted the newcomer with a hearty:

“Hello there, Dave! What’s bringing you out so early in the morning?”

“Some legal business, Horace,” replied the other laughingly.

“I am sorry to hear that,” said the venerable attorney, shaking his
head in a doubtful manner. “I always advise my friends to keep out of
the law. It’s a bad business. It takes up all your money, and rarely
gives you any good results.”

“That sounds like queer talk for a man who depends on the law for his
livelihood.”

Horace Coke laughed heartily at this retort, and said:

“It does sound queer, doesn’t it? But I don’t talk that way to
everybody. Of course, if people will get into trouble and will invoke
the law, I might as well take their money and attend to their business
as the next one; but I satisfy my conscience by advising all of my
friends to keep out of the law, because as I said before, it’s a mighty
bad business.”

Then the good-natured counsellor dropped into his chair and indulged in
another hearty laugh. It was one of the oddities of his nature that he
should be continually berating the profession of which he was such an
ornament and for which he really had a deep reverence.

“But not to get off the subject,” added Mr. Harkins, “I would like to
inform you that I have come here to pay off that note to John Black.
Under ordinary circumstances I would go to the bank to transact this
business; but as long as Mr. Black has found it necessary to employ a
lawyer to secure his money, I felt that it was proper to come here and
pay you.”

The lawyer looked at David Harkins searchingly through his eye-glasses.
He was silent for a moment, and then said in a low voice, in marked
contrast with his jolly manner of a few minutes before:

“See here, Dave, can you spare this money? I don’t believe you can, and
I hate to see a man pressed. If you say the word, I’ll go over to old
Black and try to get an extension on the note.”

“Not at all,” was the cheerful rejoinder. “I do not desire an
extension; I want to pay it and get it off my mind forever.”

Mr. Coke walked over to Harkins and taking him by the hand, exclaimed
in his cheery voice:

“Congratulations, old man! I am glad to hear you talk in that way, and
I am mighty glad to know that you were able to raise the money in such
a short time. It will not only be a good thing to pay off the note, but
it will be the means of establishing your credit in Cleverly. There’s
nothing like a reputation for a man, and if you can get a good one it
is liable to stick to you just as well as a bad one.”

The two men sat down at the desk together, and after the necessary
papers had been prepared and signed, Mr. Harkins handed over one
thousand dollars in fresh banknotes.

Half an hour later the lawyer put his hat and coat on and started
towards the bank where he had an appointment with John Black. The door
was closed when he arrived; but following his usual custom he entered
without knocking. The banker’s back was turned to him at the time, and
when he heard the door open and close, Mr. Black cried out in a harsh
voice:

“Who’s that? What are you doing there?”

“It is only I, John,” said the lawyer. “I came here to attend to a
little matter of business.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the banker, changing his tone slightly at the sight of
the lawyer. “I thought it was one of those impudent clerks coming in
here without being civil enough to knock at the door.”

After this he started to walk up and down the office, stamping his feet
and frowning in a very ugly manner. His expression was forbidding, and
Mr. Coke looked at him in astonishment.

“What’s the matter, Black?” asked the lawyer. “You don’t seem to be in
a very good humor this morning.”

“Good humor? I should say not. I’ve got a good notion to leave this
town. A man’s property isn’t safe over night. You get no protection.
You pay big taxes and put up with all sorts of inconveniences, and what
do you get in return? That’s what I would like to know; what do you get
in return?”

“Why what in the world are you driving at?” asked the lawyer; “what has
happened?”

“Happened? Why everything’s happened. Some thief entered my house last
night, got into the library, broke open my desk and stole a package of
money that I had put there for safe keeping over night. What do you
think of that? Wouldn’t you say that something had happened if your
house had been broken into and your desk had been rifled? Wouldn’t you,
I say? Wouldn’t you?”

“Why, yes,” said the lawyer, staring at his client. “I suppose I should
say that something had happened under those circumstances. But have
you any clue to the robbery?”

“Clue! Clue!” retorted the banker, with his habit of repeating words.
“Certainly not. How could you expect me to have a clue in a town like
this? The police officials are no good, never were any good, and never
will be any good.”

“But have you any hope of recovering your money?”

“Hope? Certainly I have hope. I am going to recover that money if it
costs every other cent that I have in the world. I don’t propose to sit
down like a lamb and be fleeced. Do you think that I am that kind of a
man? Do you?”

“No,” said the lawyer, “I do not. I am very sorry to hear about your
loss; but I don’t suppose there is any use crying over spilt milk.”

“Spilt milk! What do you mean by that? How can you talk about a large
amount of money as if it were spilt milk? What do you mean anyhow?”

“Oh,” said the lawyer, “that was simply a little illustration of mine.
You see the moral is a good one.”

“Hump! I don’t think it’s good at all, and I don’t like to hear you
talk in that way.” Then after a momentary pause, “But what is it you
want? Why did you come here?”

“I came with some good news,” said the lawyer. “David Harkins called
on me this morning and paid off that note of a thousand dollars, and I
have brought the money to you.”

The crafty face of the banker lighted up with surprise at this
announcement. It was so unexpected that he hardly knew what to say in
reply. Finally he managed to remark:

“Paid you? Paid you this morning, did he? I wonder where he got the
money.”

“I am sure I do not know,” said the lawyer, “and really I don’t think
it makes much difference as long as you get the amount of your note.”

The two men sat down at the desk together, and the lawyer, after some
preliminary remarks, handed over the money to the banker. The minute it
was laid before him he jumped with a start.

“Why, this is all new money,” he exclaimed. “That’s just the kind of
money that was taken from me last night. I don’t believe Dave Harkins
came by that money honestly. It makes him look like a thief. It was
probably done by that smart boy of his.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” cried the lawyer, trying to pacify the banker.

“But I will say it. Both father and son have a grudge against me, and I
don’t believe they would hesitate at anything to get even.”

“But my dear sir,” remarked the lawyer in a soothing tone, “you have
made a very rash assertion, and you have absolutely nothing to base it
upon.”

John Black was silent for a moment, and then suddenly turning around,
he said in a harsh tone:

“Did you get that money direct from David Harkins?”

“I did,” was the response.

“Then,” exclaimed the banker in a tone of triumph, “that proves my
suspicion. The money that was taken out of my desk consisted of ten
$100 bills, and the money you have just given me is made up exactly of
ten $100 bills. That satisfies me.”

“It is a coincidence,” admitted the lawyer.

“Coincidence,” snorted the banker, “it’s sufficient to convict the man.
It satisfies me, and it ought to be enough to satisfy any other man
with brains.”

“I wouldn’t be too hasty,” suggested the lawyer. “There is nothing to
be gained by acting in that manner.”

“Hasty? Don’t talk about being hasty. I am going to have justice no
matter who is injured; and I don’t want to be soft-soaped out of doing
the right thing. I am going to act, and I am going to act quickly.”

“But, my dear sir,” said the lawyer, persisting in his objections,
“you must have proof; don’t you understand that? You must have proof
before you can accuse a man.”

John Black was in a terrible rage by this time. He paced up and down
the office rapidly, and then standing in front of the lawyer and
raising his finger in a threatening way, exclaimed:

“I’ll have proof all right. The proof will be a warrant for the arrest
of David Harkins on the charge of stealing my money.”

“I am sorry to hear you talk that way,” said the lawyer, “I think you
are making a mistake. But, however, you are master of your own actions.
When do you propose to do this?”

“Within twenty-four hours,” replied the other solemnly. “If you want
to, you can serve a warning on Dave Harkins, and if he will restore my
money at once I may be merciful to him; but if not, he must take the
consequences. In any event he will have to make up his mind within the
next twenty-four hours.”




CHAPTER VI IN WHICH DAVID HARKINS QUITS THIS LIFE AND TAKES HIS SECRET
WITH HIM


News travels quickly in a small town. Before breakfast the following
morning it was very generally reported that John Black had been robbed,
and that he was going to issue a warrant for the arrest of David
Harkins. The report shocked most of those who heard it. John Black was
a hard man, and more than one of the citizens of Cleverly had felt the
force of his iron hand.

He worked incessantly, and never spent a penny unless it was absolutely
necessary. Such a man may be considered just; but he is bound to be
unpopular. David Harkins, on the contrary, was well liked by all who
knew him. He was on the best of terms with his neighbors, and always
had time for a kind word to everyone he met--man, woman and child.

The people therefore were disposed to suspend judgment until they had
heard both sides of the story. While David Harkins was at the table
Horace Coke drove up, and asked to have a minute’s conversation. As
soon as they were alone he said hastily:

“Have you heard the rumors?”

“I have,” responded Harkins, “and I consider them scandalous. I wonder
where such malicious stories could originate?”

“That’s easily told,” replied the lawyer. “They come from no less a
person than John Black.”

“How dare he say such things!” exclaimed Harkins with passion.

For answer the lawyer told him the details of his interview with the
banker and the singular likeness between the banknotes that had been
stolen and the money which had been used to pay off the note.

David Harkins listened in astonishment, and when Coke had concluded,
said:

“But even that doesn’t justify Black in slandering me.”

“Certainly not; but you must agree that the coincidence is not only
remarkable, but could be construed as suspicious.”

“But my part of the transaction was perfectly straight.”

“I’m sure of that,” responded Coke with fervor, “and that’s why I’m
here this morning. Let me state the case in a nutshell. You have been
foolish enough to make an enemy of a powerful and wealthy man. You have
borrowed money of him. He demands the payment of the money from you in
the belief that you are penniless and cannot comply with his demand.
His house is entered and robbed of a thousand dollars. The next morning
you pay him a thousand dollars in bills identical to those stolen from
him.”

“But there are thousands of such bills in circulation.”

“True; but the thing for you to do is to shut the mouth of gossip at
once. That can be done in a very simple manner. All you have to do is
to prove what is known in the law as an alibi. Tell where you got the
money and produce the man who gave it to you.”

Harkins shook his head sadly at this.

“Your suggestion seems simple enough; but I fear I cannot comply with
it.”

“Why not?” in manifest astonishment.

“Because it was given to me in confidence and with the understanding
that the name of the donor should not be divulged.”

“But it came from a friend?”

“One of the best I have in the world.”

“Well, he would surely not permit you to rest under a shadow for the
sake of a foolish promise. Go to him at once and get a release from
your pledge to silence.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” said Harkins gravely. “He was to start for
England this very day. However, your advice is good. I’ll hire a team
and try to reach him. If I succeed I will report to you this afternoon.”

As soon as Mr. Coke departed, Herbert made an effort to tell his father
the story of his indiscretion in listening at the doorway on the
occasion of the midnight visit of the mysterious stranger. But once
again Mr. Harkins was too busy to stop and listen, and father and son
parted without that exchange of confidence which would have done so
much to clear up an embarrassing situation. Mr. Harkins went to the
nearest livery stable and soon had a one-horse buggy harnessed and
ready for the road. He told no one his destination, but whipping up the
horse, passed down the main streets, out into the outskirts of the town
and was soon lost to view.

It was late in the afternoon when he returned, and then the wheels
of the carriage were covered with mud and the horse was covered with
lather as if he had traveled far and fast that day. There was a
careworn look about David Harkins’ eyes and a drooping of the lips that
betokened disappointment. He drove back over the same streets whence he
had taken his departure in the morning, nodding pleasantly to several
acquaintances he passed on the way.

Just when he was in sight of the livery stable, a sudden gust of wind
raised a cloud of dust that blinded animals and pedestrians alike. This
was followed by another, and the second squall carried in its wake a
batch of old newspapers and sent them eddying about in the air like
some strange craft in a whirlpool. One of the papers struck the horse
square in the eye. The animal, already frightened by the wind and dust,
raised up on its haunches and gave a shrill neigh. Harkins grasping
the reins tightly, pulled it down to earth again. But the moment the
horse’s feet struck the ground it darted off like a flash and went
tearing down the street at an insane gait. The driver kept cool and
self contained. Standing on the floor of the carriage and leaning over
the dashboard he pulled at the lines with all his strength.

Just when he felt that the animal was being brought into subjection,
the lines gave a snap and broke, leaving him thrown back on the seat
with two useless bits of leather in his hand. He was as helpless as
a seaman without a rudder, or more so. The horse released from the
grasp of the driver, redoubled its speed and kept on its way like mad.
Harkins, now alarmed, considered the advisability of jumping out of
the vehicle in order to avert a worse fate. But while he was debating
the situation the horse solved it for him. Coming to a cross street it
swerved in its furious career and turned the corner. The suddenness of
the move swung the buggy from one side of the street to the other, and
on its rebound it struck an iron lamp-post, smashing the frail vehicle
to pieces and throwing David Harkins head first on to the sidewalk.

A crowd collected immediately and several men hurried to the assistance
of the stricken man. He was insensible, and his breath came in short,
sharp gasps. A stretcher was procured, and he was carried to his
home. A physician was telephoned for, and he arrived at the home
simultaneously with the men who were carrying the prostrate form. The
doctor worked unceasingly for nearly an hour, and at the end of that
time announced that his patient must have absolute quiet and that no
one must attempt to speak to him for the present.

Horace Coke, who had arrived at the house, was very much distressed
over the accident and showed especial pain over the doctor’s order.

“Doctor,” he said, “couldn’t I ask him one question?”

“My dear sir,” answered the physician pityingly, “you can do as you
please; but the instant you or anyone else disobeys my orders I will
give this case up and will not answer for the consequences.”

“Is it that bad?” asked the lawyer.

“It couldn’t be worse,” replied the doctor; “he only regained
consciousness a few minutes ago. I succeeded in putting him into a
light slumber. If he rests undisturbed for an hour I may save his life.”

Herbert slipped quietly out of the room while the two men were speaking.

“He is still sleeping,” he said to the doctor.

The doctor shot a sharp glance at the boy.

“I hope you didn’t attempt to speak to him,” rather sternly.

“Certainly not,” replied Herbert, flushing up at this reflection upon
his good sense. Slowly, slowly, the minutes ticked by.

A few of the neighbors remained in the parlor. The doctor and Mrs.
Harkins alone remained in the sick room. A half hour elapsed. It began
to look as if the life might be saved.

Presently the door opened and a young girl attired in a dark suit
entered the room. Although youthful, she had the air of restfulness
usually found only in persons of more mature years. She had great black
eyes now full of sympathy with those in the room. Her dark, glossy hair
parted in the middle, emphasized the extreme whiteness of her broad
forehead. This was Mary Black, daughter of the banker, and sister of
Arthur Black. She glanced about the apartment until her glance rested
upon Herbert, and going up to him, put her hand in his with such
frankness and tenderness as to bring tears to his eyes. He stepped to
one side of the room. She was the first to speak.

“Herbert, I feel for you very, very much,” she said in a low, melodious
voice. “Mother would not rest until I had come over here to inquire how
your father was getting on. Indeed we all feel for you and your mother
very much. Father was anxious also.”

She was quick to see that Herbert’s face clouded up at the mention of
her father, and hastened to add:

“That is what I wished to speak about particularly. I know that your
father and my father had words; but I can assure you that there is no
ill feeling on father’s part now. I talked with him long and earnestly,
and he finally consented to permit me to come over here and say this to
your father. The moment he is able to see anyone, I want to tell him
this.”

“You are an angel,” murmured Herbert. “I don’t thank your father for
this visit, but I am very, very grateful to you.”

Just then Mrs. Harkins stepped out of the room, and Mary made haste to
repeat to her what she had already told Herbert. The face of the older
woman softened at the kind words that were poured into her ears, and in
a moment the girl and the mother were in each other’s arms, indulging
in one of those crys which do so much to relieve the tension of grief
and sorrow.

But Mary Black did not waste much time in useless tears. She quickly
dried her eyes, and turning to Mrs. Harkins, said with energy:

“Now, I’m going to make myself useful; tell me what to do first.”

Mrs. Harkins smiled through her tears at this manifestation of
industry. But she felt relieved to know that feminine hands and
feminine eyes would be in charge of her house while she remained at
the bedside of her stricken husband. Mary Black, during that hour of
anxiety and for many days afterward, proved herself a genuine angel of
mercy. Those who gazed at her knew that while her nature was kind and
gentle she was yet resolute and determined.

The minutes went by and those who were assembled in the outer room
kept anxious watch on the door leading to the sick chamber. All
instinctively realized that a crisis was at hand, and that it was to
be decided very shortly. Presently there was a movement within and the
doctor came out, supporting Mrs. Harkins on his shoulder. A hush went
over the little circle.

“What is it, doctor?” asked Mr. Coke, voicing the question that hung
unspoken on the lips of all the others.

The doctor looked at his questioner in silence for a moment, and then
said impressively:

“He is dead!”

A convulsive sob from the newly made widow brought Mary Black and some
of the neighbors to her side in an instant. While they were leading the
weeping woman up to her room, the doctor noted the questioning look in
Mr. Coke’s eyes.

“It came very suddenly,” he said; “all was over in an instant. He died
without opening his lips.”

Herbert, who was standing in the rear of the room unobserved, heard
this with blanched face and parched throat. He realized that the death
of his father marked an epoch in his life. He felt that he had lost his
dearest friend. Yet the tears would not come to his strained, glassy
eyes. He was amazed that his heart beat on as before. All that he was
conscious of was a strange, unnatural feeling of numbness.




CHAPTER VII IN WHICH HERBERT MEETS ADVERSITY AND LEARNS THE MEANING OF
HARD WORK


The Harkins home was a very desolate place for many days after the
funeral. Mary Black remained with the family for several days, moving
about noiselessly and attending to the multitude of details which would
otherwise go neglected at such a sad period. After the first sharp
grief had worn away, Herbert and his mother sat down and talked over
their prospects for the future. Mr. Harkins had been prudent enough to
leave a small insurance policy, made out to the order of Mrs. Harkins,
and this money proved to be of immediate assistance to the widow.

Mrs. Harkins was a firm believer in the value of education, and felt
that it was her duty to give Herbert all the schooling that was
possible even if it was necessary to make a personal sacrifice to do
so. She insisted upon his going to school for at least a year after the
death of his father. He did so and made gratifying progress; but he was
now old enough to appreciate the responsibility that rested upon him
as an only son, so just before the close of the school term he went to
his mother and said:

“See here, mother, I’ve got to help you. There is no possible way out
of it. If I can do so and continue going to school, all right; if not,
I will never return to the school.”

“What you say is probably true, my boy,” replied his mother; “but the
question is what to do and how to do it.”

“Well, suppose we settle it now,” said Herbert resolutely.

“Can’t we postpone the thing for a day or so?” asked Mrs. Harkins
anxiously.

“Yes,” responded Herbert, “we could; but there is nothing like doing
to-day, instead of postponing until to-morrow.”

“In that case,” said his mother, “I think you had better continue going
to school until the close of the present term, at least.”

“That’s bully!” exclaimed Herbert heartily. “I am going to put my mind
on my studies, and I don’t think I’ll be a blockhead when the term is
over.”

“That’s true,” responded his mother sadly. “But there is another
feature of the case that gives me great sorrow.”

“What is it?” asked Herbert.

“Your college education,” replied his mother. “You know it was your
father’s fondest wish, as well as my own, that after leaving the
Cleverly School you should take the four year course at St. Joseph’s
College. I don’t see how it can be done now.”

Herbert hung his head and said nothing. The necessity of abandoning
this cherished project was a severer blow to him than he was willing
to admit to his mother. He had dreamed of a professional career and
often thought that if he were able to go through the College he would
be fitted to take the necessary examination for either the legal or the
medical profession. But now his dream was over; he was an only son,
and his duty to his mother was clear. Mr. and Mrs. Harkins were the
parents of three other children; but each of these had died in early
infancy; and now the great heap of earth which covered the remains of
the lamented father of the house was in close proximity to the three
little mounds which were watered and kept green by the tender care and
love which only a mother can understand and give. Herbert thought of
all these things as he sat silent that day. Presently he lifted his
head and spoke to his mother.

“Mother, I am old enough to understand my duty. I wanted to go to the
College very, very much; but now I know that it is impossible. We must
meet adversity, and meet it bravely.”

Her only answer was to embrace the boy who was acquiring manliness at
such a rapid rate.

The school question for the term having been settled, the next question
was to consider what steps could be taken to increase their very small
income. The subject having been opened, was discussed at various times
during the next two weeks. There was a twenty acre farm adjoining the
little home of the Harkins. It came up against the little vegetable
garden which Mr. Harkins had cultivated with care and profit during
his lifetime. The tenant of the large tract had been unfortunate, and
he was anxious to sub-let his lease for a very modest sum of money.
Herbert consulted with Mr. Coke, the lawyer, regarding the matter, and
after some days it was decided to purchase the lease, which had about
two years to run.

The first step in the new life was the engaging of a farmhand to do
the heavy work on the twenty acre tract. A reliable, industrious
man was secured for a very reasonable amount of wages; but with the
understanding that he would be kept for at least two years. The work
was begun under pleasant auspices. After it had proceeded a few weeks,
it was decided that Herbert should get as much schooling as he could
in the meantime. It must be admitted that he attended school rather
irregularly during this period. It was at this time of his life that
he learned in a manner never to be forgotten that this is a world of
hard work. Often he got out of bed before dawn in order to ride the
horse to plough among the growing corn, potatoes and hops. The program
was to get as much ploughed by ten o’clock in the morning as could be
hoed during the remainder of that day. After this Herbert would start
for school, where he sometimes arrived as the afternoon session was
half through. In winter his work was lighter, but the snow was often
deep and drifted. The cold was intense, the north wind piercing and his
clothing so thin that he felt real discomfort.

At night, when his work was over and he had a spare hour, he made it a
habit to study the art of debating. The first book he ever owned was
the “Columbian Orator,” which was given to him by his uncle one winter
as he lay very sick with the measles. In the natural order of things
Herbert soon became recognized as the head of the house, and his mother
leaned on him for advice and accepted his decisions without question.
At the end of the first year, when Herbert balanced his carefully kept
accounts, he found that they had come out just even. It was a little
bit discouraging to find that they had made no profit from their hard
work; but it was a real consolation to know that there had been no
further drain upon the small amount of money which Mrs. Harkins had
laid aside from her husband’s insurance policy.

At the beginning of the second year of farming, Herbert learned to
his amazement that the man from whom they had purchased the unexpired
lease owed money to a number of tradesmen for implements and supplies.
These men came to him and demanded the payment of their claims; but he
was neither able nor willing to satisfy them. Herbert and his man had
finished their summer tilling and their haying when a heavy rain set in
near the end of August. The dreary character of the weather seemed to
fill him with a foreboding of approaching calamity. One night Mr. Coke
came to him with tidings that their ill fortune was about to culminate.
The following morning the sheriff and some other officials, with two
or three of the principal creditors, appeared and after formally
demanding payment of their claims, proceeded to levy on the farm stock,
implements, household effects and other worldly possessions, coupled
with a threat of arrest and imprisonment for the original tenant who
was invisible for some days.

Herbert and his mother stopped with a friendly neighbor while the
work of levying went on. In the meantime Mr. Coke had not been idle.
He denounced the proceedings as an outrage, saying that it was wrong
both in law and morals to hold Herbert and his mother responsible for
the faults or crimes of another. He did more than protest, however.
He acted and acted promptly. He went into court, explained the matter
very clearly to the Judge, and succeeded in obtaining an order by which
the levy was stopped. Herbert and his mother immediately resumed their
old life; but at the end of the year both decided that it would be
advisable to quit farming, which in their circumstances offered little
return for the hard labor involved.

