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CONTENTS
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE
CHAPTER Page
I. AN OLD LETTER. 5
II. THE YOUNG RIVALS. 11
III. THE RACE ON ROUND POND. 14
IV. A FALSE FRIEND. 24
V. DARIUS DARKE. 31
VI. ENDS IN A FIRE. 38
VII. THE MIDNIGHT FIRE. 45
VIII. THE BARN LOFT. 50
IX. AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE. 55
X. IN SEARCH OF EMPLOYMENT. 59
XI. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. 66
XII. TOM’S JOURNEY. 71
XIII. A CHEAP OVERCOAT. 78
XIV. THE TRAMP TRANSFORMED. 84
XV. THE TRAGEDY AT ROCKY GULCH. 91
XVI. TOM’S VISIT TO PEARL STREET. 97
XVII. TOM GAINS A VICTORY. 103
XVIII. DO THE DEAD LIVE? 108
XIX. TOM STARTS ON HIS JOURNEY. 113
XX. A HOTEL ACQUAINTANCE. 116
XXI. TOM’S NEW EMPLOYER. 120
XXII. A ROUGH DIAMOND. 126
XXIII. PETER BRUSH, THE HUNTER. 131
XXIV. MR. BURNETT BEATS A RETREAT. 135
XXV. A SOLITARY WALK. 139
XXVI. PERCY BURNETT UNMASKS. 143
XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED. 148
XXVIII. HOW PETER BRUSH CAME TO THE RESCUE. 153
XXIX. THE PACIFIC TRAIL. 159
XXX. THE MAN WITHOUT A SCALP. 163
XXXI. TWO NEW COMRADES. 166
XXXII. A STARTLING SIGHT. 171
XXXIII. TAKEN CAPTIVE. 175
XXXIV. TWO POWWOWS. 179
XXXV. HOW TOM PASSED THE NIGHT. 183
XXXVI. TOM’S DEADLY PERIL. 186
XXXVII. THE INDIANS ADOPT TOM. 192
XXXVIII. THREE MONTHS IN CAPTIVITY. 197
XXXIX. THE CABIN AT ROCKY GULCH. 201
XL. TOM FINDS HIMSELF RICH. 208
XLI. TOM AND THE GRIZZLY. 213
XLII. A STARTLING DISCLOSURE. 219
XLIII. TOM COMES INTO A FORTUNE. 224
XLIV. A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 228
XLV. HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME. 233
XLVI. MRS. THATCHER LOSES HER NEW HOME. 238
XLVII. A DOUBLE SURPRISE. 244
XLVIII. RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES JOHN SIMPSON. 251
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 259 BY WILLIAM BENNET.
THAT BELL! 269 BY PAUL BLAKE.
AT A GLANCE, TOM SAW THE BEAR WATCHING THE MAN CROUCHING AMONG THE BRANCHES. [Page 217.
]
Tom Thatcher’s Fortune.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
Author of
“Joe’s Luck,” “Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy,” “Ragged Dick,” “Tom Temple’s Career,” “Luck and Pluck,” etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATED.
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
52-58 DUANE STREET, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1888. BY A. L. BURT.
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD LETTER.
“Is supper ready, mother? I’m as hungry as a bear!”
The speaker was a sturdy boy of sixteen, with bright eyes, and a smiling sun-browned face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up displaying a pair of muscular arms. His hands were brown and soiled with labor. It was clear that he was no white-handed young aristocrat. His clothes alone would have shown that. They were of coarse cloth, made without any special regard to the prevailing fashion.
Tom Thatcher, for this was his name, had just come home from the shoe manufactory, where he was employed ten hours a day in pegging shoes, for the lucrative sum of fifty cents per day. I may as well state here that he is the hero of my story, and I hope none of my readers will think any the worse of him for working in a shop. I am aware that it is considered more “genteel” to stand behind a counter, and display goods to customers, even if the wages are smaller. But Tom, having a mother and little sister to help support, could not choose his employment. He lived in a large shoe town, and was glad to find employment in the large manufactory of John Simpson, who, by virtue of his large capital, and as the employer of a hundred hands, was a man of mark in the town of Wilton.
“Supper will be ready in five minutes, Tom,” said his mother, rather a delicate-looking woman, of refined appearance, notwithstanding she was dressed in a cheap calico.
“Are you tired, Tom?” asked his little sister Tillie, whose full name, never used at home, was Matilda.
“Not much, Tillie, but I’ve got a famous appetite.”
“I am sorry I haven’t got something better for you, Tom,” said his mother. “I have only a hot potato, besides tea, and bread and butter.”
“Why, that is good enough, mother,” said Tom, cheerfully.
“You ought to have meat after working hard all day in the shop, my boy; but meat comes so high that I don’t dare to have it on the table every day.”
“Too much meat might make me savage, mother,” said Tom laughing. “I wish we could have it oftener, for your sake. Anything will do for me. When I get older I shall earn higher wages, and then we’ll live better.”
“It’s very uncomfortable to be poor,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sighing. “Poor children, if your father were only living you would fare better. I little dreamed when he went to California, eight years ago, that he would never come back.”
“Mr. Simpson and father went to California together, didn’t they, mother?”
“Yes. They were both poor men at the time. Mr. Simpson was no better off than your father, but now--your poor father is in his grave, and John Simpson is one of the richest men in Wilton.”
“Mr. Simpson came home rich, didn’t he?”
“Yes. How rich I don’t know, but from being a journeyman he was able to build a manufactory of his own, and has been getting richer ever since.”
“Were he and father together in California?”
“Yes, Tom.”
“And didn’t father find any gold? How could one be prosperous, and the other unlucky?”
“I never could understand it. The very last letter I received from your father mentioned that he was prosperous, and had accumulated a large amount of gold dust, he and John Simpson also. Three months afterward John Simpson came home, but nothing was ever heard of your poor father or his money again.”
“What did Mr. Simpson say? Didn’t he know anything about him?”
“He called on me, and told me that your father and he had separated a little while before leaving California. He made his way to San Francisco while your father remained at the mines. He felt quite sure that your father had been robbed and murdered by some desperate person who had heard of his good fortune.”
“Was that all he could tell you?”
“That was all.”
“Couldn’t he tell how much gold father had at the time?”
“He said it amounted to some thousands of dollars, but how much he could not tell exactly. I cared little for that. If your poor father had only come back alive I would have been happy, even if he had come back in rags, and without a penny.”
“Were he and Mr. Simpson good friends?” asked Tom, thoughtfully.
“They were very intimate before they went to California.”
“And were you and Mrs. Simpson intimate, too, mother?”
“Yes; we lived in the same house. It was a double house, and each family occupied a part. You and Rupert Simpson were born the same day, and played together like brothers when you were both young boys.”
“It isn’t much like that now, mother. Rupert puts on all sorts of airs because his father is rich. He wouldn’t think of associating with me on equal terms. He thinks himself altogether superior to a poor boy who works in a shoe shop.”
“He has no right to look down upon you, Tom,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with natural motherly indignation. “You are superior to him in every way.”
Tom laughed.
“He don’t think so, mother,” he answered, “and I am afraid it would be hard to convince him. But it seems strange to me to think that our families were once so intimate. Mrs. Simpson rides in her carriage, and always wears silks or satins to church, while you are compelled to wear a cheap gingham for best. She never comes to call on you.”
“I don’t wish her to,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with honorable pride. “It would only be an act of condescension on her part, and Sarah Simpson isn’t the woman to condescend to me, who was born and brought up her equal.”
“You’re right there, mother. You are just as much a lady as she is, even if you are poor.”
“I hope I am, Tom.”
“You spoke of father’s last letter to you, mother. I haven’t looked at it for a long time. Will you let me see it?”
“Certainly, my son.”
Mrs. Thatcher went to the bureau, and from the top drawer took out an old letter, grown yellow with age, and unfolding it handed it to Tom. It was quite long, but a large part of it would be of no interest to my readers. I only transcribe the parts which are material to my story.