The hired man, who had proven himself to be an unusually efficient
and industrious man, still had two months of his time to run. He
generously offered to release Herbert from this obligation; but the boy
had inherited his father’s trait of pluck and manliness, declined to
accept the offer. He had heard that one of the merchants in the town
who had purchased a large amount of ground on the other side of the
railroad, was anxious to have someone undertake the job of clearing
up fifty acres of the wildest land. Herbert informed his assistant of
that fact, and said that if he was willing to undertake the work he
would guarantee to give him all that they had contracted to pay in the
beginning. It was in November, and when the man and boy started to work
the snow was just going and the water and slush in some places were
knee deep.

Both were resolute, but they were indifferent choppers compared
with those who usually grapple with forests, and the job looked so
formidable that farmers and others passing along the turnpike were
accustomed to halt and predict that Herbert would be a grown man
before he saw the end of the job. But his fighting blood was up and he
determined to plod along without rest until the work was accomplished.
So they continued cutting trees and bushes, chopping up grown trunks
into small lengths, digging out rotten pines from the soil where they
had imbedded themselves, burning the brush and worthless sticks, and
carting home such wood as served for fuel. So they persevered until
the job was finally completed. Herbert received $200 for the work; and
after paying the hired man the $60 that was his due he had $140 left
to put in the family fund. There was still a balance to their credit.
Herbert was very glad the work was finished. At times he felt that
he would give way under the strain, but pluckily refused to do so.
Frequently at night the sharp lances of the Canadian thistles had to be
dug out of his festered feet with needles; but he had the stuff in him
of which successful men are made. However, two years of this sort of
toil were sufficient, and at the end of that time he cheerfully marked
“the end” at the conclusion of his experience at farming.




CHAPTER VIII HERBERT BECOMES AMBITIOUS AND IS FASCINATED BY THE SMELL
OF PRINTERS’ INK


From the time that he was first able to spell and connect one word
with another, Herbert was fascinated by the sight of a printed page.
If he saw a circular or a fragment of newspaper on the sidewalk he was
impelled to pick it up and read its contents. The weekly paper was a
rare treat to him and he perused its columns from the first page to the
last, until he knew the contents almost by heart. The sight of a book
of fiction or adventure or biography was one of the greatest joys on
earth to him, and he eagerly devoured everything of that kind that came
in his way. Early in his school-days he had written little essays which
after being read in secret, many times, were finally consigned to the
flames as being unworthy of publicity.

The town, among its other places and things of interest, possessed a
weekly newspaper known as the Cleverly Banner. Herbert never passed the
office of this newspaper without being filled with a wild desire to
be on the inside instead of the outside of the building. Frequently
he stood looking in the window watching the old-fashioned press as it
slowly ground out the regular weekly edition. Once or twice he had
occasion to call at the office of the Banner with reference to some
printing that was being done there, and on such occasions he was thrown
into transports of delight. The smell of the ink, the sound of the
presses, and the sight of the freshly printed pages sent him into an
ecstacy that was almost heavenly in its pleasure.

When he decided to quit farming his eye and heart unconsciously turned
towards the little newspaper office. One morning he heard that an
apprentice was needed there, he hastened to make application for the
position. The building occupied by the Banner set back on a little
lot facing the main street of the town. It was a two story and a half
dwelling, and an old faded wooden sign over the doorway announced the
name of the paper and informed the residents that “Job printing of all
kinds could be furnished on short notice.” The building itself was half
rotted away from age and want of paint. One editor and one owner after
another had succeeded to the Banner; but it had never occurred to any
of them that it would be a good stroke of business policy to repair or
at least paint the exterior of the building.

The first floor of the Banner office was taken up with a little
counter where such business as was transacted with the public might
be cared for. The remainder of the room was occupied by a very
large old-fashioned printing press. It worked very slowly, and as a
consequence had to go steadily two or three days a week in order to
turn out the edition of the paper. The second floor, which resembled a
hay loft more than a place of business, was utilized as the editorial
and composing room. An old-fashioned stove in the centre of the room
threw out a heat that made the apartment decidedly uncomfortable at
times. A big, sleek cat dozing placidly beneath this stove was one of
the permanent fixtures of the room.

It was quite early in the morning when Herbert called at the Banner
office, and he did not find anyone on the first floor. He rapped on
the counter to attract attention, and presently a voice from upstairs
called out in clear, loud tones:

“Come upstairs.”

He climbed up the rude stairway slowly, and finally emerged into the
editorial and composing room. An elderly man sat in an old-fashioned
armchair in front of a little desk with its top sloping very much like
the desks used in some schools. He was writing rapidly and pausing
every now and then to dip his pen into a big ink-pot which stood by
his side. Visitors to the Banner office were well acquainted with
that enormous ink-stand. It had been used by the various editors from
the time of the foundation of the Banner and went back so far that its
origin must finally have been lost in the mists of antiquity. When
the industrious writer had finished a sentence or a paragraph to his
satisfaction he wheeled about in his chair and expectorated a mouthful
of tobacco juice into an ample cuspidor which stood on the other side
of the desk. He had a shock of snow white hair, very much in disorder,
caused no doubt from his habit of running his fingers through his hair
when in search of a fugitive thought. He was in his shirt sleeves,
which was his usual habit, for he always protested that it was not
possible for a man to do his best work harnessed up in a coat and vest.
Such was Noah Brooks, the editor of the Cleverly Banner, and one of the
characters of the town. He looked up from his work as Herbert entered,
and said:

“Hello there, young man! What can I do for you?”

“I want you to give me a job,” said Herbert simply.

This reply seemed to amaze the editor, for he laid down his pen, pushed
back his chair, and placing his feet on the desk before him, looked at
Herbert with a good-natured smile. It seemed almost a minute before he
spoke. When he did it was to say:

“So you want a job, do you? Well, that’s a laudable ambition; but I am
afraid you have come to the wrong place.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said Herbert.

Noah Brooks looked at Herbert again before replying, and then moving
slightly and raising the index finger of his right hand, he pointed to
the rear of the room and said:

“Do you see those fellows over there?”

Herbert looked around and saw a man engaged in setting type, while a
boy with a great big ink roller in one hand was engaged in taking a
proof of a circular that was about to be printed.

“Yes sir,” he answered obediently; “I see them.”

“Well, do you know,” said the old gentleman with a chuckle, “that about
all those two fellows do is to sit around and wait for Saturday night
in order to draw their salaries.”

The humor of this seemed to appeal to the speaker so strongly that
he had to pause and engage in a hearty laugh before proceeding. The
man and the boy did not appear to be offended. On the contrary, they
laughed too, as if they were accustomed to the good-natured jests of
their employer.

“I am very sorry,” said Herbert, breaking the silence; “but I was
really anxious to get employment on this paper--I have long wished to
enter the newspaper business.”

“Is that so? Do you know anything about the business?”

“No,” said Herbert; “I am entirely ignorant of it; but I felt that I
could learn.”

“That’s the way to talk,” was the hearty reply. “The only way to learn
to do a thing is to do it. I think you would pan out all right in an
office of this kind; but I am sorry to say we have no opening at the
present time.”

Herbert said “Good-by” quietly; but once out of the building he felt
very much depressed at his failure to secure a situation. He did
not tell his mother of his adventure, not wishing to annoy her with
anything that was not of a cheerful nature. During the next few months
he managed to earn a small amount of money by odd bits of employment
that were furnished to him through Horace Coke, the lawyer; but as he
had no taste for the law he did not feel very much encouraged over this
occasional work. His mind still dwelt upon the newspaper business.

One evening he wrote a little item describing an entertainment given at
the Cleverly High School, and mailed it to the office of the Banner,
without indicating the name or address of the writer. After he had
sent this little message on its way, he was figuratively speaking, on
pins and needles until the next issue of the Cleverly Banner should
appear. On the date of its regular issue, he hurried home in order to
get the paper as soon as possible. He was disappointed. It had not
arrived. Unable to wait, he rushed to the post office, and securing
the paper, he eagerly tore off the wrapping and opened the page which
contained the local news. What he found there caused his face to
flush scarlet. The little item that he had written with such care was
reproduced, word for word, as he had penned it, without a change of any
kind. He felt so glad that he could have shouted for joy. Several other
persons were in the post office, and he looked around at them as if to
see whether they had read his secret; but apparently no one was paying
any attention to him. He walked home in a fever of happiness, and it
was only by the strongest effort on his part that he refrained from
telling his mother about the incident.

Naturally he continued to send little items to the paper from week
to week. Sometimes they failed to appear. On such occasions he felt
a sense of loss and disappointment that was far out of proportion to
the importance of the subject. But when the paragraphs did appear that
feeling of elation and joy returned to him on each occasion.

Finally he determined to call at the office of the Banner once more. It
was just possible that there might be an opening, and he made up his
mind not to miss it merely for the sake of asking. The venerable editor
with the snow white hair was in his place as usual. He recognized
Herbert immediately, and cried out:

“Hello young man! I see you are here again.”

“Yes sir,” replied Herbert. “I do not want to be a bore, but I felt
that it would be all right to inquire whether an opportunity had arisen
by which I could secure employment on the Banner.”

Once again the old man looked at him in that quizzical manner.

“Perseverance wins, boy,” he said, “and you have won. I do need
somebody. My apprentice has left me very suddenly, and I think I can
make use of you. He only got four dollars a week. I know that will be
pretty small for you; but I can afford to give you six dollars, and if
you are willing to take it the job is yours.”

Herbert could not conceal the pleasure that he felt.

“I will be delighted to accept,” he said. “When do you want me to
begin, and what may my duties be?”

“You can begin to-morrow morning at eight o’clock,” was the response;
“and your duties at first will consist of sweeping out the office,
serving the Banner every week, working the printing press, and making
yourself generally useful. That does not sound very poetic, does it?
But you will find that it will prove a very useful discipline and may
be valuable to you later in life.”

Herbert began his work the following morning and did everything in his
power to give satisfaction to his employer. If he swept out the office,
he did it so carefully as to win the praise of the journeyman printer.
When he served the papers, he did it with such accuracy as to merit
the approval of the editor. This continued for several weeks, and at
the end of that time he began to contribute little local items to the
paper, much to the satisfaction of Mr. Brooks. In the meantime Mr.
Anderson had opened a night school in the town, and Herbert resolved to
attend the sessions of this school in order to perfect his education as
much as possible.

Towards the close of the winter Mr. Brooks complimented Herbert by
authorizing him to write the Irvington letter for the Banner. Irvington
was the adjoining town, and by this new arrangement Herbert had to go
there for the items regularly every week. He walked there and back in
mid-winter in order to obtain this copy, and although the weather
was sometimes very severe, he never complained. Under his arrangement
with Mr. Brooks, he was to remain at the office of the Cleverly Banner
until he was twenty years of age. Incidentally he was initiated into
the mystery of typesetting, for the Banner, although progressive in
some ways, had not yet reached the dignity of typesetting machines. The
printing press gave him more trouble than any other part of his work.
On the days that he had to assist in working the press his hands were
blistered and his back lamed by constant stooping. Yet he was always
kindly treated by those in authority, and in return merited their
confidence and good will.

Late one afternoon on his way home he met Mary Black, who was as sweet
and kind and tender as ever. Her first thought was about his new
position.

“Herbert, I hear that you are connected with the Banner.”

“Yes,” he said modestly, “that is true.”

“Are you the editor?”

“Not exactly.”

“But what do you write for the paper?”

“When I do write,” he said with a little hesitancy, “it is usually the
local paragraphs.”

“Did you write the account of the last entertainment at the Cleverly
High School?”

“Yes,” he replied, with an inquiring look in his eyes.

“Oh!” she exclaimed impulsively, “I think that that was just splendid.
It was one of the nicest things I ever read.”

Herbert flushed with conscious pride at this unexpected praise. He
tried to turn it off by saying that it was only an ordinary piece of
work; but as he walked away he had a difficult time in smothering the
feeling of pride that rose in his breast in spite of himself. He could
scarcely eat his supper that night so strong was the feeling of elation
within him, and even as late as bedtime the recollection of the praise
given him so sweetly filled him with as much delight as if he had
suddenly fallen heir to a great fortune.




CHAPTER IX HAVING BECOME A NEWSPAPER WRITER, HERBERT LOOKS FOR NEW
WORLDS TO CONQUER


In the early part of the winter Mr. Brooks was taken ill with what the
doctor diagnosed as grippe. He thought at first that he would be about
in a few days; but the days lengthened into weeks, and even then the
physician would not permit him to leave the house. In the beginning of
his illness the editor did a great deal of his work at home, sending
the copy to the office in time for the regular edition of the Banner.
But as time wore on the medical man frowned upon this, declaring that
it was retarding his recovery.

One day the editor sent for Herbert, and after some questions regarding
himself and the office, said:

“Herbert, I’m going to place a new responsibility on you. The doctor
has forbidden my doing any more writing. I want you to take my place.
I want you to write the editorials and as many of the local items as
possible. In short, I want you to manage the Banner until I am able to
be about again. Will you do it?”

“Gladly,” replied Herbert.

From that day he felt an added importance, although he did not show it
by act or word. He must have had a natural instinct for the newspaper
business, for everything moved along with remarkable smoothness and
despite the fact that he had to labor incessantly he was fond of his
work.

Subscribers noticed an improvement in the Banner. The local paragraphs
became more numerous and were filled with human interest. The
editorials also were crisp and to the point. Indeed they became a
decided feature of the paper whereas they were formerly accepted as a
painful necessity. One day an old reader of the paper who came in to
renew his subscription to the paper, said:

“I want to congratulate you on the good paper you are getting out. This
is especially true of the editorial columns. I find the comment on the
news to be short and snappy. This is much better than the long articles
which used to be more or less instructive, but generally as dull as
sermons. How do you do it? You must have some secret method. What is
it?”

Herbert smiled at this sweeping praise. He pointed to a little motto
which hung over his desk.

“I don’t know,” he said, “unless it is because I follow the advice on
that card.”

The little inscription to which he pointed said simply:

“Brevity is the soul of wit.”

“That is as true to-day,” he remarked, “as when it was first penned by
the great poet.”

Herbert did not tell his caller one of the means he had used to arrive
at such a desirable end. When he began writing editorials he found
himself almost unconsciously padding them out to a half column and a
column in length. He pondered long and earnestly over the means of
breaking himself of the habit. Finally he hit on a plan which was as
simple as it was effective. He cut his copy paper in such a length that
it would not hold more than eight or ten lines. When he got an idea for
an editorial comment, he endeavored to express it clearly and pointedly
in the number of words that would go on the small sheet of paper.
At first it was a very difficult task, but practice makes perfect,
and at length he found that he could do it with comparative ease and
eventually reached the state of things which had won him unstinted
praise.

He had not been in charge of the Banner long before he realized that
the local news was the most important thing in the paper to the
people of Cleverly. Accordingly he bent all of his energies to the
improvement of that department. He pressed the postmaster into his
service. He induced some of the young men of the town to contribute,
and as a result there was not a wedding, a birth or a funeral that was
not fully reported in the Banner. He laid great stress on personal
items, taking the ground that a pleasant reference to anyone not only
interested the person mentioned, but also their relatives and friends
as well as the people of the town. If a church raised its mortgage,
or a citizen put an addition to his house, or the school gave an
entertainment it was sure to be found in the local columns. It was
not surprising, therefore, that the subscribers looked forward with
eagerness for their paper and complained bitterly if, by chance, they
failed to receive it.

Herbert avoided rumors and scandals with scrupulous care. He made up
his mind that as long as he was at the helm such things would not find
their way into the weekly. He remembered, with bitterness, the stories
that had been circulated about his father, and while they had been well
nigh forgotten by the people of the town, they were still treasured up
in a corner of his memory. He frequently talked with his mother, and
although she gave him no encouragement, persisted in a determination to
clear his father’s name.

“There was some strange mystery connected with father’s last day,” he
said, “and I will never rest entirely happy until it has been fully
cleared. I believe the suggestion that he stole that money was a base
calumny, but I will not be content until the world is convinced that he
was innocent.”

His face would darken at this, and he would add:

“And when his innocence is proved the guilt of someone else will be
established, and that person, whoever it may be, need expect no mercy
from me.”

One day when he had been talking in this strain his mother said:

“Herbert, I want you to drop this sort of thing. You are on the verge
of man’s estate and you should look forward and not backward. I feel
the blot on your father’s good name quite as keenly as you do, but I
would be most unhappy if I thought you would permit it to embitter your
life. This is a busy world, and the people in it--men and women--have
little time for the person who is nursing a grievance.”

“You mean well, mother,” replied the young journalist, “but you do
not realize the feeling I have. It is not a feeling of bitterness;
it is not a grievance; it is a desire--a desire that will not be
quenched--for justice. No matter where I go or what I may do, this
desire remains with me, and some day it shall be gratified.”

She stroked his hands fondly and looked at him with undisguised
admiration.

“While you live your father will never die--you resemble him in more
ways than one. Go ahead and carry out your own designs. I am content to
have you do as you will.”

In the meantime the circulation of the Banner was increasing by
leaps and bounds. The job printing office was going at full speed.
This condition of affairs began to show itself in the accounts. Noah
Brooks, who was beginning to improve in health, noticed it with evident
satisfaction.

“Herbert,” he said when the young man visited him one day, “I am
satisfied that you have made good. I have resolved to make your salary
ten dollars a week. Probably you are worth more than that, but it is
all I can do at present.”

“It will be gratefully accepted,” replied Herbert. “It is a proof that
you are satisfied with my work, and that is compensation in itself.”

During this time the young man, who was soon to celebrate his
twenty-first birthday, had not neglected to advance himself in the
art of writing. He felt that this was to be his trade, and that if
a man devoted years to the work of becoming a proficient carpenter
or bricklayer there was no reason why he should not also give time
and study to the work of learning to write. He had left school, but
Mr. Anderson, who had been his devoted friend from the time he had
routed the other boys from the schoolhouse on “barring out day,” very
kindly offered to give him a special course of instruction in English
composition. By this means the long winter passed away very quickly,
and Herbert advanced rapidly in his chosen business.

One evening when Herbert came home from his studies, a little earlier
than usual, he found Mary Black in the parlor with his mother. After
the usual cordial greetings she said timidly:

“I hope you have forgiven us for the dreadful things that occurred
before your father’s death.”

“We have nothing to forgive you for, Mary,” said Herbert gently. “If
there has been any obligation it is entirely on our side. I am sure
that neither mother nor I can ever forget your kindness.”

She flushed a little at this, and then after some hesitancy, said:

“It’s not that. I know you have only kind feelings toward me. But I
want you to be charitable to father and--and to Arthur.”

She hung her head, and Herbert, a trifle embarrassed, made no reply. He
glanced up and noticed that her eyes were red and her face careworn.
His mother noticed the look, and quickly stepped in the breach.

“Mary is in trouble,” she said; “Arthur left home last week and has
not been heard of since then.”

“Oh,” cried Herbert impulsively, going up and taking her hands. “I am
very, very sorry to hear this, and if I can assist you in any way you
need only command me.”

Her only reply was to weep quietly. Mrs. Harkins took her in her arms
and soothed her with motherly kindness. Herbert felt quite awkward at
this scene. First he stood on one foot and then on the other. Finally
for want of something to say he exclaimed:

“You can rest assured that I have no feelings of resentment toward
your father or Arthur. I was angry with them, very angry; but I am not
vindictive.”

He did not add that the fact that she was the daughter of one and the
sister of the other caused him to utter such a generous sentiment.

“Have you any idea where Arthur has gone?” he asked a moment later.

“No,” she replied; “that is what makes it so distressing. If it were
not for the uncertainty we might feel resigned.”

“Did anyone go with him?”

“We are not sure, but he was seen with Harry Adler just before he left.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Herbert. “Then it’s ten to one he has gone to New
York. Adler has a perfect mania for that place.”

“I’m sorry,” ejaculated Mrs. Harkins, “because if that’s so, Arthur is
in very bad company in a very wicked place.”

In spite of himself, Herbert had to laugh at the vehemence with which
his mother uttered her sentiments. After some further conversation he
said:

“I may be able to help you, Mary. You know Mr. Anderson has gone to
New York to accept a position as teacher in a private academy. I’ll
write to him and ask him to keep on the lookout for Arthur. Of course
New York is a big city and it seems like looking for a needle in a
haystack, but it’s just possible he may run across him. Anyhow it will
do no harm to try.”

The letter was dispatched that night. As he posted it Herbert little
thought it was to be the messenger which was to summon him to newer,
higher and more responsible duties. But a kind fate which conceals
from us the misfortunes we are to undergo also hides from us the path
which is to lead to happiness and prosperity. Although Noah Brooks had
returned to the office and was able to resume his work, he insisted
that Herbert should continue the writing he had been doing so well.

Three days later Herbert received a letter postmarked New York. He
rightly surmised that it was from Mr. Anderson. It was brief and
cordial. It said that he had heard nothing of Arthur Black, but that if
he should run across him in the future he would immediately notify the
family at Cleverly. There was a postscript to the letter, and unusual
for a man’s postscript, it contained the most important thing of all.
Mr. Anderson said that he had become acquainted with the city editor of
the Argus, one of the important daily newspapers of the metropolis, and
that he had the disposal of a position on the local staff which would
pay fifteen dollars a week at the start, with a prospect for promotion
and increased salary at an early date. The teacher said that Herbert’s
letter had reached him opportunely and that he had strongly recommended
his young friend for the position. The city editor, he added, would
give him one week in which to either accept or decline the offer.

Herbert jumped at least two feet in the air when he had finished
reading this letter. It offered him an opportunity he had secretly
coveted for a long while. He hurried home to show the communication to
his mother. Dinner had been served and she was waiting for him. As he
took his place at the table, he tossed the envelope over to her.

“A letter from New York,” he said.

She read it through carefully. When she reached the postscript a shadow
crossed her face.

“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.

He appreciated fully the meaning of that question. He understood
that the answer to it meant either the continuance of their present
comfortable home life or a temporary painful separation. But he knew
his mother well too, and he realized from her tone and manner that she
did not intend to advise him one way or the other. She was interested
in his welfare and would let him settle the question for himself.
Nevertheless she waited, with some anxiety, for the reply. Herbert
walked over and put his arms about her shoulders as if to reassure her,
and then replied in a low tone:

“I will make my decision within twenty-four hours.”




CHAPTER X WHICH TELLS OF HOW HERBERT CAME TO LEAVE THE TOWN OF CLEVERLY


As soon as he arrived at the office of the Banner on the following
morning, Herbert showed Noah Brooks the letter he had received from New
York, and said he had not yet decided whether to accept or decline the
proffer of the position on the New York Argus.

“It is not a matter of salary, Mr. Brooks,” he said, “but the question
of my future. The prospect of an opening in the metropolis is alluring,
yet I dislike the idea of leaving Cleverly.”

“Take your time and do the right thing, Herbert,” said the veteran
editor. “As you are aware, your time with me expired some months ago,
and your further continuance depends entirely upon yourself. I am frank
enough to say that there is not much chance of advancement here.”