“I am glad to say, my dear Mary, that I have been very fortunate. John Simpson and I, some three months ago, chanced upon some very rich diggings, which, lying out of the ordinary course of travel and exploration, had thus far failed to attract attention. For a month or more we worked alone, managing in that time to ‘feather our nests’ pretty well. Then we sold out a portion of our claims to a third party for a large sum, and worked the balance ourselves. I don’t dare to tell you how much we are worth, but enough to make us very comfortable. I can say as much as that. It won’t be long before I come home. I could come now, but I think it a shame to leave so much treasure in the ground, when it can be had for the digging. A little patience, dear wife, and I shall come home, and place you and our darling children in a position where you will never again know the limitations of poverty.
“Simpson’s plans are the same as mine. We shall probably go home together, and build two nice houses near each other. It will be pleasant in years to come to refer to our days of struggle when we worked together at the shoe bench for a dollar and a half a day, and had to support our families on that paltry sum. Those days, thank God! are over, and I am still a young man with half my life before me, as I hope.”
“Poor father!” said Tom. “How little he thought that his good luck was to prove the cause of his death, and that the money he had secured would never find its way to his family.”
“It always makes me sad to read that letter,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “It is so bright and hopeful, and death was even then so near.”
As Tom gave back the letter to his mother, a knock was heard at the door.
Tom rose to open it, and admitted a boy of about his own age, Harry Julian, the minister’s son, one of his most intimate friends.
CHAPTER II.
THE YOUNG RIVALS.
“Good-evening, Harry,” said Mrs. Thatcher, cordially. “Won’t you sit down and take a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Thatcher; I have just got through supper. You must excuse my coming so early, but I wanted to be sure to find Tom at home.”
The speaker was a slender, pleasant-faced boy of about Tom’s age. He was better dressed than Tom, for though his father received but a small annual salary from his parish, he was possessed of a considerable private fortune, which enabled him to live with more freedom from pecuniary anxiety than most ministers. The boys had always been intimate, and Tom had more than once been favored by the loan of books from his friend’s library.
“You have found me at home, Julian,” said Tom. “Is there anything going on this evening?”
“Yes, and that’s what brings me here. There’s going to be a large skating party on Round Pond, and we want you to join it.”
“I should like it, but I can’t go quite yet. I must saw and split some wood for to-morrow first.”
“How long will it take you?”
“Less than an hour.”
“Let me help you. Then it won’t take so long.”
“I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay a hired man,” said Tom, laughing.
“The pleasure of your company will pay me,” said Harry.
“Thank you. I would take off my hat in return for the compliment if I happened to have it on. I will soon be through supper.”
“Won’t you change your mind, Harry, and let me give you a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Thatcher.
“On second thoughts I will. It will keep me warm.”
The boys were soon through supper, and, adjourning to the wood-shed, set to work energetically on the wood-pile.
“Will you saw or split, Harry?” asked Tom.
“I might break the saw if I attempted to use it. I will try the ax.”
“What would Rupert Simpson say if he should see you helping me?” said Tom, in a moment’s pause. “He would think you were lowering yourself.”
“And he might be welcome to his opinion,” said Harry, independently.
“You are a good deal together.”
“Yes, but he seeks my company, not I his.”
“Mother tells me that he and I were like two brothers when we were quite young. But he wasn’t rich then.”
“That has spoiled him.”
“At any rate, it has cured him of his liking for my company. Doesn’t he ever speak to you about your being intimate with me?”
“Yes, often. He thinks I like you better than I do him, and he is right there.”
“I can guess what he says to you, Harry?”
“Try it.”
Tom changed his voice, adopting Rupert’s rather affected tone.
“I shouldn’t think,” he began, “that you would associate with that Tom Thatcher. He pegs shoes in father’s shop, and isn’t fit for gentlemen like us to notice. My father doesn’t like me to keep such low company.”
Harry laughed heartily.
“You must have been listening some time when Rupert was speaking to me,” he said.
“Then I hit right, did I?”
“Couldn’t come nearer.”
“I thought so. Yet father and Mr. Simpson worked side by side at the shoe bench. They went to California together. Both secured a great deal of money, but my poor father didn’t live to come home.”
“And his money? What became of that?” inquired Harry.
“No one knows. He was probably robbed of it.”
“It is a sad story, Tom.”
“Yes. My poor father’s fate is often in my mind. I cannot bring him back to life, but I hope some day to learn something more of his last days, and, if possible, of the manner in which he died.”
“Couldn’t Mr. Simpson tell you something about it?”
“He called on mother after his return, but gave her no definite information. I am sometimes tempted to call on him and inquire on my own account.”
“I would if I were you.”
“I will, then. I won’t speak to mother about it, because it always makes her sad to speak about father’s death.”
“There’s the last stick, Harry,” said Tom, a few moments later. “Now I sha’n’t have to keep you waiting any longer. I have only to put on my coat, and get my skates.”
“Better wear your overcoat, Tom. It is quite cold.”
“Oh, I’m tough,” said Tom, lightly. “Besides, I can skate better without it.”
He didn’t like to name the real reason, that he had no overcoat fit to wear. The one he had worn the previous winter was very ragged, and he could not spare money to buy a new one.
Harry suspected that this was the case, but was too delicate to refer to it, and said nothing further.
From a nail in the closet Tom took down a pair of old wooden-framed skates, on which, however, he could beat many who were provided with club-skates of the most approved styles.
His friend Harry had a new pair of club-skates, and so had Rupert Simpson.
A walk of a quarter of a mile brought the boys to Round Pond, which was situated near the center of the village. It was small, not more than three-quarters of a mile in circumference; but it was frozen clear as glass, and looked tempting to the young skaters as they descended the bank, and sat down by the margin to put on their skates.
Many boys and a few girls were already on the ice. When Tom and Harry arrived some of them came to greet the new-comers. It was evident that both were general favorites.
Among the boys who came up was Rupert Simpson.
“What made you so late, Harry?” he asked, impatiently.
“I called for Tom, and he had some wood to saw and split before he could come.”
“I suppose you helped him,” suggested Rupert, with a sneer.
“I did.”
Rupert looked astonished and disgusted.
“I didn’t know you hired out to saw and split wood,” he said, with another sneer.
“Now you do know it, I suppose you will cut my acquaintance,” said Harry, pleasantly.
“I suppose you have a right to suit yourself. You wouldn’t catch me sawing and splitting wood. We leave that to the servants.”
“You couldn’t give me a job, could you? However, it would be of no use. I only work for Tom.”
Rupert shrugged his shoulders, and his attention was drawn to Tom’s old skates.
“Those skates look as if they dated back to the ark,” said he, rudely.
“I don’t think they are quite so old as that,” returned Tom, coolly.
“They are a curiosity, anyway.”
“They can do good service, Rupert, that is, when Tom wears them,” said Harry. “In spite of our fine club-skates, I believe we should find it hard work to keep up with him.”
“Speak for yourself!” said Rupert, haughtily.
“No, I speak for you, too.”
“Try it! A race! a race!” exclaimed the boys in chorus.
“I will race with Harry,” said Rupert, hastily.
“No; you can beat me; I admit that in advance. Race with Tom.”
Tom said nothing. By this time his skates were on, and he was quite ready to enter upon a trial of speed with Rupert, or any boy on the pond; but he did not care to betray any anxiety on the subject.
Rupert was rather conceited on the subject of his skating. With the exception of Tom Thatcher, he was probably the best skater in the village--that is, among the boys--and felt pretty confident that he could beat Tom himself. His reluctance was due only to his not liking to place himself on an equality with the boy who pegged shoes for his father at fifty cents per day. The clamor of the boys, however, and the anticipation of a triumph over his rival overruled his objections, and he said:
“I’ll try a race across the pond, if you insist upon it.”
“What do you say, Tom?” asked Harry.
“I am ready,” said Tom, promptly. “Just wait a minute till I tighten my skates.”
“Won’t you use mine?” asked Harry.
“I object to that,” said Rupert.
“That will place you on equal terms.”
“I doubt that,” said Rupert, with a sneer which made his meaning plain.