A few minutes later the young man left the office for the purpose
of transacting some business with the postmaster of the town. That
official had stepped out for the moment, but his clerk courteously
invited Herbert to take a seat in his private office and await his
return. For a few minutes the young man whiled away the time by idly
turning over the pages of some newspapers that he found upon the
postmaster’s desk. Presently his attention was attracted by the sound
of footsteps in the outside corridor. It was nearly mail time, and
people were assembling for the purpose of receiving their letters and
papers. The board partition between the private office and the outside
room was very thin, and Herbert could hear bits of conversation. He
paid no attention to them at first, but after a while the mention
of his father’s name caused him to prick up his ears in wonder. He
recognized the voices of the two speakers; one was a well-to-do farmer
named Bingham who operated an extensive place just outside of Cleverly;
the other, John Peterson, a wholesale grocer, ranked among the leading
citizens of the town. They were in a secluded corner of the post
office, and after a while their conversation became quite animated.
Bingham was doing most of the talking. He said very earnestly:

“I always liked Dave Harkins, and it has been a standing regret with me
that the mystery of his last days was never cleared up.”

“I have heard a great deal about that,” responded Peterson, “but I have
never been able to get head or tail of the affair. There was a mystery
sure enough, and Harkins died under a cloud; but it was never explained
to me by anyone who was in a position to talk about the matter.”

“Well,” replied the other slowly, “I can’t say that I am an authority
on the subject; yet I know some of the facts. It seems that old man
Black took an unaccountable dislike to Dave Harkins and went to him and
insisted upon the immediate repayment of a loan that he had made some
time previous. Harkins was not supposed to have an extra dollar in the
world. Yet he paid the loan in full the following day. That night--or
rather the night before--Black’s place was broken into and a bundle
of money stolen. Now the curious part of the story is the allegation
that the money which Harkins used to pay off his debt to Black, was the
identical cash that was taken from Black’s desk the night before. That
is the shape the rumors took. For my part I don’t believe it; and yet,
unfortunately, Dave Harkins died before he could set himself straight
with the community. His wife and son have never attempted to clear the
matter up. Probably they are unable to do so. You don’t suppose that
Dave Harkins could have been tempted to take the money, do you?”

“Lord forbid,” rejoined the other, “I believe that he was a thoroughly
honest man; but the thing is to get other people to believe the same
thing. A bit of scandal is a terrible thing; it may start out in the
beginning no bigger than the tip end of a pin; but by the time it gets
through growing it is taller than one of those skyscraping office
buildings in New York. To tell you the truth I dislike to talk about
such things. You are the first man I ever discussed the Harkins case
with. Whenever the subject is brought up--and it has been mentioned to
me once or twice--I always pooh-hooh it.”

“What reminds you of it to-day?” inquired his companion.

“Young Harkins,” was the prompt rejoinder. “I stopped in at the Banner
office to congratulate old man Brooks on the way that young man was
running the paper for him, and he astonished me by the news that young
Harkins was likely to leave him. He’s got an offer to go to New York
and he’s considering it just now. Do you think it is possible, Bingham,
that this story concerning his father affects his standing in the
community?”

“Undoubtedly,” was the quick response. “A thing of that kind will never
die a natural death in a little town like this. It has either got to
be cleared up and ripped out of existence, root and branch, or it will
go on thriving until Gabriel’s trumpet summons the people to another
world.”

“Well,” said the other speaker, “I am glad to know you believed in
Dave Harkins, because I rather liked the man myself.”

“I believed in him as I believe in my life.”

“What do you think of the son?” asked Bingham, after a short pause.

“Why,” said Peterson in his nasal voice; “I kind o’ think he’s a chip
off the old block. I think if he gets a chance he will make good.”

“So do I,” assented Bingham in a hearty voice.

Herbert, seated behind the partition, could stand the strain no longer.
He jumped from his chair and opening the door suddenly, presented
himself to the two men. Their astonishment made them speechless.
Herbert going over to them, put out his two hands and grasping their
hardened palms, he said:

“I have been an unintentional listener to your conversation. I have
heard all that you have said about my father and myself, and I want to
tell you that I am grateful for the belief you have expressed in his
honesty and mine.”

“Don’t mention it,” mumbled Peterson. “I never dreamt you were near by,
or I’d been more cautious in my conversation.”

“I am glad I heard it,” replied Herbert, with glistening eyes. “It
has uncovered the truth for me. I have had an offer from New York. I
hesitated about leaving Cleverly. I like the Banner, and I like the
place; but I find now that my duty is elsewhere. The man who gave
that money to my father left here and went straight to New York. He
has been swallowed up amid millions of other men; but I’ll find him
somewhere and in some way if it takes the rest of my life. I thank you,
gentlemen, for the things you have said. Before I heard them I was in
doubt; now everything is clear to me. My decision is made; I am off to
New York.”

With flushed face and eager step the young man hurried from the
post office and walked rapidly down the main street. Mr. Brooks was
preparing to go to his lunch when Herbert hurried into the Banner
office.

“I’ll see you in about an hour, Herbert,” he said smilingly.

“If you will wait a moment I would like to speak to you now,” replied
Herbert quickly.

“What is it?” asked the other, with an anxious look in his face. “If
it’s about New York I’d like to tell you that you can take your own
time in coming to a decision. Take a week if you need it.”

“I don’t need a minute,” replied Herbert impetuously, “I am grateful to
you for your kindness; but my decision is already made. I am going to
New York, and I am going at the earliest possible moment.”

Mr. Brooks expressed the regret that he felt and then left the young
man. Herbert’s next task was to inform his mother of his decision. He
knew that the change would be a violent one for her, but felt in his
heart that he was only doing his duty to her as well as to the memory
of his dead father. He walked slowly to his home, and when he entered,
found his mother seated in an armchair by the window engaged in some
knitting. He walked into the room on tiptoe, and going back of her,
threw his arms about her neck.

“Mother,” he said softly.

“Well, Herbert,” she replied, in a gentle voice. “What is it?”

“I am going to tell you something that may not be pleasant for you to
hear, and I want you to promise me that you will bear with it for my
sake.”

“What is it?” she asked, with a look of pain on her face.

“Will you promise?” he persisted.

“Yes,” she said, very slowly, but with emphasis. “I’ll promise to be
reconciled to anything that is for your good.”

“Well,” he said after a short pause, “I have come to a decision. I am
going to New York, and I am going within forty-eight hours.”

The tears came to her eyes, but she bravely repressed them, and
arising, took Herbert in her arms and gave him a motherly kiss.

“Bless you, my son,” she said, “and go ahead and do what you believe is
for the best.”

From that time until the moment of his departure Herbert was kept
busy in completing his arrangements for moving to the metropolis. His
chief business was in completing his work for the current issue of the
Banner. When the other persons who were connected with the paper heard
of his prospective departure they were very much disappointed because
Herbert was a general favorite in the office. The young man himself was
so agitated at the thought of leaving those with whom he had been in
contact so long and so pleasantly that he could scarcely get through
with his routine work.

The morning for his departure dawned at last, and he started for the
train with a gripsack in one hand and an umbrella in the other. His
mother accompanied him, and on the way gave him a great deal of homely
advice regarding his future life in the big city. It was understood
that he should go on with his work and if it should prove successful
that later on he would send for his mother and thereafter both of them
would make their home in New York. In the meantime he promised to send
her part of his earnings every week, and in spite of her protests, made
the amount the major part of his salary. On the way to the train they
passed the home of John Black. Mary Black was just coming out of the
doorway, and when she saw the mother and son, joined them on the way to
the station.

“I wish you God-speed, Herbert,” she said, with undoubted sincerity;
“and if you see anything of Arthur it will be a real charity for you to
inform us of the fact. Mother and father are very much distressed over
his absence.”

“Haven’t you heard anything from him since he left?” asked Herbert.

“Yes,” she replied, holding her head down. “He has written to me twice,
each time to ask me for money.”

“And you gave it to him?” inquired Herbert.

“Yes,” she replied. “Perhaps it was wrong; but I could not refuse it.
He did not give any address, but had the mail sent to the General
Delivery window of the main post office building.”

“Well, Mary,” said Herbert, “I assure you that if I am ever in a
position to assist you either in Arthur’s case, or in any other manner,
I will be only too glad to do so.”

They had reached the station by this time, and in a moment or two were
joined by Noah Brooks, who insisted on coming along to say good-by to
his much valued assistant and associate editor.

Brooks was silent for some time, but his face showed the feeling that
he was endeavoring to repress. Going over to Herbert, he put his arm
around his shoulder in an affectionate manner, and said:

“My boy, I have to thank you for the fidelity you have always shown
to my interests. I don’t know what in the world I’ll do without you;
indeed I don’t.”

Just then the train pulled in at the station and Herbert, after a last
good-by, jumped aboard. The engine pulled out quickly, and the young
man standing on the rear platform, shook his handkerchief in farewell
to his mother and friends. As the train gradually put distance between
itself and Cleverly, Herbert was filled with a strange emotion which
he could not understand. He was leaving the home of his birth and his
youth, and his heart was strangely touched at the thought. The train
puffed on, and soon the little group on the station became mere specks
in the distance; but the last thing that Herbert saw was the trim
figure and the two bright eyes, half dimmed with tears, belonging to
Mary Black.




CHAPTER XI HERBERT IS AWED AND AMAZED BY HIS FIRST SIGHT OF A GREAT CITY


The train made good time, and in two hours arrived in Jersey City. From
the shed to the two story ferry-boat which plied between the two shores
was but a step. When the boat pulled out into the stream, Herbert was
dazzled by the sight that met his eyes. Through force of circumstances
over which he had no control, he had never visited New York, and so it
came about that this was to be his first view of the wonderful city
of the Western Continent. His gaze rested first on the magnificent
Statue of Liberty enlightening the world--that colossal bit of statuary
placed in New York harbor not only to typify the grandeur of American
institutions, but also to emphasize the long friendship existing
between America and France. Beyond this he beheld that great piece of
engineering known as the Brooklyn Bridge, the girdle, the connecting
link which is the visible bond uniting the two great cities of Greater
New York.

In the harbor boats were coming and going in every direction, carrying
people and merchandise from the four corners of the earth. A monster
ocean steamer plowing its way majestically through the waves, its deck
literally black with people eager for the first glimpse of land, was
making towards the new Castle Garden, there to empty upon the shores
of America more men and women than there were in the entire population
of Cleverly. Another magnificent ocean greyhound just going down the
bay was filled with rich Americans, millionaires and men made suddenly
rich who were embarking for foreign shores to spend the money they had
dug from the bowels of the earth, or cleverly obtained by ingenuity or
trade from their fellow countrymen.

Herbert felt as he gazed out on this constantly moving panorama, as if
the whole world had suddenly burst on his view. From the time he left
the Jersey City shore until he reached the New York side, his mind was
in a whirl trying to grasp and comprehend all the strange sights that
were constantly coming within his view. No time was lost in landing,
and in a minute or two the country-reared boy found himself in the
midst of what seemed to be a hopeless confusion of trucks and drays
and cursing drivers. A policeman with uplifted club soon straightened
out this tangle, and Herbert proceeded on his way up Cortlandt Street.
The rush and roar of the elevated trains, the shouts and protests of
the wagon drivers, the yells of the cabmen and peddlers, and the never
ceasing hum of talk from the hurrying pedestrians, made Herbert feel as
if this were all some wonderful dream.

He spoke to a policeman, asking him the way to Broadway.

“Follow your nose, Johnny, for two blocks,” was the flippant rejoinder.

Herbert flushed up a little at this. He was not accustomed to being
addressed in such a manner. In fact before he left Cleverly he was
looked upon as one of the important persons of the town; but in New
York, like many other persons of greater importance, Herbert was soon
stripped of his dignity and self-esteem. He continued on his way up
the hilly street until he finally found himself on a corner of that
throbbing, pulsating, crowded and ever changing thoroughfare which
is known by reputation all over the civilized world as Broadway. He
walked along its diagonal length for some distance looking in the shop
windows, gazing at the crowds, and greedily drinking in the sights that
presented themselves on all sides. The noise and the hum and the din
were continuous. It began to give him a headache. He wondered how the
people were able to stand such a tumultuous existence. Still more, he
wondered how soon he would become accustomed to this new condition of
things, little thinking that most of that confused multitude had come
to New York like himself, a stranger in a strange city, and many of
them strangers in a strange land.

After he had partially satisfied his curiosity he determined to look
for lodgings. He had the address of Mr. Anderson on a little card. He
knew from a letter he had received that it was somewhere on upper Sixth
Avenue, and after making one or two mistakes in the direction he took,
he finally succeeded in boarding a Sixth Avenue elevated train and was
whizzed along towards the up-town section of New York City. It was
quite a sensation to ride so far up in the air and to be able to look
into the open bedroom windows of the people who lived on either side of
the elevated road. He thought he must have surely struck New York on
wash-day, because every window and every areaway appeared to be filled
with shirts and other articles of wearing apparel. Finally he reached
the street that was nearest his destination, and getting out of the
train, walked down the high steps towards that section of Sixth Avenue
which had been described to him by his former teacher.

On the way, for the first time it dawned upon him that his appearance
must be a little bit odd to the pedestrians who passed him on the
street. He was twenty-one years old, tall, slender, pale and plain,
with twenty-five dollars in his pocket--he had persisted in giving
his mother the remainder of his money, claiming that with a position
assured he had no need of a large surplus. Nearly all of the clothing
he possessed was on his back, and in addition to that his total capital
was a knowledge of so much of the art of printing and so much of the
art of reporting and editing as a youth is enabled to learn in the
office of an enterprising country newspaper. But the most acute feeling
that came over him at this time was a sense of terrible loneliness.
With the possible exception of Mr. Anderson, he knew no human being
within two hundred miles, and his rustic manner and address, he felt
satisfied, did not favor the immediate making of new friendships. His
personal estate, which was neatly tied up in a little packet, did
not encumber him, and he stepped along lightly in his search for Mr.
Anderson’s boarding house. The landlady proved to be a very pleasant
woman, and when he inquired for his friend, told him that he had been
unexpectedly called out of the city and would be gone for a week.
When he inquired about accommodations she showed him a nice, pleasant
room which he could have with board for the sum of $8 a week. Herbert
immediately rejected this proffer as being a little more expensive than
he was able to undertake.

Somewhat disappointed, he boarded the elevated train once more and
was soon whirled down-town. He wandered about aimlessly for some time,
wondering where he should look for a boarding house. Passing one of the
newspaper offices, he purchased an evening edition and looked in the
columns marked “Boarding” and “Rooms to Rent.” There were hundreds of
advertisements, but they gave no clue to the character of the houses,
and very few of them announced their terms. He threw the paper away as
useless and continued walking towards the North River. Finally he came
to a rather respectable looking house with a brick front, containing
the sign “Boarding.” He entered, introduced himself to the landlady,
and was offered shelter and subsistence at $5 a week. The room that
was offered for his inspection was comfortable, and the price seemed
reasonable, so he closed the bargain at once.

After depositing his little package in his room and washing himself
and ridding his clothing of the stains of travel, he left the house
to make some purchases of little articles that were necessary for his
attire. Once again he walked about in a rather aimless manner, and in
the course of his travels finally reached the thoroughfare known as the
Bowery. It proved to be quite a different place from the street that he
had pictured in his mind. There were some few dance halls and concert
rooms, it is true, but in addition to that he was surprised to see the
unusually large number of bright looking retail stores and business
houses. He was gazing in the window of one of these stores when someone
tapped him on the arm and said in a whining voice:

“Say, boss, can’t you help a poor fellow out?”

He turned quickly, and to his great astonishment, beheld Harry Adler
standing before him. He had not seen the man since he left Cleverly
in company with Arthur Black. The appearance of Adler indicated that
he had been a victim either of great misfortune, or of the persistent
laziness which seemed to be part of his character. He was very thinly
clad; in fact his coat seemed to be a mass of rags, and there were
holes in the rough shoes that he wore on his feet. A hat with a torn
brim covered his bushy hair, and he was entirely innocent of collar or
necktie. A heavy beard suggested continuous neglect of the barber.

“Harry Adler!” exclaimed Herbert. “You are the last man in the world I
expected to meet.”

“Yes, I guess that’s so,” said Adler, beginning to sniffle; “but you
see, Herbert, I’ve been playing in very hard luck. I came to the city
to get work, and after I had been at it for about a week I was taken
sick and sent to the hospital. When I came out of that institution I
was so weak that I was not able to hunt for employment, and I finally
got in such a condition that I had to beg for a bit to eat.”

Herbert looked at the fellow in a skeptical manner. Then he gave a
significant sniff of his nose.

“I guess you’ve been drinking,” he cried. “Probably that has prevented
you from being a successful business man in New York.”

Adler pretended not to notice this bit of irony and continued:

“Herbert, you’ve got a chance to make a man out of me. I know we
haven’t been very good friends; but if you will help to straighten me
out you will never have cause to regret it.”

“Where is Arthur Black?” asked Herbert, disregarding the other’s appeal.

“He’s up at my boarding house,” replied Adler, with a whimper.

“Well, I would like to see him very much,” responded Herbert. “Will
you promise to make an arrangement so that I can meet him somewhere
to-night?”

“Yes, indeed I will,” replied the other, “if you will help me out a
little bit I will do anything for you.”

“Well I don’t want you to do anything, except to have Arthur Black meet
me.”

“All right; I’ll do that.”

“Where is your boarding house?” asked Herbert.

Adler looked a little bit scared at this question, and then said in a
husky tone:

“Oh, it wouldn’t do for you to come to our boarding house. It’s too
humble for the likes of you; but I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll arrange
to have Arthur Black meet you in the corridor of the main post office
building at eight o’clock to-night. I’ll do that sure if you help me
out.”

The constant appeal for personal help finally impressed itself upon
Herbert, and he said:

“What do you want?”

“Well,” said the other in a quavering voice, “I guess a coat and a
shave and a pair of shoes wouldn’t be bad to start with.”

“All right, I’ll try to fit you out with them,” said Herbert, “if you
don’t let it cost too much.”

So the queerly assorted pair entered a clothing house on the Bowery,
where Adler succeeded in obtaining a coat and a pair of shoes for ten
dollars. Following that he was taken into a barber shop and treated
to a clean shave and haircut. The improvement in his appearance was
remarkable.

“How do you feel now?” asked Herbert, looking at him approvingly.

“Pretty good, but mighty hungry.”

“Well, come with me, and I’ll get you something to eat.”

The two men repaired to a near-by restaurant and Adler was treated to
what was probably the best meal he had enjoyed in many a long day.

Herbert settled the score, and once more telling him to be sure to have
Arthur Black at the post office at eight o’clock, parted with him and
went around to his own lodgings. He looked over his money and found
that after paying his board and spending money for food and clothing
on Adler and giving the lazy one a two dollar bill, he had only four
dollars left to his credit. He was somewhat annoyed at this; but
consoled himself with the thought that he would begin employment the
next day and would soon have sufficient ready money to satisfy all of
his needs. At times he felt angry with himself for having helped Adler,
who after all that was said and done, was a very worthless sort of
fellow. But on reflection he felt that he might have done the man some
good, and that thought was sufficient to give him a feeling of pleasant
self-satisfaction.

He left the house immediately after dinner, and after a short walk on
Broadway, found himself in the corridor of the main post office at a
quarter before eight. He stationed himself in such a position as to
command a view of all of those who entered or left the building. It
was irksome business waiting for anyone in that place. The hands of
the clock gradually moved around and it finally struck eight, but
there was no sign of Arthur Black. Herbert waited on, feeling that the
expected visitor would be likely to come in at any minute; but time
continued to pass, and finally the clock struck nine. Herbert turned
and left the building, filled with great disgust:

“Buncoed!” he muttered to himself. “Buncoed, by gosh! My first day
in New York and I permit myself to be buncoed by a man who was even
without standing in Cleverly! That’s a pretty good lesson for my first
day in the metropolis.”




CHAPTER XII IN WHICH HERBERT BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH SOME OF THE
METHODS OF MODERN JOURNALISM


Herbert had been advised to call at the Argus office at noon for the
purpose of presenting his letter of introduction to Mr. Blakeley,
the city editor of that newspaper. He prepared himself carefully for
the forthcoming interview, trying especially in a half conscious way
to rid himself of the rustic appearance which he felt might lessen
his prospects, or impair his prestige with the newspaper man he was
about to meet. The Argus office was located almost in the center of
the cluster of large buildings on Park Row, and as Herbert looked up
at the edifice he could not repress a feeling of pride at the thought
that in a day or so he would be numbered among the busy workers in that
bee-hive of industry.

He took the elevator and was shot up to the fifth floor with a
suddenness that almost took his breath away. A boy standing at the
door of this landing demanded his card, and while Herbert sat there
waiting for a reply he noticed that the door was kept locked, and that
newcomers were greeted with a large sign which read:

“Positively no admittance except on business.”

He thought this was rather inhospitable at the time, but later in his
career realized that it was a necessity in order to permit the orderly
and speedy transaction of business. A newspaper office is looked upon
as the Mecca for eccentric people of all kinds and characters and if
they were admitted promiscuously they would consume the time of the
editors and reporters and make it impossible to issue the paper at all.

Presently the office boy returned, and said:

“Step inside.”

He walked into a large room and was directed to a smaller room, which
was partitioned off in the extreme corner. A tall, thin man rose to
greet him, and nodding in a friendly way, pointed to a chair:

“I am sorry,” said this gentleman, “that Mr. Blakeley, the city editor
of the Argus, is not here to-day. This is his day off. However he spoke
to me about you and I am very glad to meet you; but it is not possible
for me to serve you in any way to-day. It will be necessary for you to
see him in person before you can go to work.”

Herbert thanked him for his courtesy and the pleasant manner in which
he had been greeted and promised to return again the next day. In
the few minutes he was in the office he noticed that the room was
gradually beginning to assume an air of activity. Men were coming
in constantly and seating themselves in front of desks in the large
apartment, which because of the ink and paper and pencils and furniture
looked very much like a large edition of the old schoolroom in Cleverly.

Herbert was quite disappointed at not seeing Mr. Blakeley on his
first visit, but resolved to utilize the remainder of the day by
sight-seeing. He visited many of the places of interest in New York,
including the Aquarium, the tomb of General Grant at Riverside Park,
and the Metropolitan Museum in Central Park. All of these things
were deeply interesting, and in a larger sense highly educational.
On his way home he purchased copies of all the afternoon papers, and
after dinner that evening spent several hours in going over them very
carefully with a view of becoming familiar with the style of reporting
that prevailed on the popular newspapers in New York City. In spite
of the fact that he had put in a very busy day he went to bed with a
feeling of regret over the apparent loss of two whole days.

At noon the following day he was again at the Argus office, and this
time was successful in meeting Mr. Blakeley. The city editor was a
short, stockily built man, wearing eyeglasses and possessed of a
quick, nervous manner. He looked Herbert over from head to foot as soon
as he entered and gazed at him very earnestly during all the course of
their brief conversation.