“I will use the skates I have on,” said Tom, quietly.
“Clear the track!” exclaimed Harry.
The two boys took their positions side by side, both eager for the race.
CHAPTER III.
THE RACE ON ROUND POND.
Harry Julian gave the word.
No sooner was it out of his mouth than the two rivals dashed off in eager competition. In fact Rupert started before the word was fairly spoken and in consequence gained a slight lead upon his opponent. Slight, indeed, but still of importance, considering the shortness of the race-track.
The sight of Rupert just ahead put increased vigor into Tom’s efforts, and, setting his teeth hard, he skated as he had never done before. He was eager to win--more so than if any other boy had been in competition with him, for he knew that if he were defeated Rupert would never cease boasting of his victory.
Tom did not intend giving him that gratification if he could help it.
But if Tom was eager to win, the same can be said of Rupert. In his view, it would be disgraceful to be beaten by a boy who pegged shoes in his father’s shop.
So he, too, exerted himself to the utmost, and probably had never before skated as well.
Indeed, the boys were half way across the pond before Tom had succeeded in overtaking his rival. For a hundred yards the boys skated side by side, amid the intense excitement of the young spectators. But Tom had one important advantage over his rival. He was excited, it is true, but he breathed freely and easily, while Rupert was becoming short-breathed. He had evidently exerted himself beyond his strength.
Slowly, but perceptibly, Tom began to lead him. Now the race was three-quarters over. Rupert tried to make up the increasing gap between them, but it proved to be impossible. To his disappointment and rage he saw that his despised opponent must inevitably beat him. He could not make up his mind to this, and, to provide himself with a convenient excuse for his failure, he contrived to stumble and fall a hundred yards from the goal.
Unconscious of this, Tom kept on and finished the race. Then looking back, to his surprise he saw Rupert picking himself up from the ice.
He instantly wheeled round and started back.
“Did you fall, Rupert?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Rupert, sullenly.
“How did it happen?”
“I stumbled and fell.”
“I am sorry. I hope you are not hurt.”
“No, I am not hurt--that is, not much.”
By this time the other skaters were standing round the two rivals.
“Tom, I congratulate you on your victory,” said Harry Julian.
“What victory?” demanded Rupert, quickly.
“His victory in the race, to be sure, Rupert.”
“There has been no victory,” said Rupert, scowling.
“Why not?”
“Because I stumbled. Of course that prevented my winning.”
The boys looked at each other. They guessed why Rupert had stumbled.
“Tom was considerably ahead of you when you fell,” said Harry.
“He was a little ahead, but I could have made it up.”
“I don’t think you could.”
“That’s your opinion,” said Rupert, rudely. “I say I could.”
“Would you like to try it again?” asked Tom.
“It wouldn’t be a fair race. Your skates are different from mine.”
“They are not so good as yours.”
“I know that, but they are good enough for going.”
“You seem to have changed your opinion. You objected to my using Harry’s skates, which are like yours.”
“Because I wanted to give you the advantage of your own skates.”
“Are you willing to have a second trial, in which I use Harry’s skates?”
If Rupert had been prudent he would have made some excuse for declining, but I have already said that he was self-conceited about his skating, and he really believed that he could skate faster than Tom. In the event of a second trial, he would have a chance to show this. After slight hesitation, therefore, he said:
“Yes; I’ll try again, just to satisfy you.”
It was decided to start from the further end of the pond, and again Harry Julian was selected to give the word.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered both boys.
“Then--go!”
This time both started together.
At equal speed they dashed out for the opposite shore. Tom was fresher than his rival, and he was not now obliged to exert himself as in the former race. Indeed, he kept himself partly in check, not caring to pass Rupert till they neared the end of the race, for he feared that when the latter found himself hopelessly in the rear he would again manage to stumble, and so deprive him of the laurels he had justly won.
Of course the boys who were looking on did not know this, and when they saw Tom and Rupert skating side by side when the race was three-quarters over, they watched with great excitement, uncertain which would win.
Now the race was seven-eighths over, and still the boys were skating side by side. It was difficult to tell which was ahead.