“Harkins,” he said, after the usual greeting, “I am going to put you
on the Argus at a salary. This is somewhat unusual, because nearly all
on our staff are space men. New men especially are put on space, which
simply means that they are paid for what they write, in order to test
their ability. But Mr. Anderson, who is an old friend of mine, has
recommended you so highly that I am going to put you on the regular
staff at once; and I will give you three weeks in which to demonstrate
your ability to hold the place down permanently.”

“I thank you very much,” said Herbert, “I will try to prove myself
worthy of the confidence you are placing in me.”

“That’s all right,” said the other skeptically, “I don’t want any
promises; all I want is the performance.”

“All right, sir,” said Herbert; “I’ll not make any promises; but I can
assure you that I will try to size up to the position.”

“That sounds business,” retorted the other in his quick, jerky style.
Then looking up at the calendar, he said musingly: “It’s a little too
late in the week for you to do anything now. You can report for duty
at noon next Monday. Meantime I would advise you to become acquainted
with the city and its institutions, and to book yourself up as speedily
as possible on the men and things who go to make up life in this busy
town.”

Herbert promised to do as he was advised, and then met the tall, spare
man with whom he had held the conversation the day before. This was the
assistant city editor, who took him in hand and introduced him to such
other members of the Argus staff as were in the office at that time.
They were all pleasant and affable, but Herbert took an immediate and
special liking to Francis Tomlin, one of the reporters, who had greeted
him in a very kindly spirit.

“Don’t permit the noise and bustle and confusion of this place to
confuse you,” said Tomlin, “because it will not take you many days to
know that that is merely the outer covering, or what we might call
the atmosphere of the place. You will find that the work itself moves
along in a precise and systematic manner. Come in to-night around the
midnight hour and see the office going at full blast.”

Herbert accepted the invitation, and just before the clock towers were
striking the mystic hour he entered the local room of the Argus. Tomlin
had phrased it correctly. The office was in full blast. The news room
immediately adjoined the city room, and between the two the noise and
bustle and air of activity were confusing to one not accustomed to that
sort of thing. Telegraph instruments in two corners of the room ticked
away continuously. A man at the long distance telephone sat in front of
a typewriter and transcribed a story that was being sent in over the
wire from a little town fifteen miles away. The assistant city editor
shouted through the speaking tube to the foreman of the composing room
about every ten or fifteen minutes. Telegraph boys came in every few
minutes, carrying little yellow envelopes bearing within their modest
covers the news of the entire habitable globe. The news editors sitting
at their big desks tore the wrappings off these silent messengers, and
after editing them, put suggestive and snappy headlines over them for
the benefit of their thousands of readers of the following morning. A
dozen reporters sitting at their desks scratched away for dear life,
or pounded the typewriters in their haste to put the words together
which were to furnish the subscribers of the Argus with a comprehensive
account of everything of interest that had happened in the great city
during the previous twenty-four hours. Nothing was too small, nothing
too great to be gathered in this enormous dragnet of publicity and
furnished to eager men and women with their coffee and rolls on the
following morning.

Herbert was entranced with the scene. He had already been fascinated
by the smell of printers’ ink and had a very intelligent idea of
the methods of modern journalism; but this scene wherein apparently
hopeless confusion gradually worked itself out into perfect order and
system, furnished the capstone to his already stimulated imagination.
He longed to take an active part in it.

As he looked around the room his eye was attracted to little slips of
paper posted on a bulletin board near the city editor’s desk. These
informed all who were interested, whether John Jones or John Smith
was absent or on duty; prohibited the men from smoking in the office,
and contained little bits of poetry and anecdotes which had been
surreptitiously posted there by some of the men on the staff. There was
one thing on the bulletin board that attracted Herbert’s attention more
than anything else. It might be called a code of fundamental principles
for the aspiring reporter. It read as follows:

“Be accurate, courteous, earnest, enterprising, enthusiastic, faithful,
honest, manly, modest, observant, persevering, pleasant, prompt, quick,
sensible, shrewd, tactful, temperate.

“Ask plenty of questions, and don’t forget the answers.

“Know all you can, but don’t know it all.

“Study history, political economy, learn shorthand, use a typewriter.

“Keep posted on current events; cultivate numerous acquaintances; say
little, listen much.

“Never violate confidence; be honest with yourself, your employers, and
the public. Have a conscience. Don’t fake. Merit confidence. Command
respect.

“Know men; know facts, then write the plain truth simply. Write plainly
and avoid flub. Write for the people. Write English. Be clear, concise,
direct.

“When sent for news get it, and get it right. Accuracy, accuracy,
accuracy.

“Never write anything you would not sign your name to. Realize your
responsibility.

“Never be unjust or unmanly; cultivate a pleasant address, be
persistent, but polite.

“Observe everything. Study human nature. Study newspapers of different
cities and make a model of the best.

“Cultivate humor. Be charitable. Speak kindly.

“Keep your presence of mind.

“Read good literature; avoid debasing associations.

“Hustle.”

After reading this, and resolving to memorize it for his own benefit,
Herbert went to one of the unoccupied desks and began looking over some
of the newspapers. While he was thus engaged the assistant city editor
rushed up to him carrying a clipping taken from one of the afternoon
papers.

“See here, Harkins!” he shouted, “how would you like to make yourself
useful--you’re not on the staff yet, but it won’t do you any harm to
try and get your hand in.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Herbert; “what is it?”

“Here, take this clipping,” was the reply; “it’s from one of the
afternoon papers. I’d like you to re-write it and condense it for the
Argus. Get it up quickly. It’s for one of the inside pages, and it must
be in the composing room before one o’clock.”

Herbert took the clipping and read it carefully. It told about the
arrival in New York of Madame Bonneville, a celebrated French actress,
who was coming to this country for the purpose of making her farewell
tour. There was a spirited description of her arrival on the pier amid
a cloud of trunks, packages and dress-suit cases, not to mention two or
three bird cages, half a dozen umbrellas, a green poll-parrot and a pet
poodle dog which she insisted on carrying in her arms and embracing in
a most motherly fashion.

Herbert gazed at this account long and earnestly. It contained a brief
interview with the actress, and while the whole thing was intensely
interesting and human, it really contained little actual news excepting
the fact that the actress had arrived and being wearied with her long
journey, had retired immediately to her apartments. How to re-write and
reduce this article and make it different from the clipping, and yet
retain the news and the interest, was the problem that presented itself
to the young aspirant for journalistic honors. He got down to work at
last, however, because he felt that if a person intended doing a thing
there was nothing like doing it. It would not be wise to theorize much
while the assistant city editor was shouting for copy. Herbert never
worked harder on any of the things he had contributed to his own little
paper in the country than he did on the re-writing of this scrap of New
York news. After much patient labor, he finally completed his work, and
found to his satisfaction that he had reduced the article just one-half
and still retained some semblance of a good story. He carried it over
to the assistant city editor, who glanced at it hastily, and said
sharply, without the slightest note of explanation:

“Won’t do. Too long. Put it in a stick or two.”

Herbert walked back to his desk rather disappointed. He knew that the
news in the article could be put into a stick or two, but he felt
instinctively that the item would be robbed of all its interest.
However, he sat down once more and wrote a ten line paragraph, which
met with the approval and acceptance of the busy assistant city editor.

He arose early the next morning and hunted for a copy of the Argus with
much eagerness. He knew that the little paragraph which he had finally
turned in at his first piece of work in New York did not amount to
anything; but he could not restrain the longing desire to see himself
in print for the first time in a metropolitan newspaper. He took the
Argus and went over it with extreme care from the first to the last
page. Nothing in the paper escaped his keen, inquiring gaze. When he
had concluded he laid it aside with a sigh of disappointment.

His ten line story had not been printed.




CHAPTER XIII HERBERT MAKES A HIT AND TIDES OVER A TEMPORARY FINANCIAL
DIFFICULTY


Herbert was still young enough to be sensitive, and the thought that
his maiden effort in the big city had probably found its way into the
waste paper basket was galling to his natural pride. However, he braced
himself and called at the office at noon again, and smilingly greeted
his colleagues. He learned some things during the day, and one was a
conviction that success on a country newspaper did not necessarily fit
a man for immediate employment on a metropolitan daily. He had a long
and confidential talk with Frank Tomlin, during the course of which he
related his experience and the fate of his first item.

Tomlin laughed heartily at the recital.

“You can’t afford to be thin-skinned in New York, my boy,” he replied.
“Besides, you are mistaken about your item. It was written all right,
but was crowded out in the make-up.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am satisfied of it. I have helped Blakeley to make up the paper
on more than one occasion, and there were times when stories bigger
and more important than yours and which were in type were thrown aside
for want of space. So don’t let a little thing like that trouble you.
Persevere; do the best you can, and don’t permit yourself to be cast
down by little incidents of this kind.”

Herbert thanked him for this friendly advice and promised to profit by
it. The talk caused Tomlin to drift into a train of reminiscences.

“I’ll never forget my first experience in the newspaper business in
this city,” he said musingly; “it satisfied me that enterprise, while
quite valuable in itself, is not the most important thing in the
gathering of news. I know that when I began I was eager to accomplish
great things.

“One morning the city editor assigned me to a meeting of the Municipal
League, and as I was leaving the room he called out:

“‘See here, I want you to put a little ginger in your articles. We want
to brighten the paper up a bit.’

“It was a prosy gathering. Most of the members of the league were
elderly or old men, and they made long winded speeches and accomplished
little business. There did not seem to be much prospect of a bright
article in the ordinary report of a meeting of this character. I
decided to burlesque the meeting. The result was all that could be
desired. The city editor was not ‘on’ and the story went straight to
the copy desk.

“The next morning I was informed the proprietor wanted to see me. I
felt at once that this summons had something to do with my article.
When I entered the room, he looked at me curiously and in silence for
some moments.

“‘Did you write the meeting of the Municipal League which appears in
this morning’s paper?’

“‘I did,’ I answered, swelling up with pride.

“He was silent.

“‘Didn’t you like the report?’ I finally inquired.

“‘Yes,’ he said, prolonging the word in a strange manner.

“‘Wasn’t it good enough?’ I inquired.

“‘Oh, yes,’ with a peculiar laugh; ‘it was bright.’ Then turning to me
he said impressively: ‘I have no doubt in the world that the members of
the league deserve all the ridicule you cast on them, but,’ he added,
‘it should not have been printed in my paper. I am the president of the
Municipal League.’”

Herbert and Tomlin remained in conversation for a long while, and
the older man regaled his companion with a batch of very interesting
stories bearing upon the incidents that take place behind the scenes of
journalism. They walked home together that night, and Herbert, feeling
that Tomlin was a man in whom he could trust and confide, confessed to
him the low condition of his finances.

“I thought I would get immediate employment,” he said, “and as a
consequence brought only a small amount of money with me from the
country. I met an old acquaintance who was on his uppers and gave him
a large part of my surplus. As the result of this and my other little
expenditures, I have only about two dollars.”

“Do you want to borrow anything?” said the other, turning to him
quickly; “I will be glad to stake you if you do.”

“Not at all,” said Herbert hastily, “I hope you won’t think I
introduced the subject for that purpose. But it will be about ten days
before I receive my first pay; and in the meantime next week’s board
bill will be due and payable. I wondered whether I could not earn a
little money in the meantime.”

“Certainly,” said Tomlin; “it will give you an opportunity for showing
what is in you, too. The thing is easy enough. Write some space for the
Argus. Blakeley is always willing to accept a good story, and if you
can go out into this human whirlpool to-morrow and fish up something a
little bit out of the ordinary he will be only too glad to print it,
and pay you for it, too.”

The following day, acting on the suggestion of his friend, Herbert
made the rounds of the city hospitals. The usual routine stories
presented themselves at all of these institutions; but most of them
were covered by staff men, and for that reason were not available for
a special space-writer. While Herbert was pondering over what was best
to do under the circumstances, it suddenly dawned on him that perhaps
the obvious thing might make the best story after all. Things that were
happening every day in the week were looked upon as being trite and
trivial. If he could take one of these incidents and lift it out of
the rut and make it stand toweringly above other incidents of a like
character he would make a hit. To think was to act. He went to the head
keeper in the next hospital and asked to look over the book of records.
Among the items inscribed there was one which told about a patient who
had attempted suicide, but whose life would be saved. Herbert asked
whether he could obtain the details of this story, and was told that if
he applied to one of the assistants in the main ward he might obtain
some additional information. He did obtain more facts, and he hurried
to the office, eager to write the story. The heading was “How a Trained
Nurse Defeated Death.”

The introduction described how a demure little nurse in the hospital
who looked as if she might weigh not more than one hundred pounds,
started on a walking match against death at five o’clock in the
evening, and finished at six o’clock in the morning--a winner. The
story went on and told how the ambulance had brought a twenty-two year
old girl to the hospital after she had swallowed enough opium to send
three or four strong men to their death. The poor, misguided girl who
had taken the poison on account of a case of unrequited love, showed a
strong desire to go to sleep. The little nurse knew that if the girl
closed her eyes they would never again open in this world; so she tried
to keep her awake by slapping her on the back.

That method was not strenuous enough, so the long walk was started.
It was up and down the corridor of the receiving ward, and out into
the hall and the yard. Whenever the nurse became tired she sat down to
rest for a moment; but as soon as the girl nodded the walk was resumed.
All through the lonesome hours of the night this unique feat of
pedestrianism was continued. Daylight appeared, and still the walk went
on. Finally the clock struck six, and the two women were still walking.
Shortly after that the house physician made his appearance, and giving
the girl a careful examination, pronounced her out of danger. Then, and
not until then, the nurse went to sleep, and even while Herbert was
writing his picturesque story she was still sleeping the sleep of the
just and the brave.

His story made over a column in the Argus. It proved to be a palpable
hit. Blakeley, the city editor, who did not see it until he picked up
the paper the next morning, gloated over it with the glee with which
a miser examines a newly found diamond. He patted Herbert on the back
and said that if he continued to turn in stories of that character his
period of probation would be short indeed and his permanence on the
paper assured.

But the best feature of the incident, to Herbert’s mind, came on
Friday afternoon, when he called at the business office and received a
check for $8 for his piece of special reporting. This gave him a total
cash balance of $10 and enabled him to pay his board bill and to look
forward with confidence to the coming of his regular pay-days.




CHAPTER XIV IN WHICH HERBERT IS GIVEN AN UNUSUAL OPPORTUNITY TO
DISTINGUISH HIMSELF


After he had been on the Argus for about a month, Herbert felt entirely
at home. He managed to get along very smoothly with all the members
of the staff. Blakeley, the city editor, was especially pleased with
the new addition to his local force. He found that he was punctual,
industrious and anxious to do his work to the very best of his ability.
The other reporters at the same time looked on him as an agreeable
fellow who was willing to do them a good turn whenever he had the
chance to do so. At the end of his second month on the paper he was
gratified at the receipt of an unsolicited increase in his salary. His
particular friend on the Argus, Francis Tomlin, obtained a promotion
at the same time; and the two young men put their heads together and
decided to seek a pleasant room near the office. After a search that
consumed nearly all the idle hours of a whole week, they finally
obtained an apartment which had the added advantage of a neat and well
kept bath-room. Herbert lost no time in removing his effects from the
modest quarters which he had occupied since his first arrival in New
York. The two young men were together very much, and the fact that they
were employed at night and had many hours of leisure during the day
gave them the chance of strolling about the city or seeking amusements
together at a time when most other men were busily engaged in their
trades and professions.

The new room, which was comfortably furnished in the first place,
rapidly grew more habitable through the skill and good taste of the
two reporters. The gift of a set of books from home first gave Herbert
the idea of accumulating a library. Tomlin joined with him, and in a
surprisingly short time they were the possessors of quite a valuable
little library which counted among its principal assets several
important books of reference.

One day Herbert was delighted to receive a visit from Mr. Anderson, who
had been his school-teacher for so many years in Cleverly. In honor of
the event he begged off from the office for the night, and secured a
similar privilege for Tomlin. The three men sat in the room till long
past midnight, chatting about books and newspapers and other topics of
a congenial nature. Mr. Anderson told the story of “barring out day” at
the school in Cleverly, and the recital was done so well that it filled
Tomlin with delight and caused him to laugh with such heartiness that
the tears fairly ran down his cheeks.

On another occasion a little later in the year Noah Brooks, the editor
of the Cleverly Banner, visited New York, and while in the city was
the guest of Herbert Harkins. The young man was very much pleased at
the thought of entertaining the veteran editor, who had been such a
good friend to him in Cleverly. He took Tomlin into his confidence,
and between them they planned a program which kept Mr. Brooks engaged
every minute of the day and night during his four days’ stay in the
metropolis. In fact Herbert exhausted his resources in showing the
visitor what he was pleased to call “the time of his life.” As the
three men walked along Broadway together, Mr. Brooks looking up at the
high buildings on either side of him, said musingly:

“Herbert, it’s been over forty years since I visited this town before,
and I want to say that there have been many changes since then.”

“I should say so,” replied Herbert, with a laugh; “in fact, although I
have been here only a few months I can see changes that are going on at
the present time.”

“Yes, many changes,” assented the old editor, nodding his head in
a reflective manner; “and these changes are not only in the big
buildings, but in the big men. I may be mistaken, but I don’t think
you produce the kind of men that we had in the days when I was in my
prime. However, I won’t insist on that. It may simply be the natural
thought of every old man.”

“Who would you regard as the most conspicuous man that was here when
you visited the city last?” asked Herbert, anxious to draw upon his
friend’s inexhaustible fund of recollections.

“Well,” he replied, “that’s a pretty hard question to answer after all
these years; but I think that perhaps good old Horace Greeley was the
best of them all. When I was here last I met him in the flesh. Now all
that you have of him is that statue in front of the Tribune Building
and the memory of his honest, old fashioned life.”

The old gentleman sighed at this as if he were not quite sure that the
good old times would ever come again. Indeed he was a type of man very
similar to the famous editor, whom he was accustomed to look upon as
the greatest man of his day and generation. Mr. Brooks was careless
in his dress, quaint in his manner and unyielding in his integrity.
Tomlin enjoyed the visit of the country editor, if anything, more than
Herbert; and he was really sorry when the trip came to an end, and he
went with Herbert to the depot to bid good-by to the whole-souled old
man.

In the meantime Herbert continued to make satisfactory progress in
the Argus office. He was receiving all kinds of assignments now, and
he soon had the reputation of being a man who did his work perfectly.
More than this, he was marked down as a reliable reporter, which is a
very important thing on any newspaper. The city editor felt that when
an assignment was placed in his hand it was sure to be covered and the
copy turned in at the earliest possible moment. One morning as they
were leaving the house together, Tomlin said to Herbert:

“Some day, old man, you will get a very big thing to do, and it may be
the means of either making or breaking you.”

The occasion came sooner than expected. That very morning the city
editor summoned Herbert to his private office, and said:

“See here, Harkins, I am going to give you a chance to show what there
is in you. I have here what I regard as a very delicate and difficult
piece of work. It requires perseverance, and I am willing to give you
the job if you will tell me that you will stick at it and never quit
until your efforts have been crowned with success. Can you give me that
promise?”

Herbert smiled at this vigorous presentation of the case, and said:

“Well, Mr. Blakeley, if it is a piece of newspaper work that comes
within my ability, I feel reasonably sure of coming out successful.”

“Well,” said the other, in his short, snappy tones, “here is a letter.
It’s a small clue as a starting point. Read it over, and then come back
to me.”

Herbert went to his desk and read the letter as directed. It was from a
poor woman who had been induced to send $2 of her hard earned money to
a concern which promised to teach her how to paint on china within two
weeks, and after that time to furnish her with steady employment which
would pay her anywhere from $10 to $20 a week, according to her speed
and ability. She said in her letter that she had sent the money, and
in return received a flimsy circular which gave some crude and utterly
impracticable directions of how to paint. The thing was worthless to
her and her $2 wasted.

When Herbert had finished reading this, he returned to Blakeley and
said:

“Have you any further directions?”

“No,” was the reply, “you will have to work on your own resources from
now on. I suppose that eventually the postal authorities will hear of
this swindle and refuse to permit this sort of thing to go through the
mails; but in the meantime we know about it and we want to get the
credit of stopping it at once. You take the address of this woman and
go ahead and see what you can make of it.”

Herbert called upon the woman that afternoon, and in less than an hour
had obtained a very good story from her, backed up by a sworn statement
of her experience with the concern. At the same time he learned the
names and addresses of ten other persons who had been swindled in a
similar manner. Altogether four days were consumed in visiting and
interviewing these persons. Some of them who had natural ability, had
learned to paint on china in spite of the bungling directions sent out
by the concern; but when they wrote to the company and asked for the
employment that was to pay them from $10 to $20 a week their letters
were ignored. Altogether the young reporter had what might be called a
first class story. When he had all of his facts in good shape he went
to the city editor again, and said:

“Mr. Blakeley, I want you to give me authority to employ a private
detective. I have everything in perfect condition at present, and all
I need is the climax, which I hope to bring about at noon to-morrow.
In other words, it is necessary to arrest someone connected with this
concern. If we do this, I will have plenty of witnesses, and we can
have the scoundrel held for court.”

“Capital! Capital!” shouted Blakeley. “I will give you the authority to
employ a detective at once. How do you propose going about it?”

“That is quite simple,” answered Herbert; “the company has a box in
the post office. I have sent a decoy letter, which should be placed
in the box between eleven and twelve o’clock to-morrow. They probably
employ a go-between, or a messenger, who gathers up the letters and
takes them to the head swindler. We must arrest this person, whoever
he is, and probably with a little ingenuity we may be able to extort
a confession from him, and then go after the other fellows. In the
meantime I am going back to my room and will start to typewrite the
story. I have it blocked out, so that we can make a full page scare
out of it. We ought to have a picture of the man who comes after the
letters, and then, if possible, a photograph of the head swindler, and
interviews with all the victims.”

Blakeley looked at the young man with admiration written in every line
of his countenance. He put out his short, pudgy hand, and slapped
Herbert on the back.

“Harkins, you are all right. You’ll do. Go ahead, my boy, and I wish
you luck in your undertaking.”




CHAPTER XV IN WHICH HERBERT DOES SOME VERY HARD WORK AND RECEIVES A
TERRIBLE SHOCK


Herbert arose much earlier than usual the next morning, for he had
a keen appreciation of the important character of the work that lay
before him. He had hardly finished his breakfast when there was a ring
at the door and the landlady brought up a card which bore upon its
glazed surface the simple inscription “M. Short.” Herbert wondered who
this could be, but directed that he be sent up to his room at once. A
few minutes later he was greeting a short-set, stockily-built man, with
sharp eyes and a sad expression of countenance.

“Well, Mr. Short,” said Herbert, “what can I do for you?”

The bright eyes of the little man twinkled merrily as he responded:

“I fear that I will have to put the shoe on the other foot and kindly
inquire what I can do for you.”

“Why,” said Herbert, “I never met you before.”

“Probably not,” replied the other, still smiling; “but I was ordered
to report to you this morning, and told that you would give me
directions how to proceed.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Herbert, a light breaking in on him, “you are the
detective.”

“Yes,” said the other mildly, “that is my business, and I am now at
your service.”

After a conversation of ten or fifteen minutes, the reporter and the
detective came to a thorough understanding. They were to meet at the
main post office shortly before noon, and their movements after that
were to depend entirely upon circumstances. Herbert was pleased with
the character of man who had been sent to assist him, and mentally
congratulated himself upon what now appeared to be the certain success
of many days of hard labor. The end was already in view.

A few minutes after the detective had taken his leave, Herbert received
a square cornered envelope, containing his name and address. He tore it
open quickly and read as follows:

  “DEAR HERBERT:

  “Father, mother and I have removed to New York for the winter,
  and would be glad to have you call at the earliest opportunity.
  We understand that you are engaged in your newspaper work in the
  evening, so that if you care you are quite welcome to call in the
  morning, or at any other time that may suit your convenience.

  “Very sincerely yours,
  “MARY BLACK.”

Herbert looked at his watch. He had nearly three hours to spare before
it would be time to keep his appointment with the detective in the
post office, and he quickly decided to utilize it by making a hurried
call on the Blacks. The address given was that of a house on West 69th
Street, and in a very short time, by making use of the sub-way, Herbert
found himself at the address indicated.

Mary Black, who responded to his call, was delighted to see her old
friend and schoolmate, and in a few minutes he was also talking with
Mr. and Mrs. Black. The family, distressed by the continued absence of
the son and brother, had determined to stay in New York for some months
in the hope of obtaining some clue to the runaway. A financial friend
of Mr. Black, who had gone to Europe for the winter, had insisted upon
his occupancy of the house during the time that he was absent from
the country. Although the suggestion had been made only a fortnight
before, the little family was already comfortably installed in the 69th
Street house. They were all delighted with their new surroundings, and
Mary was very much pleased and interested with the sights of the big
city; but over it all there was a certain sadness caused by the sorrow
which was felt on account of the erring one. The father was almost
completely crushed at the domestic affliction which overshadowed their
hearthstone. He had lost the coldness and haughtiness for which he
was distinguished while at Cleverly, and in broken tones expressed to
Herbert the sorrow he felt at the injustice which he had done to his
old friend, David Harkins. He said that if an opportunity should ever
come whereby he would be enabled to remedy the ill that had been caused
through his thoughtless words, he would cheerfully do so.

Time passed so rapidly and so pleasantly in the company of Mary Black
that Herbert was loath to leave. A look at his watch, however, showed
that he had less than an hour before the time would arrive for keeping
his appointment, so he bade good-by to Mr. and Mrs. Black and hurried
towards the door. Mary accompanied him there, and he noticed from her
constrained manner that she had something on her mind and was anxious
to speak to him privately. Being a man, he felt that it was incumbent
upon him to break the ice, so he said gently:

“Mary, is there anything I can do for you or your father or mother? If
so, don’t hesitate to speak to me frankly.”

“There is something, Herbert,” she said, “and it has been weighing upon
my mind for a long while. It is about Arthur. I want you to promise me
that you will be a friend to my brother. I do not believe that he is a
bad boy at heart; but unfortunately, he has fallen into bad company and
has been led astray. Promise me that if the opportunity ever presents
itself, you will give him a helping hand. This chance may come, or it
may never come; but tell me that you will not forget what I have said
to you.”

Herbert took her by the hand, and said with much solemnity:

“Mary, if I ever meet Arthur and have the opportunity of befriending
him, I promise you that I shall do so.”

Her eyelashes were wet with tears; but at his words, her eyes sparkled
with satisfaction, and she exclaimed eagerly:

“Oh, I thank you so much for saying that, because I know that I can
trust you, and I know that you mean what you say.”

A few minutes later Herbert was once more in the sub-way, speeding
towards the Park Row station, which was within a short distance of the
main post office building. He reached that busy spot at ten minutes of
twelve o’clock and found the detective awaiting him. The two men held a
hurried interview with the clerk of the box department, who informed
them that he knew the young man who was in the habit of calling for the
letters for the swindling concern which they now had under suspicion.
He said that he would remain at his post for the next fifteen or twenty
minutes and as soon as he identified the fellow he would give the two
men a signal by holding up his right hand. The details of the plan
having been arranged, the reporter and the detective set themselves to
wait for the critical moment. It proved to be a great strain on all
concerned. The hands of the big clock moved around so slowly that they
could almost have shrieked out with impatience and anxiety. A great
crowd was hurrying to and fro and opening and closing the letter boxes,
which reached almost from the pavement to the ceiling all along the
great corridor, but the moments dragged by and the clerk had made no
signal.

Presently a man wearing a long ulster and a derby hat stooped down on
one knee and began opening the letter box which contained the mail
belonging to the china painting concern. He entered so quickly that
neither Herbert nor the detective caught a glimpse of his face. The box
clerk inside the office became very much excited when the man stooped
down, and getting a good look at his face, raised his hand and shook
it in the air as a signal to those on the outside. It said just as
clearly as if the words had been spoken:

“There is your man. Nab him.”

The detective moved to one side so that he could arrest his man the
minute he arose from his sitting position. Herbert, who was becoming
quite nervous from the strain, motioned the detective to step back a
few yards. When this had been done, the young reporter got immediately
in the rear of the kneeling man so that when he arose he could face him
and make his accusation as dramatically as possible. He felt that this
was to be a great occasion in his journalistic life, and he wanted it
to come off successfully and without the slightest slip.

The man in the ulster was terribly slow about his work. His head and
his face were so close to the box that it was impossible to get a
glimpse of his countenance. Besides he fingered each letter separately
as if to feel and mentally calculate the amount of money enclosed in
each of the envelopes. The action did not escape Herbert’s attention,
and caused him to curl his lips up in a look of unutterable scorn.

“Calculating his stealings,” he muttered to himself indignantly;
“considering how much money he has filched from poor girls and women
who have scarcely enough to buy food to eat.”

The kneeling figure, however, knew nothing of the contempt with which
he was being regarded by the warm-blooded young man behind him.
Presently he finished his examination of the letters and had put them
all in the little leather gripsack which he had beside him. He arose
very slowly, and then turned around and came face to face with the
young reporter.

The sight that met the gaze of Herbert Harkins caused him to become as
pale as a sheet. His head seemed to be reeling around him, and he felt
as if he could scarcely stand without support.

He looked again. The second glance only confirmed what he had seen at
first.

The youth who stood before him was Arthur Black!




CHAPTER XVI IN WHICH HERBERT LOSES HIS POSITION AND RETIRES IN DISGRACE


The shock of discovering Arthur Black so unexpectedly and under such
damaging circumstances completely unnerved Herbert Harkins. For many
seconds he stood there staring at Arthur as if he were some ghostly
phantom who had suddenly appeared from the grave. By degrees Herbert
began to realize the compromising position in which he had placed
himself. The detective stood only a few yards away eagerly watching the
scene and awaiting the moment when he would be called upon to place
Arthur Black under arrest. Herbert did not turn around, but felt that
the sleuth was there, ready to perform the act which was to be the
capstone of a remarkably clever piece of newspaper work.

In that brief period of time his mind traveled with lightning like
rapidity. He thought of his troubles in the country. He remembered
the incident when he had punished Arthur. He recalled the threatened
disgrace which had preceded his father’s sudden death. He remembered
his work on the Cleverly Banner, and then by easy stages his mind
reverted to his arrival in New York, his employment on the Argus, and
finally to his meeting with Mary Black on that very morning. He thought
of Blakeley, the city editor, impatiently waiting for the announcement
that his big story was to be a success and that the Argus could pride
itself not only upon a notable scoop, but also upon the exposure of a
set of swindlers who had preyed remorselessly upon the public.

What should he do? His duty seemed clear and unavoidable. Surely one
would have to suffer for the benefit of the many. Besides that the
eyes of the detective were upon him, and his failure to do the right
thing at this moment might lead to his complete downfall. From this
thought his mind reverted to every detail of the impressive interview
which he had held with Mary Black a little more than an hour before.
A voice within him urged him to be faithful to his promise, no matter
what personal loss he might suffer. He had given her his pledge that
if he ever met Arthur Black he would lend him a helping hand; that if
he was in trouble he would succor him; that if he was in danger he
would save him. For what seemed to be a very long time he was torn with
conflicting emotions. Many minutes seemed to elapse--in reality it
was only a few seconds. He reached his decision quickly, and he acted
promptly. Putting his arm on Arthur’s shoulder, he whispered, almost
hissed, into the latter’s ear:

“You are on the verge of ruin. I have been sent here to arrest you. A
detective is standing a few yards away. If you wish to avoid arrest,
exposure and disgrace, run--run for your life.”

Arthur clutched convulsively at the grip in his right hand and gave a
hurried look about him. His glance fell upon the short, stockily built
man with the little twinkling eyes, who stood only a few yards distant.
Some instinct seemed to tell Arthur that this was the detective, that
this was the one man he should avoid. As quick as thought, he turned
on his heel and made a dash in the opposite direction. The detective
noting the movement, started to follow him; but Herbert shouldering his
way against some people who were standing between them, got in front of
the detective and completely blocked his way.

“Move aside,” said the officer angrily, “don’t you see that that fellow
is getting away? Move aside, I tell you!”

By this time the crowd in the corridor had become so dense that it was
almost impassable. It was quite evident that Arthur had made his escape
and in all probability was now out of harm’s way. Herbert turned to
the detective and said in a low tone:

“It’s the wrong fellow, old man; it’s all a mistake.”

The little twinkling eyes looked searchingly into Herbert’s face. What
he saw there satisfied him. The pale face, the look of despair, the
nervous manner were sufficient to indicate that the young man had just
passed through a crisis. It would be useless to argue with him. The
detective did not attempt it. He buttoned up his coat, pulled his hat
down more firmly over his head, and walked away, muttering:

“Well, this is the queerest game I’ve ever been up against in all my
career.”

After the detective left him, Herbert moved over to one of the big
windows in the post office corridor, and leaning his elbows on the
sill, stood there for some time musing upon the incidents that had just
occurred. He recalled with a feeling of sadness Tomlin’s prophetic
words: “An opportunity may come to you to do some big bit of work, and
it will either break you or make you.”

The opportunity had come much quicker than he had anticipated, and
unless all signs failed it would prove to be the cause of his undoing.
He wondered in a numb sort of way how he was ever going to face
Blakeley. He had started out on this assignment with a great display
of enthusiasm. Indeed, now that he looked back upon it he had acted
with considerable presumption. He had as good as boasted of the ease
with which he intended to handle the case, and now it was all ended
in an inglorious fizzle. The thought of a face to face encounter with
Blakeley was decidedly chilling. Blakeley, while possessing many
charming personal traits, was one of the hardest taskmasters in the
office. Herbert shrank at the thought of going before him without the
coveted story. He even contemplated the notion of not returning to the
office at all; but this bit of cowardice was soon overcome as a thought
not to be seriously considered for an instant. He would return to the
office; he would face the music like a man; and he would take his
medicine--no matter how bitter--without making any faces.

He left the post office building to go to the Argus office; but
somehow or other he could not summon up sufficient courage to undergo
the dreadful ordeal; so he walked up Broadway, mingling with the
crowd, looking in the shop windows and trying to forget the terrible
details of the most unpleasant incident of his life. After awhile he
turned off Broadway and walked in the direction of Fifth Avenue. When
he had reached that fashionable thoroughfare he bent his footsteps
towards Central Park. By this time it was late in the afternoon. The
fashionable turnouts of the rich and the prosperous were going up the
avenue, skilfully guided through the crowded street by richly liveried
drivers who seemed to know every inch of the ground. Still Herbert
walked on and on, seemingly unconscious of what he was doing. The
approach of dusk brought him to his senses. He must go to the office
and go there as quickly as possible.

He jumped on a ’bus that was going down-town, and at the intersection
where the Avenue joins Broadway he alighted and boarded one of the
surface cars. It was quite dusk when he reached the Argus office, and
walking into the local room in an uncertain manner, he noticed that
most of the men were out and that Blakeley was seated at his desk
alone. The city editor was puffing at a big cigar, and did not notice
the entrance of the young reporter.

Herbert was the first to speak.

“Mr. Blakeley,” he said, in a hushed sort of voice.

The city editor turned around like a flash.

“Hello there, Harkins,” he said eagerly; “I’ve been waiting for you all
the afternoon. How did the thing pan out?”

“It didn’t pan out at all,” said Herbert in a hesitating, halting way.

“What do you mean?” cried the other, his tone perceptibly hardening.

“I mean that I have no story,” this in a slightly firmer voice.

“No story?” shouted the other, “why what are you talking about anyhow?
There must be a story.”

“There was a story,” rejoined Herbert, now throwing all precaution to
the winds; “but I can’t write it.”

“Can’t write it? Why, you’re crazy, man. What are you talking about?”

The city editor was thoroughly angry now. He arose from his chair and
stood towering before Herbert. In his rage he threw his freshly lighted
cigar into the cuspidor with a savage movement of his hand. He stamped
his foot on the floor fiercely.

“There is no use talking about this matter any longer. You go to your
desk and write this thing and have your copy ready as soon as possible.”

“I can’t write it,” said Herbert, now speaking in a voice that was
scarcely audible.

Blakeley was silent, trying hard to control his rising passion. When he
spoke his voice sounded almost like a hiss.

“You understand what this means, don’t you--you know what it will cost
you?”

“Yes,” said Herbert, looking up; “I understand, and I resign my
position as a reporter on the Argus.”

“Your resignation is accepted,” said the other shortly; “but I call
upon you to do the work that you were assigned to perform, before
leaving this office.”

“I can’t do it,” said Herbert; “on my honor I cannot do it.”

“But what explanation have you to give?”

Herbert looked up helplessly. For a moment a desire to tell the whole
story to Blakeley took possession of him. The next minute it was
dismissed as impracticable. Blakeley was a man without any heart or
feeling. He felt convinced of this, and felt likewise that if the facts
were once in the city editor’s possession the story would have to be
written regardless of the private anguish it might cause. So he stood
there speechless before his superior.

“Go!” finally shouted Blakeley, pointing to the door. “But when you go
remember that you go in disgrace. You are like an engineer who would
leave his train in the middle of the journey, or a pilot who would
desert his ship in a storm at sea. Go, and never let me see you again.”

Herbert left the room with a flushed face and downcast eyes. He avoided
the elevator. The thought of meeting with anyone at a time like this
grated upon his feelings. He walked down the stairway with a heart as
heavy as lead. He felt mortified and angry by turns. He mentally blamed
Blakeley for his coarse manner and the ugly scolding he had given
him. The next second he admitted to himself that Blakeley was fully
justified in what he had said and done. Indeed, from the standpoint of
the news and of duty, he could find no possible justification for his
own conduct.

Presently he got out into Park Row and was soon in the midst of the
pushing, bustling crowd. It was quite dark now, and the rush to the
bridge was at its height. Myriads of electric lights shone brightly
all about him. Cars rushed by, with motormen sounding their gongs
continuously. Wagon drivers shouted and shrieked and pulled at their
horses, and thousands of pedestrians laughed and shouted as they
hurriedly went their way. Herbert, in a vague sort of way, wondered how
they could all be so happy when he felt so miserable. Nothing seemed
the same to him. Some mysterious change appeared to have overcome the
face of New York since he had left his home early that morning; but in
reality things moved on as before. Herbert’s philosophy did not realize
that the world moves on day by day and night by night, regardless of
the joys or the woes of the individual.

He soon reached his lodgings and quietly let himself in the door by
means of his latch-key. He struck a light and gazed about curiously
at the familiar things in the little apartment. Everything in the room
seemed to look at him in a reproachful manner. Strange as it may seem,
it was some moments before he became accustomed to being alone. Then
he picked up a book and tried to read; but it was a dismal failure. He
walked the floor for a long, long while. There was a lump in his throat
that he could not remove. Presently he sank down into a chair and
dropped his bowed head into his hands on the table.

“I’ve lost my job,” he groaned to himself. “I’ve done more than that.
I’ve not only lost my place, but I’ve been retired in disgrace.”




CHAPTER XVII THE YOUNG REPORTER FINDS THAT THE DOOR OF OPPORTUNITY IS
BARRED TO HIM


Herbert sat in the darkened room with his head bowed on the table for
a very long while, thinking of the events that had taken place the
previous twenty-four hours. First he was angry with himself for what
he had done, and then felt humiliated at permitting Blakeley to abuse
him in such a cruel manner; but with second thought came the conviction
that even if he had it to go over again he would not have acted in a
different manner. To have written the story even with Arthur at liberty
would have meant lasting disgrace to Mary Black and her parents. He had
paid a very dear price, but had averted that, which after all, was a
very consoling thing. While he sat there Tomlin came into the room in
his impetuous manner. He rushed over to Herbert and clapped him on the
shoulders.

“Brace up, old man; don’t sit here and mope as if you had lost your
last friend in the world.”

Herbert looked up at him and tried to smile; but the effort was a very
sickly one.

Tomlin sat down beside his friend, and becoming serious, said:

“See here, old chap, I don’t want to pry into your affairs, but why in
the world did you throw Blakeley down in that cold-blooded fashion?”

“I didn’t throw Blakeley down,” began Herbert angrily.

But the other man held up his hand to stay the hot words, and replied
in a low voice:

“But you did throw him down, and there is no possible way of proving
anything to the contrary. Now you must have had a reason, and if you
care to give it to me, I’ll be glad to listen.”

“I hope you won’t consider me rude, or lacking in friendship,” replied
Herbert; “but really the circumstances make it impossible for me to
tell you why I acted as I did.”

“All right, old fellow,” rejoined Tomlin, slapping Herbert on the back
again; “I am satisfied whether you tell me or not. I believe in you and
that is sufficient.”

Shortly before noon the following day Herbert went to the office of
the New York Sentinel and presented his card to the city editor. That
individual sat in his roll-top chair and gazed at the bit of pasteboard
musingly:

“So you want a job, do you? Well, I have heard of your name before, and
I understand that you have done some creditable work. I might make a
place for you here--”

“Could you?” inquired Herbert eagerly; “I’m sure if you would give me
the chance I’d make good.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said the city editor. Then as if the thought had
just struck him: “By the way, how did you come to leave the Argus?”

Herbert flushed up at this, and the fact did not escape the attention
of the keen-witted city editor of the Sentinel. He scrutinized his
visitor with a steady eye. Herbert hesitated for some seconds, and then
said slowly:

“Well, to tell the truth, that is a personal matter that I cannot
explain.”

“All right,” said the other slowly, “that rests with you entirely.”

“Can I have the position?” inquired Herbert.

“Well,” said the other, rubbing his hand over his face and speaking
slower than before, “I think you had better come in and see me again in
the course of a day or so.”

This was not very satisfactory, but Herbert had to make the best of it.
He returned to his room for the purpose of writing some letters and
later on took a walk. Two days after this incident he called at the
Sentinel office, but found, to his disappointment, that the city editor
was out of the city. Another day elapsed, and this time the man he was
in search of was at his desk.

“Do you find that you will be able to employ me on the Sentinel?” asked
Herbert.

“No,” said the city editor decidedly; “no, I cannot find room for you.”

“Is there any special reason for that decision?” asked Herbert with a
sinking sensation in the region of the heart.

“Well,” yawned the city editor, stretching his arms over his head, “I
don’t know that I should answer that question; but I will say that
I had a talk with Blakeley, the city editor of the Argus, yesterday
afternoon. You can draw your own conclusions.”

Herbert did, and found that the conclusions were not very flattering to
himself. In the course of the next two weeks he visited the local rooms
of nearly every important newspaper in the city; but everywhere he met
with the same experience. In short, he found himself blacklisted.

In the meantime he made every effort to preserve a cheerful demeanor.
He wrote long letters home to his mother, but never mentioned the grave
disaster which had overwhelmed him and which threatened to blight his
future newspaper life. Fortunately he possessed a small sum of money
which was on deposit in the saving fund. He had been prudent and
thrifty from the time of his arrival in New York, and as a consequence
was able to save small amounts of money in addition to the allowance
which he sent to his mother with religious regularity. He drew this out
now, and counting it over carefully found that, if necessary, it would
be sufficient to pay his expenses for a month or so. But after all a
month, and even two months pass very rapidly to a poor man who sees no
immediate prospect of earning money. He noted with dismay that a whole
week had been lost in his fruitless negotiations with the Sentinel,
and that a longer period of time had passed by during the time he was
applying to the other newspapers.

At this period he received a letter from Noah Brooks, saying that Mr.
Anderson had told him of the big beat upon which he was working for the
Argus, and wanting to know whether he had been able to carry it to a
successful conclusion. The letter annoyed him, even coming from such an
old and valued friend as the editor of the Cleverly Banner. However,
he sent a courteous reply to his old friend, expressing regret at his
failure to distinguish himself upon that particular piece of work.

Mr. Anderson, his former teacher, hearing that he had separated from
the service of the Argus, called on him one evening.

“I am awfully sorry to hear this, Herbert, and I half suspect that it
is the result of a quarrel with Blakeley.”

“Yes,” assented Herbert with a half smile, “there is no doubt about
that. Blakeley quarreled all right. I think it was a one-sided quarrel;
but there is no use in discussing it now.”

“But there is use,” insisted the other; “I’ll go to see Blakeley at
once and have this matter straightened out.”

Herbert put a detaining hand on his arm, and said with great
earnestness:

“Please don’t do anything of the kind.”

“But I will,” cried the other.

“But you must not,” corrected Herbert; “if you carry out your good
intentions you will do me a great deal of harm. If you are really a
friend of mine, I beg of you to stay away from the Argus office.”

“But, my young man,” said the teacher, “you are entirely too young to
be so self opinionated. You should not have quarreled with Blakeley. It
would have been much better if you had bent your will to his.”

Herbert shook his head sadly. He was silent for a few moments, and then
said with much gravity:

“You mean very well, but you cannot mend matters in this instance.”

Mr. Anderson left the house looking very forlorn. He was anxious to
help Herbert, and keenly felt his inability to do so.

Tomlin had been sent out on an assignment that took him to a remote
part of the State. He remained away for a week, and Herbert was alone
during all that period. Tomlin returned unexpectedly one evening,
very anxious to hear the latest news regarding his friend and the
papers. Herbert came in late that night. His white face, drooping mouth
and hopeless eyes told their own story to Tomlin. However he tried
to disguise the feeling that was within him, and said with assumed
cheerfulness:

“Well, old boy, how have you made out in my absence? Have you tried any
of the other papers?”

“Yes,” said Herbert, “I have.”

“Which one?”

“Everyone,” said Herbert with a bitter smile, “at least everyone that
is worth considering.”

“Well, what are your prospects?”

“I have no prospects.”

“No prospects--not even in the future?”

“No,” retorted Herbert, the anger in his heart making him raise his
voice to a high pitch; “not even in the future. To be plain with
you, Tomlin, they all know about the circumstances under which I
left the Argus, and they refuse to have anything to do with me. I am
blacklisted. Do you understand that? I am blacklisted, and a disgraced
man.”

The tone of Herbert’s voice no less than what he said shocked Tomlin
very much; but he made no reply, and the two friends sat there for many
minutes staring mutely at each other.




CHAPTER XVIII WHEREIN A BLACK SHEEP SHOWS A DESIRE TO CHANGE HIS COLOR


One morning not long after the conversation which has been recorded in
the previous chapter, Tomlin said to Herbert:

“See here, old chap, you are not going to throw up the sponge--I know
you’re not. You’ve got too much grit and pluck for any such thing as
that.”