Rupert’s breath came quick and short. Only a little ahead was the goal, and there seemed as good a chance of his reaching it as of Tom’s doing so.
“Anyway, we shall come in together,” he thought, “and then the pegger boy can’t triumph over me.”
This would not be quite as well as winning the race, but it would certainly be a great deal better than being defeated.
But Rupert made no account of Tom’s reserved strength. Even as this thought passed through his mind, Tom made a brilliant spurt, and before Rupert fairly realized the situation, his rival had touched the goal, leaving him fifty feet behind.
He reddened with anger and mortification, utterly unable to devise any excuse for his failure.
At a little distance behind were the other skaters.
“That was a pretty race,” said Harry, as he came up. “I suppose you’ll admit that you are beaten, now, Rupert. Come, own up,” said Harry, seeing that Rupert remained silent. “You can’t deny that that was a fair race.”
“He wouldn’t have beaten me if I had been well,” said Rupert, thinking of an excuse at last.
“If you had been well?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’ve got a bad headache. I thought of stopping in the middle of the race, but I didn’t want to spoil it.”
There was not a boy within hearing who believed for a moment that Rupert was really troubled with a headache, so that his subterfuge was of no service to him.
“Your headache came on rather suddenly, didn’t it?” asked Harry, significantly.
“No; I’ve had it for half an hour.”
“When the race was first proposed did you have it?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I thought it might not interfere with me.”
“Then I suppose you don’t consider this a fair race?”
“Of course not. How can a fellow skate well when he’s got a splitting headache?”
“Would you have said anything about the headache if you had won?”
“Look here, Harry Julian, I don’t like the way you talk. If you mean to insult me say so at once.”
“I don’t care to insult anyone,” said Harry, coldly. “Since you don’t consider this a fair race I presume Tom will be willing to race you any time you may appoint. You can wait till you are in perfect health.”
“Yes,” said Tom, “I am ready to race any time. Rupert is an excellent skater, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he beat me some time,” he added, generously.
Such, however, was not the opinion of the boys. From what they had seen they entertained no doubt as to which was the better skater of the two, and Rupert would have risen in their opinion if he had manfully admitted his defeat.
At half-past nine the skating party broke up, and the young skaters went home.
Tom and Harry walked together.
“To-morrow evening,” said Tom, “I mean to call on Squire Simpson, and ask him about father’s life in California. I shall feel easier when I learn all that is to be known about it.”
CHAPTER IV.
A FALSE FRIEND.
Mr. Simpson was not a justice of the peace, but his fellow-citizens had got into the habit of calling him “squire,” and the title was not unpleasant to him.
He sat, in dressing-gown and slippers, in a comfortable sitting-room, reading a city paper, when a servant appeared at the door.
“There’s a boy at the door who says he would like to see you, sir.”
“Who is it?” asked Mr. Simpson.
“It’s Thomas Thatcher, sir.”
“What does he want with me?” inquired the rich man, arching his eyebrows in surprise.
“I don’t know, sir; he didn’t say.”
“Well, let him come in.”
A minute later Tom was ushered into the presence of his employer.
“Well, Tom, what’s your business?” asked Squire Simpson, curtly.
“My mother tells me, Mr. Simpson, that you were with father in California just before his mysterious disappearance----”
“Suppose I were!” interrupted Squire Simpson, brusquely.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about him,” said Tom.
“Did your mother send you here?” demanded the rich man, with a frown of displeasure.
“No, sir; she does not know that I have come.”
“It is very singular that you should come to me on such an errand,” said Simpson, in a tone of displeasure.
“Is it surprising that I should wish to know something of my father, sir?” returned Tom, not at all abashed by his reception.
“I told your mother, years ago, all that I had to tell.”
“I was too young then to take any part in the inquiry. Have you any objection to tell a son something of his father’s last years?”
The rich man hesitated a moment, and then, with an ill grace, replied:
“What is it you wish to know?”
“How long did you leave my father before his death?”
“How should I know. I don’t know when he died, or whether he died at all.”