“What do you mean?” asked Herbert, staring at him in an unmeaning way.

“What do I mean? I mean that you’ve got to employ strategy. When a
soldier gets in a tight fix with the enemy, he uses the brains with
which he is endowed for the purpose of extricating himself. So it is
with the lawyer, with the business man and with mortals generally--”

“What in the world are you driving at?” interrupted Herbert.

“I know what I’m driving at,” replied the other. “Listen to what I have
to say, and then try to answer me intelligently. Can you write a good
Sunday newspaper story?”

“Can I? Why you know--”

“Of course, of course I know,” cut in Tomlin, “I only asked you
that question as a matter of form. I want you to go out and get a
first-class special story. Write it up in your most attractive style,
typewrite it on the machine we have in this room, and give it to me by
this time to-morrow.”

The hearty manner of his friend furnished just the sort of inspiration
that Herbert needed at that particular time. He went out during the
day and visited the various places where he would be likely to obtain
material for a special story. It grew quite late and he was still
without anything upon which he could base the sort of article that
would answer to the vivid description furnished by Tomlin. On his way
back to his room he stopped at an Old Man’s Home to enjoy a chat with
the superintendent, who had been his friend while he was on the Argus,
and had sometimes rendered him valuable assistance.

“Anything doing about here, Smith?” he asked.

“No,” replied the superintendent, “not a thing. This is the slowest
week we have had for a long while. It’s as dull as dishwater.”

“Sorry to hear that,” responded Herbert; “I thought in a large
community of this kind something was always happening.”

“No,” responded the other, “nothing worth printing. I’ve got a good
joke on one of the old fellows upstairs, however. He was knocked out
by a bat last night.”

“By a bat?” queried Herbert.

“Yes. You see the old chap was a colonel in the Civil War--one of the
bravest men that ever led a regiment. Well, while he was reading a
bat flew into the room, and the things that happened during the next
half hour were funny enough to make a sick cat well. The old colonel
picked up his cane and chased that bird all around the room. The light
bewildered the bat and caused it to flounder around so blindly that
half of the ornaments in the room were broken. The colonel thought he
had it at one time, though, and lifted up his cane to give the bird its
death blow; but he missed by a hair, and instead of killing the pesky
thing, he smashed two big vases that stood on the mantel-piece. Then
when he made another lunge at it his stick went through an oil painting
which I believe has been in his family for nearly a hundred years. It
was daylight before that bird was thrust out of the room, and when the
first streak of dawn penetrated into the apartment the floors and walls
resembled some place which had just finished an unsuccessful siege with
the enemy.”

“Why, that’s a pretty good story,” cried Herbert quickly, “and if you
will give me the privilege of talking to the old colonel and the chance
to look at that room, I will thank you to the day of my death.”

The superintendent was only too well pleased to do this. Herbert
obtained a picture of the valiant soldier, and borrowing a camera
from one of the inmates, made a photograph of the dismantled room.
He hurried home, and before midnight had succeeded in grinding out
an exceedingly interesting special which was entitled “The Story of
the Union Soldier and the Bat.” He turned this over to Tomlin in the
morning, and when they met in the evening again that young man said
with a considerable degree of self-satisfaction:

“Your story is accepted and will be printed, and you will be paid for
it on the first of the month.”

“But I--they--” began Herbert.

“Oh,” interrupted the other impatiently, “I know what you are going
to say. I know that you are blacklisted, but that has nothing to do
with the case. A man must earn a living, and you have a right to your
bread and butter. Besides this is a justifiable deception. I am going
to keep on selling your stuff as my own as long as you have wit enough
to write. The articles will be typewritten, and the editors who buy
them from me will not know the difference except,” with a little laugh,
“they will be a little more brilliant than the kind I am in the habit
of writing.”

“You think it’s all right?” ventured Herbert.

“Of course it’s all right. Where’s the harm? No name is signed to the
articles. The newspapers get the worth of their money. The readers are
satisfied. You are reimbursed, and I am gratified. What more would you
want?”

Herbert soon came around to this way of thinking, and then and there
started in on another article, which proved equally as saleable as the
first. Elated by the success of these two articles, he planned a series
of Sunday specials, chiefly sketches of odd phases of life in New York
City. He was industry personified, and worked so adroitly in gathering
his facts that his identity was fully concealed. One morning, just as
he was about to leave the house he received a letter; and on tearing
open the envelope, found that it was dated from a small town in the
northern part of Connecticut. It was as follows:

  “DEAR HERBERT:

  “I would be an ingrate of the meanest type if I did not write to you
  and acknowledge the great debt which I owe to you now, and which I
  will continue to owe till the day of my death. I fully realize that
  if it had not been for your interference and kindness I would have
  been arrested, and myself and the members of my family disgraced. But
  sometimes bad beginnings have good results, and the merest incidents
  prove to be the turning point in a man’s career. I am satisfied now
  that the little episode which occurred at the post office a few
  weeks ago is going to prove the making of me. I know that I have
  been indolent and worthless; that I was foolish enough to contract
  bad and vicious associations, and that I have been guilty of many
  disreputable things. Somehow or other I went along doing these things
  without thinking of the meanness that was involved in them. Looking
  back upon them now, I can see very readily how little incidents
  repeated many times led to bad habits, and how these bad habits were
  gradually undermining my whole character.

  “I do not ask you to believe me, but I am going to tell you just
  the same, that from the instant you gave me the kindly warning in
  the post office building I made up my mind that if I were given the
  opportunity I would lead a better life in the future. I am now making
  this effort with all the courage at my command. It’s a hard job,
  but I believe that I am going to come out a winner. I have secured
  honest employment in this little town, and I intend to remain here
  till I am fully satisfied that I am fit to associate with manly and
  self-respecting persons like yourself. Kindly consider this letter
  sent in confidence, and not to be revealed till you hear from me
  further.

  “Very truly yours,
  “ARTHUR BLACK.”

Herbert was delighted with this missive. It repaid him for the great
sacrifice he had made--not for Arthur Black--but for his sister. His
first thought was to call on Mary and assure her that her brother was
alive and well; but upon mature reflection he abandoned this as being
unwise. From that day, however, Herbert put more heart into his work.
He still depended upon his voluntary contributions to the newspapers,
and while he longed for a permanent position on the staff of one of the
large dailies, he felt that he would have to bide his time before he
reached such a desirable post.

During these days he often thought of his father, and more than once
he recalled the dramatic scene when his father and the strange visitor
were seated at the table together in their little home at Cleverly. He
had frequently resolved to run out the mystery of that night, and now
he vowed it with more than usual vehemence. Everywhere he went he tried
to discover some signs of the queer stranger. It seemed a hopeless
task, but he resolved to persist in it till the end. One evening, while
he was walking down Cortlandt street, his gaze was attracted by a big,
broad-shouldered man who was walking along the street four or five
yards in advance of him. There was something very familiar about those
bulky shoulders. He looked again, and as his glance traveled upward
he suddenly realized that the man had a shock of bushy red hair.
Recognition was instantaneous; it was the man he had been looking for
for so long. He pushed his way through the crowd, and at one time was
almost able to reach the mysterious person by stretching out his hands;
but at that critical moment a heavily laden truck intervened, and the
queer one gained several yards on him. It was evident that he was
making for the ferry house to take the boat which ran to Jersey City.
Just before they reached the pier the bell began to ring its warning
signal. The crowd hurried. The man with the red hair and the bulky
shoulders ran rapidly towards the boat, with Herbert after him panting
for breath.

“Hurry up!” shouted the gateman to the approaching crowd.

The big man redoubled his speed, and just as he entered the ferry
slip and got aboard the bell rang for the second time, the iron gate
was slammed to with a bang, and Herbert found himself standing on the
wharf, gazing at the boat churning its way towards the shores of New
Jersey.




CHAPTER XIX PERSISTENCE HAS ITS REWARD AND HERBERT FINALLY MEETS THE
MYSTERIOUS STRANGER


Herbert Harkins was now consumed with a burning desire to meet the
mysterious stranger. He had an actual interest in clearing the memory
of his father; but above and beyond that he was now filled with a
boyish curiosity which insisted upon being satisfied. The thought of
the stranger occupied his waking hours, and even disturbed his rest
at night. When he was out of doors he stared at all the big men he
happened to meet, in order to discover, if possible, a burly man with
broad shoulders and a shock of red hair. At times this peculiar quest
seemed so absurd that he felt like abandoning it altogether; but such
periods of depression were invariably followed by a resolution to
persevere till he had accomplished his desire.

This sort of thing went on day after day without bringing any practical
results. Just when Herbert was beginning to tire of it, the thought
flashed across his mind that publicity was frequently a way of
obtaining things that could not be found by ordinary efforts. In other
words, he flew to the personal columns of the daily newspapers for
assistance. The result of this was the following advertisement which
appeared one morning in the New York Herald:

“Will the stranger who called on David Harkins at Cleverly very late
one night about five years ago kindly send his address to H. H., care
of General Delivery, Post Office. By doing so he may be the instrument
of redeeming the memory of a good man.”

Herbert was very much pleased with the phrasing of this advertisement.
There was an air of romance about it that appealed quite strongly to
his youthful fancy. The day after its appearance he hurried to the post
office with the expectation of receiving a letter, but he was doomed to
disappointment. No reply of any kind had been received. On the second
day he called at the post office again, and this time was rewarded by
the receipt of a very much soiled postal card. The writer informed him
that he had called on David Harkins at Cleverly about five years ago
and would be glad to meet the person who was in quest of information.
The address given was that of a low-grade lodging house on the Bowery.
Herbert felt a trifle disappointed at the tone of this communication,
but nevertheless resolved to run it out to the end. He visited the
Bowery that afternoon, and was received by a short, stout man with a
very red nose and a somewhat husky voice.

“You sent me this postal card,” said Herbert, exhibiting the square
piece of manila board.

“Yes,” said the other, with a leer, “what is there in it for me if I
give you the information you are after?”

“I don’t know that that has anything to do with it,” said Herbert.

“Oh, yes,” retorted the other, with a chuckle, “it has everything to do
with it, my young chappie. I’m a business man.”

“A business man?” queried Herbert.

“Yes, sir, a business man. My motto is, no cash no information. That’s
plain enough, isn’t it?”

“Too plain,” said Herbert, picking up his hat and starting towards the
door.

“Hold on!” cried the other, jumping up; “I don’t want much from you,
and I’ll tell you anything you wish to know.”

“I have no doubt of it,” replied Herbert; “but unfortunately you are
not the man I want.”

“Oh, yes, I am,” insisted the other eagerly, “I’m the man that called
on David Harkins at Cleverly.”

Herbert shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; then as if it were
an afterthought, he turned to the seedy-looking person and said:

“Do you insist that you are the identical man who called on David
Harkins?”

“I insist,” repeated the man, trying to draw himself up in a dignified
way.

“Now, I am sure that I have no business with you,” said Herbert,
“because it so happens that the man who called on David Harkins had
bright red hair--it was bushy, too, while you are almost bald-headed
and your hair is black.”

The fellow snickered a little at this, and said:

“I lost me hair durin’ a very bad attack o’ fever.”

Herbert could not forbear smiling himself.

“I suppose the color turned, too, at the same time.”

“Yes,” answered the man, “it did indeed. You needn’t laugh. Scientific
men will tell you that a man’s hair often changes color in a single
night.”

“Well, good-by,” said Herbert, “I’ll leave you to settle that with the
scientists.”

Three weeks passed by after this amusing episode and Herbert received
no further replies from the personal that he had inserted in the
Herald. He was reading the paper one afternoon, and while running his
trained eye down the many columns of small advertisements, happened to
see his own name in print. He looked closer, and this is what he read:

“If Herbert Harkins, son of the late David Harkins, of Cleverly, New
Jersey, will make his whereabouts known to the undersigned, he may
learn of something to his advantage. Write without delay to Captain
Thomas Janson, Anchor Inn, Jersey City, N. J.”

Feverish with anxiety, Herbert immediately sent a letter in response
to this advertisement. Within forty-eight hours after that he received
an answer, written in a large, sprawling hand, inviting him to call on
Captain Janson at his domicile in Jersey City. He responded without
delay. He found Anchor Inn to be an obscure hotel in a deserted part of
the town. It was a popular resort for seafaring men. Upon inquiry for
Captain Janson, he was informed that the Captain had removed that very
morning to a new two-story house which he had erected on the outskirts
of the city. He had left a message for Herbert, however, giving him
explicit directions where he could find his new domicile.

Herbert listened very carefully, and then made his way to the address
that had been given him. He found it to be the quaintest looking house
it had ever been his good fortune to gaze upon. The front of it was
shaped like the prow of a boat, and under the eaves of the house was
a wooden effigy of a mermaid, shaped and painted like those used upon
sailing craft in the Eastern waters. He rang the bell, and the call
was answered by a colored youth dressed up in blue clothing, with
brass buttons, to represent a cabin boy. He was ushered into a small,
low-ceilinged apartment which resembled the captain’s quarters upon a
boat. The beds on either side of the room were fitted up to resemble
bunks. The windows had been so constructed that they were perfect
reproductions of port holes. A little desk, a brass-rimmed clock, such
as can be seen in the cabins of pleasure yachts, a coil of rope, a
large marine glass, and cheap colored pictures of the admirals of the
United States Navy adorned the walls of this strangely furnished room.

Presently the door of an adjoining apartment opened and a big, brawny
man, with the rolling gait of a sailor, entered the room. His face was
as red as a boiled lobster; his hands were thick-skinned and broad.
He had wide shoulders and--this detail made an immediate impression
upon Herbert--he also possessed a heavy shock of red hair. The
identification was complete. This man, beyond a doubt, was the person
who had been with his father on that eventful night.

“Avast there, my hearty!” shouted the newcomer, putting out his broad
hand to meet the outstretched palm of his caller; “what are you doing
aboard my craft?”

“My name is Herbert Harkins,” said the young man, “and I came here in
response to your letter.”

The seaman stopped short with an exclamation on the tip of his
tongue. He stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips
and rolled his head from side to side as he stared at Herbert with
unblinking eyes. The scrutiny appeared to satisfy him.

“So you’re Dave Harkins’ boy, are you? Well, you look like him; you
look like him just as he appeared when he was a young man. You’re
different from him in some ways, but the resemblance is there just the
same. You’re more like a chip off the old block than the old block
itself. Now, boy, take a seat on that steamer chair there, get out your
log book and tell me all about your journey through life.”

“All right, sir,” replied Herbert, taking the proffered seat; “I’ll do
so.”

“By the way,” interrupted the Captain, “before you talk about yourself,
tell me about your father.”

“You know that father is dead?” began Herbert.

“Yes, I know that,” answered the other, “but I want some details about
it.”

“All right, I’ll try to give them to you.”

“By the way,” he interrupted again, as Herbert started to talk, “will
you have a glass of grog to wet your whistle?”

“No, sir,” replied Herbert, “I don’t drink.”

“Good for you; you’re a good deal better without it; but an old salt
like myself couldn’t do without his pipe and his grog, especially in
his old days.”

Herbert then proceeded to tell the old sailor all about his father, and
when he spoke of the mysterious midnight visit and the cloud of false
rumors that had arisen therefrom the Captain’s face clouded and he
walked up and down the floor of his little cabin shaking his fist.

“The lubbers!” he shouted, “they ought to have been tied to the mast
and given a dose of a cat o’ nine tails.”

Having finished this part of his narrative, Herbert then proceeded to
tell the story of his own life, and at its conclusion the old salt put
out his brawny hand, and taking Herbert’s, gave it a hearty grasp.

“Your story is mighty interesting. I’m mighty glad to hear it, and I
think I am in a position to be your friend.”

“I am glad of that,” responded Herbert, “and I’m very curious to find
out the real meaning of that midnight visit.”

“I’ll give it to you, my boy, and in mighty quick order. I was a
boyhood chum of your father. We grew up together, went to school
together, and one never had a thing that wasn’t shared by the other.
I had no idea of the sea in my youth; but shortly after I got to be a
boy of about your age I was entrusted with a sum of money belonging to
another person. I was a sort of trustee. In an evil moment some fellow
came along and showed me how it would be possible to double the money
without any risk. I tried it, and lost every cent. While I was in this
condition, I was called upon to make an accounting of the trust money.
In my extremity I went to your father and explained everything. He
gave me every penny that he had in the world in order to make good the
loss, and my reputation was saved and I had learned a lesson that I
have never forgotten since then. I was a wild boy in my younger days. I
owed a great deal of money, and finally determined to take to the sea
as a means of cooling down my hot blood. During the next ten years I
sailed over every part of the civilized globe. I became a master and
traded extensively in the Chinese seas. I was fortunate, made money,
and finally came home to retire upon my savings.

“The first man I thought of,” said the Captain, leaning back in his
easy chair, “was Dave Harkins. I determined to hunt him up and pay him
the few hundred dollars he had so generously given me at a critical
time in my life. I got to Cleverly late at night; the hotel was closed
so that I was unable to secure accommodations there. The thought
struck me that I might find Harkins at home. I went to his house, and
fortunately found him at a moment when he needed my help just as I had
formerly needed his. I compelled him to take that thousand dollars, and
I made a condition that he was not to tell of my whereabouts until I
got ready to make myself known to the world. I wanted to clear up all
of my old debts and to rehabilitate myself before my old friends before
I revealed my identity. After leaving him I went to New York, and
carrying out a program that had already been arranged, went abroad to
settle up some business interests that I had in Liverpool. I came back,
only to hear that David Harkins was dead. I was told that the family
had moved from Cleverly, and accepted the report without attempting to
verify it. Years went by, but I was never quite satisfied. I hunted
around in a vague sort of way to find Harkins’ boy. Only last week it
occurred to me that a personal in the Herald might bring some results,
and thank goodness it did, because here you are with me in the flesh.”

“I am very grateful to hear all of this,” said Herbert after the old
sailor had finished; “I can assure you that it makes me very happy
indeed. I never doubted my father at any time; but it is a great
satisfaction to have the whole matter settled and to have these painful
rumors dispelled as you have dispelled them.”

The Captain arose from his chair, took a turn or two around the room,
and then putting his arm around Herbert’s shoulder, said:

“My boy, we’ll dispel them in such a way that they’ll never be heard of
again. Mark one thing down, and mark it down plain: I’m your friend,
and your friend for life.”




CHAPTER XX IN WHICH A STAIN IS REMOVED FROM THE MEMORY OF AN INNOCENT
MAN


Herbert remained with Captain Janson for several hours. The man and the
boy were mutually attracted. After some further conversation regarding
David Harkins, the sailor said:

“Now tell me your story.”

Herbert did so as briefly and as modestly as possible. He told of his
difficulty with the Argus; but discreetly avoided all reference to
Arthur Black and the manner in which he had saved him at the expense of
his own position.

“My boy,” said the Captain, when he had concluded, “it’s all right;
don’t worry about these little things. The first thing we have to do
is to straighten out the memory of your father with the people of
Cleverly. You know how these stories stick in small communities. My
boy, we’ll hoist sail and bear down on the port of Cleverly at once,
and when we land there we’ll let the natives know a thing or two. We’ll
let ’em know that David Harkins was one of Nature’s noblemen, and now
that he’s gone to Davy Jones’ locker, he has left a friend and a son
who will take care of his memory.”

The following day they both took the train and went to Cleverly. Their
first visit was to the office of the Cleverly Banner, where Captain
Jansen was introduced to Noah Brooks. The editor and the sailor had not
talked for ten minutes before they became fast friends. Presently they
were joined by Horace Coke, the lawyer, who had always been a friend
of the Harkins family, and who was delighted with the turn things had
taken. After a general conversation in which all hands joined, the
sailor suddenly pounded his hand on the desk, and said earnestly:

“Messmates, I’m here for a purpose, and a specific purpose. Dave
Harkins was an honest man. I want everybody else to know that fact. How
can I do it?”

Noah Brooks scratched his head for awhile, and then said musingly:

“You might print a story in the Banner, telling all about your visit
that night, and explaining how you came to give him those ten $100
bills. How does that strike you?”

“Pardon me,” interrupted the lawyer, “but that doesn’t strike me very
favorably. It would look forced. Besides everybody knows that Brooks
is a friend of Herbert Harkins, and some people might be inclined to
think the story was a little overdrawn.”

“Yes, that’s so,” admitted Brooks, “but I hardly know how you can get
around it in any other way. Besides, I would do this thing freely and
voluntarily. It is not a question of expense or money.”

“Money!” shouted the old sailor, “who said anything about money? I
want you to understand that money is not to stand in the way of this
business. There isn’t any expenditure that I could make that would help
the memory of Dave Harkins that I wouldn’t undertake.”

“Do you mean that?” asked Brooks.

“Of course I mean it. By the way, while I am here I would like to do
something for this town of yours. What do you need just now?”

The lawyer laughed at this.

“You talk like a millionaire.”

“Well,” responded the sailor, “I am not a millionaire, but I’ve got
enough to live on and a little over, too, and if I can make somebody
else feel happy I’m going to do it.”

“You asked me just now,” said the lawyer musingly, “what you could do
for the town.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well,” responded the other, “a little fountain in the middle of the
main street wouldn’t be a bad thing. It would be the means of slaking
the thirst of both man and beast. We had one there some years ago, and
it was mighty useful; but it’s worn out now, and we have no means of
replacing it.”

“What will it cost?” asked the sailor.

“Not more than two thousand dollars,” responded Mr. Coke; “that would
finish the whole thing in first-class style.”

“It’s a go!” shouted the sailor, jumping up; “get the thing up in good
shape, and get it up as quickly as possible.”

Then and there specifications were drawn up, advertisements given out
and the draft of a communication made to city councils. Within thirty
days the whole thing had been completed and was ready for dedication.
On the morning fixed for the celebration it slowly dawned on Herbert’s
mind that the sailor and the lawyer had a fixed purpose in all that
they had done, and this purpose was only now beginning to unfold
itself. He got his first inkling of this when he noticed the little
silver plate on the side of the fountain, saying that it been erected
by Captain Thomas Janson to the memory of his lifelong friend, David
Harkins.

Mrs. Harkins wept a great deal when she saw this plate, which was a
very good thing for her, because it relieved her pent up feelings
and enabled her to recall memories of the dead without doing her any
serious injury. Herbert, on the other hand, was flushed with conscious
pride. A committee of the city councils had the affair in charge, and
they made Mrs. Harkins, Herbert and Captain Janson the guests of honor.
The Mayor of the city made the speech accepting the fountain, and then
Captain Janson, as the closest friend of David Harkins, was called on
for a few remarks.

The speech that he made that day was one of the most remarkable that
had ever been delivered in the town. It told the story of the life of
David Harkins, and how he had once befriended the speaker during what
he firmly believed was the crisis of his life. He then related in great
detail how he had come to Cleverly late that night and forced his old
friend to accept the ten $100 bills. Thus, without making any direct
reference to the ancient rumors that had flourished in the town, the
stain attached to the memory of David Harkins was removed in the most
effective manner possible. John Black and his daughter were present at
the ceremonies, and at the conclusion of the set speeches Mr. Black
arose and paid a fervent tribute to the integrity of David Harkins.
Altogether everything was done in the most complete manner, and the
affair was a great success and a red letter day in the history of
Cleverly.

The story of the event was told in a full page report in the current
issue of the Banner. To the delight of Mr. Brooks, Herbert had
volunteered to write the report, and it proved to be one of the best
pieces of reporting that had ever been done for the local paper.
Captain Janson was the hero of the occasion. He remained in Cleverly
for about a week, and he spent his money so lavishly and with such
utter unconcern that he came to be looked upon as a modern Monte Cristo.

During his stay he formed quite an intimacy with Noah Brooks, and it
was not very long before the whole-hearted sailor and the eccentric
editor were almost indispensable to each other. Sitting in the Banner
office one day Janson said:

“See here, Brooks, Cleverly looks to me like a good port in a storm.
It strikes me that it would be a pretty good place for an old worn out
hulk like Captain Janson. I’ve got a great notion to gather my stores
and anchor here for the rest of my life.”

Brooks thought so, too, and said he felt satisfied that the Captain
would never have cause to regret making the change in his dwelling
place. The sight of the two old men sitting on the porch exchanging
stories of the varied experiences they had undergone during their
stormy lives was a picture not to be forgotten very quickly. At least
Herbert Harkins thought so, and when he finally took the train for his
return to New York the pretty little scene remained engraved upon his
memory.




CHAPTER XXI IN WHICH A TELEPHONE CALL PRODUCES SOME UNEXPECTED RESULTS


Herbert returned to New York from Cleverly in the gayest of spirits. He
was happier than he had been for years, and was filled with a desire
to communicate this light-hearted feeling to everyone that he met. The
fact that the long standing cloud had been removed from the memory of
his father made him forget his own troubles for the time at least. A
week before everything had appeared dark and gloomy; but now the dawn
had arrived and the earth assumed a cheerful appearance. With the
light-heartedness of youth, he looked forward to a future of prosperity
and uninterrupted happiness.

The time was within a month of Christmas, and before leaving Cleverly
he had exacted a promise from his mother that she would come to New
York on the eve of the festival and stay with him over the holidays. He
was already mentally planning out the treat that would be given her on
her arrival in the metropolis. It was in this mood that he hurried to
his apartments. He found Tomlin at home, and opening and closing the
door boisterously, shouted:

“Hello Tomlin, old fellow! I want you to jump up and shake hands with a
very happy man.”

Tomlin did jump up and did shake hands with his friend; but he said
nothing, gazing on the other with an expectant air. Receiving no
response to his silent inquiry, he asked:

“Have you fallen heir to a fortune?”

“No,” said Herbert, “something better than that.”

“Have you obtained a permanent position on one of the big papers?”

“No,” replied Herbert, and this time a little sadly, “not that.”

“Well, what in the world is it?” asked the other.

“Simply this,” replied Herbert, speaking hurriedly and with some
feeling; “after a number of anxious years I have succeeded in clearing
the memory of my father from a stain that has rested upon it ever since
his death.”

Very rapidly he sketched the events that had followed one another
from the time he had read the little personal in the Herald until the
unveiling of the memorial fountain in Cleverly.

Tomlin whistled.

“This is news indeed, and I never knew a thing about it. Why didn’t you
tell me?”

“I owe you an apology for that,” said Herbert contritely, “but I was a
victim of circumstances. After my interview with the old sea captain
I missed you, and found it necessary to go to Cleverly immediately.
Besides that I had a strong desire to complete the whole business so
that I might give you the story in full when we met.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the other heartily, his eyes glistening with
the pleasure he felt. “Why the thing has the flavor of a romance from
real life. Say, it would make a bully story for the Argus.”

Herbert raised his hand in protest.

“Don’t think of such a thing, Tomlin!” he exclaimed. “I am not desirous
of any publicity just at this time. I wouldn’t have Blakeley even hear
my name or to see it, at least not for some time to come. I know that
he feels very bitterly towards me, and I realize that he has a real
justification for that feeling. Some day I may be able to win back his
good opinion.”

“I hope so,” fervently ejaculated Tomlin; then as if the thought had
just struck him: “Why not make the attempt now?”

“It is not possible now,” said Herbert in a positive tone, which
conveyed a distinct desire to close the subject.

“By the way,” said Tomlin, “you will have to get down to work. You’ve
been wasting a lot of your time when you should have been toiling for
your bread and butter. I’ve got an order here for three specials, and
you will have to turn them out before the end of the week.”

“I’m your man,” responded Herbert enthusiastically. Then looking at his
friend fondly, he added:

“Say, Tomlin, how can I ever repay you for your goodness to me?”

“By never speaking about it,” was the crisp reply.

Herbert started in immediately and began working on the specials that
had been ordered for the following week. He had to go out for several
days and nights in succession in order to obtain the material, but
once that was in hand he worked quickly and industriously. One of the
articles was a graphic description of the entrance to the Brooklyn
bridge at the rush hour in the evening. The subject was not new by any
means; but Herbert handled it with such cleverness and originality
that it made a very readable page in the Sunday issue of one of the
enterprising newspapers. Another of the specials was a description of
Chinatown at night, couched in such phraseology as to make the reader
believe that the scenes so graphically described were taking place in
the heart of one of the cities of old China instead of actually being
enacted in the midst of the American metropolis. The third article
gave the impressions of a man who went to the very top of one of
the highest buildings on Manhattan Island and viewed the surrounding
country.

The Argus office was only a few blocks from the lodgings of the two
young men. While Herbert was hard at work one night, Tomlin rushed in
unexpectedly, and said in agitated tones:

“I’ve got a sensational tip that I want you to run out for me. I am
tied up on another story now, and there is no one in the office. It may
be nothing, or it may be a good thing; but if you are willing to tackle
it I will guarantee that you will not lose anything by the operation.”

“Don’t talk about losses,” said Herbert impatiently; “tell me what you
want.”

“Well,” said the other; “I was around at the precinct police station
a little while ago. The telephone bell rang while I was in the room.
The house sergeant was sound asleep, snoring like a log, so I took the
liberty of responding to the call. When I got my ear to the receiver a
very feminine voice said:

“‘Is this the police station?’

“‘Yes ma’am,’ I replied, wondering what was coming next.

“‘Well,’ said the sweet voice again, ‘a burglar has broken into our
house and I have him locked in the sitting room, and I will be very
much obliged indeed if you will send an officer here at once to take
the man into custody.’

“Just in the most matter of fact manner imaginable,” cried Tomlin.
“Could anything be more picturesque or interesting? Here is a woman who
is not afraid of a burglar. She calmly telephones for the police to
come and arrest him. I think that’s a peach of a story, and if you have
any red blood in your veins you will grab your hat and coat and start
off on the story before I am able to say ten more words.”

This was precisely what Herbert did. In less than a minute’s time he
was at the door, and turning to Tomlin, said:

“Where’s the house? What was the number?”

“The cabby knows all about it,” said Tomlin, pointing to a stout man
who was sitting on the high seat of a cab in front of the door.

“What’s that?” asked Herbert.

“That’s the cabby,” replied Tomlin; “you don’t suppose I would come
here without furnishing you with all the conveniences necessary to do
the job. There’s a policeman in plain clothes on the inside of the cab.
All you have to do is to go with him, help him to make the arrest,
and then write up the story. I’ll call here again in an hour and get
the copy. If it proves to be a beat, I’ll give it to Blakeley in the
morning and quietly let him know that you have sent it in as a partial
act of retribution for the scurvy manner in which you treated him on
that other big scoop.”

“Tomlin, I wish you would stop talking about that,” said Herbert
impatiently; “but I’ll do the best I can with this story.” And with a
farewell shout he jumped into the cab, pulled the door to with a slam
and was whirled in the direction of upper New York. The cab driver
had evidently been given an extra fee for speed, because he lashed
his horse unmercifully, and the vehicle went whirling up Broadway
at a gait which terrified chance pedestrians and aroused the ire of
sleepy policemen. Once the hub of the wheel struck another team that
was coming down-town, and for several seconds Herbert felt that their
team was about to be wrecked; but by some lucky chance the wheels
became extricated and the cab once more resumed its upward and onward
journey. Finally, after many minutes had passed, it turned off the
main highway into a side street. Herbert noticed by glancing at a lamp
on the side of the thoroughfare that they had turned into West 69th
street. Presently the cab stopped, and when Herbert and the officer had
alighted, the cabby, pointing towards a brownstone house with the tip
of his whip, said:

“That’s your house, boys.”

Herbert looked up at the dwelling, and something familiar about it
arrested his attention. He looked again to make sure, but there could
be no doubt about it.

It was the home of John Black. Herbert stood on the sidewalk for some
seconds, half dazed at this entirely unexpected discovery. He wondered
curiously what fatality it was that had brought him to this house on
such a strange errand at such an hour of the night; but presently he
aroused himself. Speculation was in vain; action was necessary. After a
few whispered instructions to the officer, he walked up the high steps
and rang the bell.




CHAPTER XXII PROVING THAT BAD PERSONS, LIKE BAD PENNIES, ARE CONSTANTLY
REAPPEARING


After ringing the bell of the house, Herbert waited for a long time,
but there was no response. Instantly his whole being was thrown into
a fever of impatience and unrest. He imagined all sorts of terrible
things. His mind was filled with terror. What if he had arrived on the
scene too late? What if some crime had been committed in the dead of
the night? Curiously enough, during that mental review he never thought
of John Black or his wife. The one person constantly in his mind was
Mary Black.

He rang the bell a second time. This time it was done fiercely,
angrily. He listened eagerly, but received no immediate response, and
then consulted with the policeman upon the advisability of going to the
rear of the house and breaking in. While they were talking a sound was
heard at the parlor window, and the next moment it was thrown open. A
head was pushed cautiously out of the window. Herbert recognized it at
a glance. It was Mary Black. He was on the top step now, and leaning
over, said quietly so as not to alarm the girl:

“Mary.”

She started at the sound of a familiar voice, and peering out into the
gloom, exclaimed in genuine surprise:

“Herbert Harkins!”

“Yes, Mary,” he answered; “what is the difficulty?”

“Oh, I’m terribly frightened,” she cried, “someone has broken into the
house. I don’t know who it is, except that it is a man. I was reading
in my room when I heard a grating sound at the kitchen door. Presently
it was opened, and footsteps could be heard going into the dining room.
Then all was silent for awhile. I came down the front stairway about
half way, and leaning over the banister, looked in the dining room. The
fellow’s back was to me. He was seated at the table calmly eating some
cold meat that he had taken out of the refrigerator. He had a couple of
bottles of papa’s wine, also, and was drinking that with great relish.
Scarcely knowing what to do, I crept back to my room. Both papa and
mamma had gone out for the evening, and I had no idea when they would
return home. While I was in my room, in an agony of fear, I heard the
fellow come upstairs. He went back into the library, and securing a
large tablecloth, filled it with the silverware and other valuable
things that he had carried from the dining room. Then he sank back
into a large arm chair and calmly went to sleep. It was then that I
conceived the idea of sounding the alarm. I pulled the doors of the
library to and locking them securely, came down to the hall, where we
have a telephone, and notified the police.”

“Good!” exclaimed Herbert at the conclusion of this narrative, “you
have acted very discreetly. Is the fellow still asleep?”

“No,” she replied; “he evidently awakened a few minutes ago, because I
hear him in the room. He has discovered the fact that he is a prisoner,
and I am sure will either jump through one of the back windows or break
open the door.”

Herbert immediately sent the policeman to the rear of the house, with
instructions to arrest anybody who might attempt to escape from that
part of the property. Another patrolman fortunately passing by at this
time, volunteered to guard the front of the house, while Herbert went
in to grapple with the intruder.

Mary was quite solicitous for Herbert’s safety, as was only natural.

“Please be careful,” she said; “he may be a dangerous character. Don’t
you think you had better send one of the officers up?”

“No,” said Herbert, “I think I’ll tackle this job myself.”

He felt some apprehension, but being a man, did not propose to display
it before a girl for whom he had so much regard as Mary Black.

He crept up the stairs silently, armed with a pistol which Tomlin had
thoughtfully provided. He heard a great knocking on the doors of the
library, and going there immediately, turned the key and threw them
open. The man within, surprised at this bold movement, retreated to the
rear of the room. There was no light, but Herbert could see his figure
dimly moving in the gloom.

“Surrender or you will be shot!” he shouted sternly.

For answer the burglar drew a pistol from his pocket, and aiming at
Herbert, pulled the trigger. There was a flash of light and then all
was silence. Herbert felt a tickling sensation like a pin prick on the
back of his right hand. He lifted it, and noticed that the bullet had
just grazed the top of his hand, which was already bleeding. Smarting
with anger, he raised his own pistol and fired. It went far of the
mark, but it produced results, for a heavy bass voice coming out of the
darkness shouted:

“Stop shooting, and I’ll surrender.”

Herbert put his pistol away, and striking a match, lit the gas. The
burglar was crouching in a corner of the room back of a book-case. His
clothing seemed to be in tatters. Herbert strode over to where he was
and grabbing him by the arm, pulled him out. The man turned round with
a whine:

“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” he said.

Something in the voice attracted Herbert at once. He scrutinized the
bleared face and recognized in it the countenance of Harry Adler. The
discovery aroused his indignation.

“You scoundrel!” he shouted, raising his voice in his anger. “What do
you mean by coming here and trying to rob these people. Aren’t you
satisfied with the injury you have already done to this family? You
have taken their boy away from them, and now to cap the climax, you are
low enough and despicable enough to come and try to rob them of their
property.”

“What family?” asked Adler, looking up at the young man with a sullen
gaze.

“What family?” ejaculated Herbert, “do you mean to say that you did not
know that this was John Black’s house?”

“No,” was the reply with an ugly leer. “I didn’t know it was John
Black’s house. I was hard up; I had to get something; I needed money.
This looked like an easy thing. How could I tell whose crib I was
trying to crack?”

“Well,” said Herbert bitterly, “you put your head in the noose this
time all right You’ve been caught red-handed, and you’ll go to jail
without doubt.”

“How do you know this?” asked Adler, with sudden defiance.

“Because the house is guarded back and front,” was the reply; “because
I have caught you in the act and you are my prisoner now, and I don’t
propose to permit you to escape.”

The burglar looked at his antagonist in a blank sort of way for a
moment, then a glitter of intelligence and cunning suddenly illumined
the fishy eyes and the sodden face.

“If you permit the police to take me up to-night you’ll regret it to
the very end of your life.”

Something in the man’s manner and in the tone of his voice arrested
Herbert’s attention. Some instinctive feeling seemed to tell him that
these words were not mere bravado. He turned to the culprit:

“Why? Why do you say this?”

“Because,” exclaimed Adler, in a shrill voice, “if you have me arrested
I’ll squeal. I’ll tell the truth and the whole truth about young Arthur
Black. He came to New York with me as my partner. He was concerned in
that dirty get-rich-quick business. I’ll turn State’s evidence, and if
I go to jail he’ll go with me, and you can bet your sweet life that
the Black family will be mighty unhappy before I get through with them.”

Herbert was the picture of distress. The man watched him with a leer.
With all his defects, Adler possessed acute intelligence and he
realized that Herbert was more deeply interested in Mary Black than he
was willing to acknowledge. Knowing this, he felt that he had struck
his captor in his weakest spot. It did not take Herbert long to decide.
Turning to the unfortunate man, he said:

“Suppose you are released, what then?”

“Then mum’s the word,” replied the burglar, “I’ll not squeal; I’ll go
about my business and let you and your friends go about yours.”

“Wait a minute,” was Herbert’s comment. Going to the foot of the
stairs, he called for Mary Black. She came up very much agitated. She
peeped in at the burglar, who still lay in a heap on the floor, and
shuddered at the sight. Herbert whispered to her.

“Mary, this man deserves to be arrested and imprisoned; but I have
a great notion to let him go. He is an old Cleverly boy. It’s Harry
Adler. He never did amount to much, but it might be an act of charity
to permit him to go in peace this time.”

Her eyes brightened and the color returned to her face. In her
enthusiasm she took Herbert by both hands, exclaiming:

“I agree with you thoroughly, and I think you’re simply great to act so
generously with a man who is at your mercy.”

While this conversation was going on the policemen who had been
patiently waiting in the front and rear of the house, tiring of their
long watch, came inside and walked up the stairway. As they joined the
group, Herbert turned to the man who had accompanied him, and said:

“Gentlemen, this is all a deplorable error. This gentleman is a distant
relative of the family. In the confusion he was taken for an intruder.
The family is very much mortified, and hopes that nothing more will be
said about the matter.”

The policemen smiled at this and bowing their heads in acquiescence
left the house, chuckling in audible tones. Such scenes were not
unfamiliar to the members of the metropolitan police force. As soon as
they had gotten out of sight, Herbert turned to Adler, and in a tone
freighted with anger and contempt, exclaimed:

“Go!”

The man looked up out of the corner of his eye as if to assure himself
that there was no treachery intended, and then slunk downstairs and out
into the street.

As he withdrew Mary turned to Herbert and then suddenly gave a terrible
scream.

“Why, what’s the matter, Mary?” he cried anxiously, rushing over to her.

“Oh that, that!” she exclaimed, pointing to his right hand, which was
now almost covered with blood; “you have been shot. You are wounded.”

Herbert, who had forgotten his slight injury, looked down at his
discolored hand and gave a laugh.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he cried; “if you will get me a little hot water
and a bandage, I think we can straighten that out in short order.”

She proceeded to do this, bustling about with much intelligence and
vivacity. The wound was dressed and she was in the act of binding it
up when Mr. and Mrs. Black returned. They were amazed to see Herbert
Harkins there, and still more thunderstruck when they learned the story
of the attempted robbery. John Black was grateful, but he shook his
head as he said to Herbert:

“You should not have released the man. He is a menace to society, and
may attempt the same crime against other citizens.”

Mary spoke up at this point, saying:

“I disagree with you, father. Herbert was right. He might have been
mistaken, but he was merciful and that after all means much in this
unfeeling world.”

Herbert was delighted at such praise, and bidding her good-night
stooped down and kissed her hand in the chivalrous manner of a
gentleman of the old school.

The act appeared to please the girl, for her face crimsoned and
stooping down, she picked up his wounded hand and gave it a kiss.

“You deserve it,” she said impulsively, “because you have acted the
part of a hero.”




CHAPTER XXIII IN WHICH A BAD MAN REACHES THE END OF HIS ROPE


Herbert walked home from the Black residence that night. He did not
care to ride. He wanted to have the opportunity to think over the
exciting incidents of the last hour, and felt that he could not do
so with any satisfaction to himself unless he was alone. The clocks
were striking one o’clock in the morning when he finally reached his
lodgings. The gas was burning in the little sitting room, and Tomlin
was there in an attitude of expectancy.

“Well?” he said, with a questioning look. “What was the result of your
adventure?”

Herbert’s jaw fell. It suddenly dawned upon him that he was once
more placed in the attitude of a delinquent. He had unconsciously
forgotten all about Tomlin and the fact that he was supposed to be
out on an assignment. The thought mortified him very much. He looked
into Tomlin’s clear eyes, and what he saw there prompted him to be
candid. There was no use in attempting to beat about the bush; he would
tell the truth and tell it as simply as possible; so he sat down and
related all that had occurred from the time he left Tomlin early in
the evening until the present moment. Only upon one phase of the story
did he attempt any disguise, and that was when he related the threat
which had been hurled at him by the burglar. He told his friend that
a person who was very dear to Mary Black was in Adler’s power, and
that the robber had threatened to expose this person and involve him
in disgrace if he was not given an immediate release. When Herbert had
concluded his narrative, Tomlin leaned back in his chair and gave vent
to a hearty laugh. Herbert could not understand the cause of his mirth,
and said so. Tomlin laughed again, and then said:

“I don’t suppose you see the humorous side of this thing; but it
appeals to me very strongly. See here, Harkins, this thing is becoming
marked with you. It begins to look as if you had gotten into the habit
of falling down on all of your assignments.”

“I do feel a bit silly about this,” began Herbert, “but you see the
position I was placed in. You see it was this way--”

“No explanations are necessary,” interrupted Tomlin in his familiar,
hearty tones, “explanations are not of much use anyhow. Your friends
don’t expect them, and your enemies wouldn’t believe them. I’m frank
to say, however, that you did just what any man with red blood in his
veins would have done under the circumstances. In fact I would have
acted just as you did.”

“Then you don’t feel badly over it? You don’t blame me--”

“Not at all,” interrupted his friend once more; “I only ask you to
promise me that you are through with this chivalrous business, and
that if you intend to stay in the newspaper profession, you will quit
it right here and now, and that hereafter when you are sent out on an
assignment you will cover it and write it like a sensible man. Do you
promise, Herbert?”

“I promise,” said the other meekly.

Thus ended the episode of the attempted robbery. Two days later
Herbert started out early in the morning in order to make a tour of
the hospitals for the purpose of finding some material for special
articles. The first institution he visited was the Samaritan Hospital,
with whose superintendent he was on terms of intimacy.

“Got anything to-day?” he said to that official.

“Not much,” was the yawning reply, “at least not much out of the
ordinary. I don’t think we’ve anything here that you would care for.”

“Any deaths to-day?”

“No; but we have a queer sort of fellow here who was shot last night
while trying to break into a house up-town.”

“Is that so?” remarked Herbert carelessly. “I don’t suppose there’s
anything unusual in the case?”

“No, I don’t think so,” was the rejoinder. “Here’s his name,” and the
superintendent pushed the big register over in the direction of Herbert.

The young man looked at the open page carelessly, and then gave a
sudden start.

The name on the book was decidedly familiar. It was that of Harry
Adler. Instantly he became all attention.

“Was the man seriously injured?” he asked anxiously, turning to the
superintendent.

“I’m afraid he was; he was shot in the groin while attempting to escape
from the house.”

“How is he getting along?”

“Badly,” was the response; “in fact I am satisfied in my own mind that
he is going to make a die of it.”

Herbert’s sympathies were instantly aroused. He had no regard whatever
for Adler, and looked upon him as a very undesirable member of society;
but the thought of any man being shot and dying from his wounds
appealed strongly to his sympathetic nature.

“I used to know this man at one time,” he said; “I wonder if I could be
of any use to him. I wonder if he has any friends or relatives that he
would care to see.”

“I don’t know,” replied the other.

“Could I see him?” persisted Herbert eagerly; “I might be able to do
something.”

“Yes,” was the ready rejoinder, “come with me.”

The two men walked up a flight of stairs and into the accident ward
of the hospital. They passed along through row after row of white
counterpaned cots. Men of all kinds and descriptions were on these
beds of suffering; some within the shadow of the Valley of Death, and
others convalescent. In the last cot on the very end row they found
the wounded burglar. He presented a pitiable spectacle; and when
Herbert looked at his white face and at the countenance twisted with
suffering, his heart melted and he forgot all the evil the man had done
during his useless life. He groaned with the pain and looked up just
as they reached his bedside. His eyes flashed a glance of recognition
at Herbert. He put a thin hand outside of the coverlet, and exclaimed
eagerly, but in a weak and husky voice:

“Hello there, boy! You’re just the person I want to see.”