“How long, then, before you set out for home?”
“A few weeks--six weeks, perhaps.”
“My father had considerable money at the time you left him, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me how much?”
“I don’t see what good it would do you to know--you are not likely to get the money.”
“I suppose not, sir; but it was his money that probably tempted the man who wickedly murdered him.”
Squire Simpson seemed very ill at ease, as if, instead of being questioned by a boy, he were in the witness-box.
“Yes,” said he, “I suppose your father was murdered for his money. How much did he have? Well, probably five thousand dollars, more or less. I had considerably more, having met with greater luck than he.”
“At what place did you leave father, Squire Simpson?”
“It was at a place called Rocky Gulch. I don’t know what they call it now.”
“Didn’t father say anything about coming home when you left him?”
“He hadn’t fixed upon any time. He wanted to increase his pile. I suppose he felt dissatisfied because he hadn’t as much as I. He would have done better to come home with me.”
“I wish he had,” said Tom, sadly.
“Of course, it would have been better for him and for his family, but it can’t be helped now. I wonder you should bring up this old matter now. It can do no possible good. It was the Lord’s will that your father should be taken away, and we must submit to His will. It’s wicked to murmur against the plans of Providence.”
The rich man said all this in a brisk, business-like manner, as if he were quite reconciled to what had happened.
“Still,” said Tom, “we can’t help thinking of how changed our circumstances would have been if father had come home as you did.”
“Yes, yes; but you haven’t anything to complain of. You live comfortably, don’t you? I give you employment in my shop,” he added, pompously, “out of regard to your father’s memory.”
“Yes, sir, you give me employment,” said Tom, slowly.
He could not be brought to think this a very great favor, since he was only paid what other boys were for the same labor.
“How long have you been at work in the shop?”
“Three years.”
“Then for three years I have put you in a way of earning your living.”
“It is rather hard to live on fifty cents a day,” said Tom.
“Then, I take it, your errand here is to ask for higher wages?” said Simpson, quickly.
“No, sir; the thought never entered my mind when I came here.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t accept it if it were offered,” said Simpson, with a slight sneer.
“Yes, sir, I should.”
“I thought so.”
“But not as a favor. I think I earn more money.”
“What gives you that idea?” demanded his employer displeased.
“In Tompkins peggers are paid seventy cents a day.”
“Then you are at liberty to go there and find work,” said Simpson, roughly.
“I can’t do that, sir, as you know I cannot leave my mother. Besides, if I had my board to pay, I should be worse off than I am now.”
“That is a very sensible conclusion. You will find that you are well off in my employment, but if at any time you become dissatisfied, don’t trouble yourself to stay on my account. I can easily fill your place.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose you can,” answered Tom, slowly.
“Have you any further business with me?” asked Mr. Simpson, impatiently.
“No, sir.”
“Then I will bid you good-evening.”
“I have just a few words to say, Mr. Simpson,” said Tom, looking steadily at the man before him.
“Say them.”
“You were my father’s friend and companion for years,” Tom began. “You worked together, and went to California together. You came home rich, while he was unfortunate enough to lose his money and his life. To-day you are a rich manufacturer, while his widow and children are compelled to live chiefly on a boy’s small wages. You know all this, and it has never come into your mind to help them, or to pay the boy as good wages as he could get elsewhere. If you had died, and my father had come home prosperous, he would not have treated your family so.”
It was surprising that Mr. Simpson should have allowed Tom to finish this speech without interruption, but he did so. Then he burst forth in a fury.
“Boy, if you came here to insult me, you did the worst thing you could have done for your family. You complain, do you, that I don’t support you and your family in luxury?”
“That is not true,” interrupted Tom.
“Such is the plain inference from your words. You are not at all grateful for my supporting you all these years.”
“You haven’t done it, sir.”
“I have given you the employment without which you and your family would have starved. You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t think we should have starved, sir.”
“I will give you a chance to try the experiment. You complain that you can’t live on the wages I pay you. I will give you the chance to work for more somewhere else. To-morrow morning you may go to my foreman and ask for the wages that are due you. You needn’t trouble yourself to return to work in my shop.”