“What is it?” asked Herbert, stooping down and speaking in a gentle
voice.

“It’s just this,” replied the other in a voice that was not more than
audible; “I am satisfied that I’ve reached the end of my rope. The
doctor says there’s no hope for me. I suppose it serves me right, but
that don’t make me feel any better. I know I’ve led a very miserable
existence, and I suppose that as a man lives so he must die. It’s too
late for me to do any good in the world now; but while I have the
strength and the voice I’d like to clear up one little thing in which I
am satisfied you have a personal interest.”

“Yes?” assented Herbert with much eagerness, bending a little lower so
that he might hear the man’s voice; “what is it about?”

“It’s about the robbery of John Black’s house in Cleverly.”

“I thought so,” exclaimed Herbert, his eyes sparkling with the
excitement of the moment; “what is it you want to tell me?”

“Well,” said the other, “you know all about the rumors that flew around
Cleverly at that time. Your father’s name was involved. I want to tell
you, and it’s a dying man who is speaking to you, that he was innocent
of that.”

“I know it,” replied Herbert; “but who was guilty?”

“I’ll tell you that very briefly,” answered the stricken man. “You
know the kind of fellow I was. I had no scruples. I wanted to live
without work. I got acquainted with young Arthur Black, and I am
afraid that I was the means of corrupting his morals. I traveled with
him a great deal, and he learned many vicious habits through me. Well,
this went on for some time, and one day I was filled with the desire
of getting a good stake and running off to New York. In the course of
my acquaintance with Arthur Black I learned that his father sometimes
brought home money from the bank. On this particular day a customer
who came in from the country late in the afternoon was anxious to make
a deposit. It was after business hours, and the safe had been closed
and locked for the day. The cashier, who was charged with the care
of the vault, had gone home and could not be reached. To accommodate
the depositor, Mr. Black accepted his money and took it home with him
that night. I was hanging around the door of the bank at this time
and overheard the conversation between the two men. I was tempted. It
isn’t necessary to say that it did not take much to tempt me; but I was
filled with an unquenchable desire to get hold of that money.

“Well,” continued the wounded man, his voice becoming lower and lower,
“I hunted up Arthur immediately and managed to spend the next two hours
with him. I pumped him about the habits of his father and the routine
of their household. I wanted to know particularly how he was able to
get in the house when he left me late at night as he often did. He
said, in his innocence, that his mother was always his friend, and that
in spite of the anger of his father she persisted in taking care of
him. One of the ways she employed to do this was to leave the key of
the dead latch of the door under the mat which lay on the front porch.
That was the very thing I was anxious to learn, and when I discovered
it I left Arthur abruptly, saying that I would see him the next night.
It was after midnight when I went around to the Black house. The
inmates apparently were asleep. I hung around till nearly one o’clock
in the morning, anxious that all the conditions should be ripe for
my dishonest enterprise. When I lifted the mat I found the key there
as it had been described to me by Arthur Black. I got into the house
without difficulty and went to the old man’s desk. It was one of those
frail roll-top affairs, and I succeeded in breaking into it without any
difficulty. I took the money, and then to throw them off the scent,
broke the bolt on the back door to convey the impression that the
robber had entered in that manner.”

“What happened then?” asked Herbert eagerly.

“The rest is soon told,” said Adler, his voice sinking to the merest
whisper; “I became aware of the excitement that had been created by the
robbery and kept myself in seclusion for some days. I felt a little
bad when I learned that an effort had been made to place the robbery
on your father, and when he died I was almost on the verge of making a
confession; but didn’t do it. Some days after this I decided to go to
New York with the money, and in a fit of devilishness resolved to take
Arthur Black to New York with me. It seemed to me a very clever trick
to entertain this foolish boy with the money that I had stolen from his
father. You know the rest. We came here and he went from bad to worse
until we got into that get-rich-quick concern which led to the breaking
up of our partnership. Something happened to him then. What it was I
have never discovered; but the boy turned good, and left me, saying
that our paths would lie in different directions in the future; and he
has kept his word from that day to this. You remember what happened
the other night when you had me cornered in old Black’s house. I used
Arthur’s name to secure my own liberty. There you have the whole story.
I’m sorry for what I’ve done; that’s all I can say.”

The importance of this confession was appreciated by Herbert, who
through the assistance of the superintendent, hastily summoned a
stenographer and a Notary Public. Although the effort was a very
painful one, Adler repeated his story just as he had told it to
Herbert. After it had been reduced to writing, he swore to the truth of
it, and then having a pen placed within his trembling fingers, signed
his name in scrawling lines.

Herbert asked the man if there was anything he could do for him. He
said if it was possible to lighten his last hours in any way he would
be only too glad to do it; but Adler shook his head in a melancholy way
and said he had no request to make. Herbert wanted to know if he had
relatives or friends he wished to see before his death. Once more he
shook his head, and added:

“My mother died when I was only a few years old; my father never took
care of me. I don’t know now whether he is dead or alive, and even if I
was aware of his abiding place I would not ask him to come here.”

Herbert felt a strange lump coming into his throat at these words. He
wondered with a queer feeling about his heart whether he would have
been any better than this dying man if his early life and surroundings
had been the same; but when he left the hospital it was with a feeling
of elation over the strange manner in which every detail of the
Cleverly mystery had been brought to light. The vindication of his
father’s memory was absolutely complete, and he could now go out into
the world with a firm step and with his head in the air. On his return
to his room he told the whole story to Tomlin, who listened with
absorbed attention. Late that afternoon he made another call at the
Samaritan Hospital. The superintendent, who was in the office, gave him
a nod of recognition.

“How is that wounded man?” asked Herbert.

“Dead,” was the terse reply.




CHAPTER XXIV WHEREIN THE CLOUDS PASS AWAY AND THE SUN SHINES ON HERBERT
HARKINS


Herbert Harkins voluntarily assumed the care and disposal of the
remains of the unfortunate criminal. The young reporter was acquainted
with the Coroner’s undertaker and through his assistance and that of
some mutual friends he was able to secure a cheap lot in an out of
town cemetery. The obsequies of the departed one were pathetic in the
extreme. The only two mourners at the funeral--if they could be called
mourners--were Herbert Harkins and Francis Tomlin. The whole affair was
tinged with an atmosphere that was at once sombre and desolate; but at
all events Adler had been given a Christian burial, and that was the
thing that Herbert desired most of all.

“You’re a curious fellow, Harkins,” said Tomlin to the young man on
their way home from the cemetery.

“How do you make that out?” asked Herbert.

“Why, by your actions,” was the reply; “you are constantly doing
unexplainable things. Take to-day for instance. Who else would have
done so much for a man who was the cause of all his troubles?”

“Ah!” said Herbert, “but you must understand that my troubles are now
buried in the grave with that poor, miserable man. I can afford to be
generous.”

“Even if you are not just?”

“Who shall determine that--I for one shall always shrink from being the
judge of my fellow men.”

“But you know that this Adler was thoroughly disreputable--”

“Yes,” interrupted Herbert, “and that is all the more reason why I
should be reputable. A man must be merciful if he looks for mercy
himself.”

They had reached their rooms by this time, and after a few
preliminaries, Herbert sat down at his desk and began to clear up an
accumulation of work that had been neglected during the past week,
largely because his time was taken up in preparing for the funeral
arrangements of Harry Adler. This work occupied his attention almost
constantly till late in the night. His last act was to write a letter
to his mother at Cleverly, reminding her that she would be expected to
arrive in New York on Christmas Eve, which important occasion would
occur on the following day. He put a special delivery stamp on the
letter and carried it around to one of the sub-post office stations in
order to insure its prompt delivery on the following morning.

When the day before Christmas arrived it brought with it a fine fall of
snow, and quite early in the morning the face of New York was hidden
from view with a soft, fleecy covering. At noon time that day Herbert
received a telegram from his mother saying that she would be unable
to reach New York till about eleven o’clock on Christmas morning.
It seemed odd that she should disappoint him in this unaccountable
way; but he thrust the telegram in his pocket, and in the rush of his
everyday duties quickly forgot the incident.

That evening Tomlin came into the house with a rather solemn face and
said to Herbert:

“I have been made the bearer of a message to you. Mr. Blakeley says
that he would like to see you at the Argus office at nine o’clock this
evening.”

Herbert’s face flushed at this unexpected announcement. It was
the first time that he had heard from Blakeley either directly or
indirectly, since the dramatic incident which terminated his career on
the newspaper. At first the message filled him with a sense of elation;
but this was quickly followed by a feeling of resentment. His face
hardened, and he said with much dignity:

“If Mr. Blakeley desires to communicate with me, or to call upon me,
he knows my address. I--”

“Now see here,” quickly interrupted Tomlin, “I don’t want any of
this nonsense from you. I don’t care what you do or what you say to
Blakeley; but I don’t propose to have you make me look silly and
ridiculous.”

Herbert melted in a minute. The distress and annoyance in his friend’s
face changed his whole manner.

“I wouldn’t offend you for a moment, Tomlin,” he said; “you have been
such a good friend to me that there isn’t anything in the world that I
would not do to serve you. I had felt a bit angry towards Blakeley, but
I could not hold anything but the kindest feelings toward you. If you
say go, I’ll go in a minute.”

Tomlin’s answer was clear, crisp and to the point. He simply said in
his loudest voice:

“Go!”

At nine o’clock that evening Herbert found himself ascending the
stairway toward the local room of the Argus. When he entered, a number
of the men were busily engaged at their desks; but they all looked up
and gave him a cheery greeting. The old familiar scenes coming upon
him unexpectedly seemed to rush through his memory like floods of
water surging over a falls. Blakeley, as usual, occupied his desk in
the corner of the room. He looked quite lifelike to Herbert as he
sat there puffing a strong cigar, with his feet cocked up on the edge
of his desk, reading a proof that had just been rushed down from the
composing room.

The moment he perceived Herbert he moved his feet from the desk,
arose from his chair, and extending his hand, said with considerable
cordiality:

“Hello, Harkins, I’m glad to see you again.”

Herbert took the proffered hand, but held it somewhat limply. He could
not enthuse on such short notice. Presently he was invited to take a
seat, and did so. Tomlin, without being asked, also sat down to listen
to the conversation.

“I was quite sorry to lose you, Harkins,” said Blakeley after an
interval.

Herbert looked in his face for a moment to see whether he was jesting.
Such an admission from such a man was very unusual; but Blakeley looked
him squarely in the eye, and there was neither mirth nor sarcasm in the
glance, so he answered softly:

“I was sorry to go, Mr. Blakeley.”

“But,” exclaimed the city editor, and the quiet eye now flashed fire,
“you treated me very meanly. I must say that, and I am going to repeat
it, you treated me very meanly.”

“I admit that I did,” said Herbert, his tone softer than before; “but I
was the victim of circumstances over which I had no control.”

Blakeley puffed at his cigar for awhile after that, and then as if he
was giving voice to a long cherished desire, said:

“Now see here, Harkins, I want to put a plain question to you. Why did
you refuse to write that story--now tell me as plainly as you can, and
all will be square between us.”

Herbert arose before the city editor had finished making his request.
The look of annoyance in his face gave way to indignation, and then he
said with considerable heat:

“Is that all you have to say to me, Mr. Blakeley?” and receiving no
answer, he went on, “If it is, I will leave you. There is no need of
any further conversation between us.”

At this point Blakeley arose with a smile on his face that seemed to
stretch almost from ear to ear. His eyes were sparkling with good
nature, and going over to Herbert he took his hand and wrung it
heartily.

“You are all right, my boy; you are pure gold. I don’t propose to let
you get out of here again. I need you in my business.”

Herbert was plainly puzzled at this demonstration, and said so at once.

“I don’t know why you should be so pleased, Mr. Blakeley. I have
declined to answer your query.”

“That’s just it,” he said; “it demonstrates what I have always
believed, that you wouldn’t betray a confidence. However a kind friend
has already done that for you.”

Herbert’s eyes expressed the surprise he felt. Before he could make any
reply a door in the rear of Mr. Blakeley’s office opened suddenly, and
Arthur Black appeared upon the scene. Herbert gasped for breath. He was
too much amazed to speak to the young man. Blakeley spared him that
trouble by saying:

“Now, Mr. Black, we are all together; tell me once again the story that
you were good enough to relate to me early in the afternoon.”

“The story is soon told,” said Arthur, with a firmness in his voice and
a dignity in his manner that Herbert had never noticed before; “I come
here to do a tardy act of justice to one of the manliest persons I have
ever known. Mr. Blakeley, as I have already told you, I was foolish
enough and despicable enough to engage in, or rather to permit myself
to be used in a swindling game that was being conducted in this city
some time ago. Herbert Harkins ran that story out for the Argus and
was prepared to make an arrest of one of those who were engaged in the
game; but when he discovered that I was implicated in it he permitted
me to escape, and as a result of that act of generosity, lost a good
story and forfeited his position on the Argus.

“I left the city immediately after that incident occurred,” continued
Arthur, “and went to a little town in Connecticut, where I endeavored
to make a new man of myself. I think I have partially succeeded. I
am not going to stop till I succeed entirely; but only a week ago I
learned of the misfortune which had happened to Herbert Harkins through
his effort to shield me and my family from disgrace. I have not been
able to rest at night since I learned this news. Finally I could stand
it no longer, and I came here to tell you the truth and the simple
truth. Herbert did throw the Argus down on its good story, but he did
so for my sake and the sake of my father and mother and sister. I am
here now not only to admit this, but to throw myself on your mercy.
If you think the ends of justice have not already been served, I am
willing to submit to arrest and imprisonment. The punishment will be a
severe one, but probably not more than I deserve. In any event I hope
to restore Herbert Harkins to your esteem, if not to the position he
formerly occupied on this paper.”

Herbert listened to this recital in open mouthed wonder. He watched
Arthur Black keenly while he was telling his story, and as he
proceeded, was filled with admiration for the young man. He could see
very clearly now that Arthur was not really a bad boy at heart; that he
had been a spoiled child in his youth and had drifted into the company
of dissolute young men. What at first was merely waywardness had
gradually extended to more serious things; but fortunately his downward
career had been checked just on the edge of a precipice.

There was silence in the group for a few moments, and then Blakeley
spoke up in his short, snappy tones. He took Arthur by the hand, and
said:

“I want to congratulate you, young man. You have shown a manliness that
does you credit. Now, there is no paper in town that is more eager to
obtain exclusive news than the Argus, and I am willing to admit that
there are times when we feel disposed to turn sharp corners in order to
beat the other newspapers; but we have the line of decency even in this
office, and I propose to draw it on this occasion. You can rest at your
ease. So far as I am concerned and so far as the paper is concerned,
the firm with which you were connected never existed; the incident at
the post office never happened. I can only say that you have my best
wishes for your future success in life.”

Everybody was delighted at this evidence of a warm heart on the part of
the man who had the reputation of being a cold-blooded hunter for news.
But he was not through. He turned to Herbert after a few moments of
meditation, and said:

“Harkins, your old place awaits you on the Argus. I want to tell you,
as I have already told young Black, that my memory is a blank, that
you have never offended me and that you have never thrown the paper
down. Your place has never been filled. Your chair over at that desk is
still vacant. Come in again on Monday morning and try to distinguish
yourself.”

The manner of this man, no less than the words, impressed Herbert
deeply, and he mentally vowed that he would do his duty by Blakeley and
the Argus to the full extent of his ability.

There was much laughter and much hand shaking as the little party
dispersed. Tomlin lingered a little longer than the others, and when
they were out of ear-shot, said to Blakeley in quick tones:

“Say, old man, that was a cruel test with which you began this
session--that attempt to get Herbert to squeal on Arthur Black.”

“Aye,” responded the other heartily, “it was indeed, but it was the
crucial test. It was worth all the pain that it cost. It is proof
positive to my mind that Harkins can be trusted absolutely. He would
die before he violated a confidence. That’s the kind of men we need on
the Argus.”




CHAPTER XXV DEMONSTRATING THE TRUTH OF THE SAYING THAT ALL’S WELL THAT
ENDS WELL


Christmas morning dawned cold and clear and crisp with a nipping
eagerness in the atmosphere that brought the roses to the cheeks and
warmed the hearts of the multitudes who made their abode on Manhattan
Island. The spirit of the day seemed to take hold of everybody and
manifested itself in the homes of the lowly as well as in those of the
great. Herbert attended early morning Mass, and as he knelt before
the crib of the Infant Saviour of the world, his heart swelled with a
feeling of profound gratefulness for all the graces and favors that had
been showered upon him. Nowhere did the meaning of the day seem more
apparent than in the little apartment which had been occupied so long
by Herbert Harkins and his friend Tomlin.

At ten o’clock that morning Tomlin turned to Herbert and said:

“See here, old man, if you don’t hurry to the railroad station you are
likely to miss your mother.”

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Tomlin? You’re as nervous and
fidgety as an old cat. The train doesn’t come in for an hour yet.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Tomlin in hurried tones. “But you can’t depend
on these New York trains. They’re always ahead of time. Suppose your
mother got in and was waiting there now.”

“Why,” exclaimed the other, with a skeptical look in his face, “I
thought the trains were generally behind time.”

“No, no,” responded the other in his nervous, jerky way. “Ahead of
time; ahead of time, always! But see here, don’t you stand there trying
to get into an argument with me. You go and fetch your mother. She has
never been in New York. Suppose she should start to come here herself
and get lost--and lost on Christmas morning, too. Why, the idea is too
terrible to contemplate.”

Herbert departed in a few minutes, much to the satisfaction of his
friend. The understanding was that he should bring his mother to their
little abode, and then after the arrangement of some preliminaries,
that the three should go to a well known restaurant for their holiday
dinner. The moment Herbert disappeared, however, there were strange
doings in that neighborhood. Tomlin stepped to the front door and gave
a low whistle. Immediately two men stepped from within the shadows of
friendly doorways and joined him. One was Horace Coke and the other
Noah Brooks, who had hurried up from Cleverly in order to join in the
conspiracy that had been laid by Francis Tomlin.

“Now, boys!” shouted the youth to the two elderly men; “get down to
work as soon as you can.”

And they did. A bag filled with holly and evergreen appeared as if by
magic. Each of them grabbed a handful, and in an incredibly short space
of time the doorways and windows and the gas fixtures were artistically
draped. After this the little extension table was drawn out and
filled with all the additional leaves that it would hold. Then a long
tablecloth that had been engaged for the occasion was thrown over
the table. It was as white and as pure as the driven snow, and even
without any food was an incentive to good cheer. In the meantime a boy
from a neighboring store appeared with eight or ten additional chairs,
carrying them one at a time into the little apartment.

“It’s going to be a tight squeeze,” said Tomlin, “but I think we’ll
make it.”

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Brooks, “it’s going to be tight all right; but the
more the merrier is always my motto.”

While the three conspirators were talking, John Black and his wife and
Mary Black appeared as if by appointment. Mary insisted upon joining
in the housework, and her deft little fingers rapidly completed
the details that had not already been attended to. John Anderson,
the school teacher, who had placed Herbert on the path which led to
ultimate success, dropped in a little later, and to cap the climax,
who should hove into view but Captain Thomas Janson, bluff and hearty
and loud-mouthed as ever. He sailed into the room like a whiff of salt
air, and his mere presence was refreshing and invigorating. He was
handsomely attired for the occasion. He had discarded his ordinary
clothing, and wore a handsome blue suit, with brass buttons and gilt
stripes on the sleeves, giving him, as one of the other guests slyly
remarked, the appearance of a Rear Admiral of the United States Navy.
A nautical cap sat jauntily on the Captain’s shock of bushy red hair.
He puffed like a porpoise, for he was quite stout now and beginning
to feel the effects of age. When he had finally settled himself
comfortably in a large chair which had been placed for him at the head
of the table, he turned around to the others and cried out in his
loudest voice:

“Does the boy know which way the wind blows?”

“No!” came a chorus in reply.

“Good!” he exclaimed; “then it will fall to the lot of old Captain
Janson to tell him something about the voyage of life.”

Tomlin looked at his watch at this period. It pointed to high noon. He
turned to the Captain:

“Herbert will be here in fifteen or twenty minutes. I guess we had
better start. What do you say?”

“Sure,” snorted the old salt.

Without waiting for any further remarks, Tomlin charged out of the
front door, and in a few minutes returned, followed by two white
aproned and white capped fellows, carrying waiters which contained
plates filled with eatables that were smoking hot. When the covers were
removed the air was impregnated with an appetizing odor. The two mates,
as the Captain insisted upon calling the two waiters, made five or six
trips before they finally completed their work to their satisfaction
and declared everything all right.

And indeed it was all right. The table presented a beautiful sight,
charming to the eye and tempting to the palate. An enormous turkey,
browned to a crisp, occupied the center of the table; mounds of mashed
white potatoes and roasted sweet potatoes, and dishes of cranberries
moulded into the most incomprehensible shapes--all looked so clean and
sweet that they must have tempted the most jaded appetite. A row of
mince pies flanked on either side by delicious looking pumpkin pies,
suggested that the diners were expected to do some very serious work
before their day’s labor was finished.

“Now all hands be seated,” cried the Captain; “but don’t dare to eat a
mouthful until I give the signal.”

He had scarcely finished this caution when the door opened, and Herbert
entered, accompanied by his mother; and then there were such cheers and
shouts and such laughter and such crying as had never been heard before
in this old room since its first walls had been constructed.

Herbert was literally made speechless by amazement. His mother, with
feminine instinct, took refuge in tears; but Herbert soon recovered
his voice and his mother soon dried her tears, and very quickly the
clatter of knives and forks and the din of conversation and the ripple
of never-ending laughter set everyone at ease.

Tomlin, in a spirit of mischief, had set Herbert Harkins and Mary Black
side by side, and during the dinner the two young people were made the
subject of many good natured jests; but Mary’s sweet countenance glowed
with happiness, and when Herbert stooped down to speak to her once
during the dinner her cheeks crimsoned in the most beautiful manner
imaginable.

Some philosopher--if he wasn’t a philosopher he should have been
one--has said that it never rains but it pours. So it was on this
festive occasion. The first shower came with the announcement that
within six months Herbert would be given the coveted post of Washington
correspondent of the Argus--that he should join the company of the very
aristocracy of American journalism. The next came with the statement
that Blakeley--good-hearted, blustering Blakeley--had been made the
managing editor of the Argus, and that Tomlin would succeed him in
the responsible position of city editor of that journal. At this
announcement Herbert seized the hand of his friend and wrung it with
such fervor that his old room-mate cried for mercy. After that John
Black informed the assembled company of the selection of his son Arthur
as the cashier and confidential man of his newly established bank at
Cleverly.

Captain Janson was given the floor then, and amid many elaborate sea
phrases and involved sentences he proclaimed Herbert Harkins as his
adopted son and heir.

Near the close of the dinner, Herbert arose and with trembling lips
and swelling heart announced that the noblest girl in the whole world
had just promised to become his wife; and although he mentioned no
name, every eye turned instinctively towards Mary, who finding herself
singled out from all the others, blushed desperately and shrank shyly
beneath the united gaze of the company for all the world like a sweet
little violet whose hiding place has been discovered by a sudden burst
of glaring sunlight.

PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.