Tom turned pale, for he did not feel sure how he was to make up the small pittance which he had hitherto earned by pegging.
“You discharge me, then?” he said, in a low voice.
“Yes,” answered his employer, who marked with cruel enjoyment the dismay depicted upon Tom’s face.
“Then, sir, I will bid you good-night.”
Tom turned, and with a firm step walked out of the room. But his heart was heavy within him. How should he break the tidings of this serious misfortune to his mother. How were they to live on the scanty sum which she earned by sewing and knitting.
In the midst of Tom’s despondency his heart suddenly lightened.
“I won’t despair,” he said to himself. “I will trust in the Lord. He will provide for us somehow.”
Mingled with this feeling was a firm and resolute determination.
He would make it the business of his life to ascertain how and under what circumstances his father died, and bring his murderer to justice!
CHAPTER V.
DARIUS DARKE.
As Tom was on his way home, walking slowly and thoughtfully, while he considered the change which had taken place in his circumstances and prospects, his attention was attracted to a man shabbily dressed, whose suit looked as if it had been worn five years steadily, advancing along the pathway in an opposite direction.
Nowadays the man would be called a tramp, but at that time the name was not as common as now.
He was a stranger in the village, but Tom didn’t give any thought to his appearance. He was too much interested in his own thoughts and his own troubles.
The man passed him, and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, turned back and addressed him.
“Boy,” said he, “are you acquainted about here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you tell me where John Simpson lives?”
“Yes,” answered Tom, with momentary wonder that such a man should have anything to do with the rich shoe manufacturer. “He lives only a little distance back on this same side of the road. You can find the house well enough, for it is the finest in the village.”
“Then I suppose John Simpson is a rich man?” said the tramp, after a slight pause.
“Yes, he is the richest man in town.”
“Where did he get his money?”
“In California--that is, he got considerable of it there. Then he came back here and built a large shoe manufactory. I suppose he has made a good deal of money by this business.”
“Humph! I suppose he is a good deal respected, isn’t he?”
“He is looked up to, as most rich men are,” answered Tom, with a tinge of bitterness.
He could not truly say that he, for one, respected John Simpson.
“That’s all the same,” said the stranger. “Give a man money, and he’ll be respected fast enough. Does Mr. Simpson put on airs?”
“If you mean does he feel his importance, I think he does.”
“A regular tip-top aristocrat, I take it.”
“Very likely. Do you know him?” asked Tom, thinking it about time that he should change places with his questioner.
“Know him, boy? Yes, I knew him once--slightly. I haven’t met him for years.”
“Did you know him in California?” asked Tom, urged by an irresistible impulse to ask this question.
The man started.
“What makes you ask that question?” he demanded, quickly.
“Because you said you knew Mr. Simpson some years ago.”
“Well, yes, I knew him in California,” said the other, slowly.
“Then perhaps you knew my father there?” said Tom, eagerly.
“Your father!”
“Yes; my father was in California at the time. He went out with Mr. Simpson.”
“What was your father’s name?”
The question was put with what seemed to be strong interest and curiosity.
“Robert Thatcher.”
The tramp whistled, as if to express his surprise and amazement.
“Did you know him?” Tom repeated.
The stranger answered guardedly:
“I heard that such a man was at work with John Simpson.”
“And you saw him?”
“I believe I saw him once.”
“Do you know what became of him?”
“Do I know what became of him? I suppose he came home.”
“No; he did not. He never came home.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Simpson says he was probably murdered for his money.”
“Oh, Simpson says that, does he? What more does he say?”
“He doesn’t seem to know any more.”
“Does he say how much money your father had?”
“He thinks about five thousand dollars.”
The stranger laughed.
“The report was in the camp near by that Simpson and your father had cleared twenty-five thousand dollars apiece.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars!” repeated Tom, overwhelmed with astonishment.
“Yes; and it was generally believed. The claim was wonderfully rich, and besides what the two men took out they sold their claim for at least twenty thousand dollars. That was ten thousand dollars apiece.”
“Can this be possible?”
“Oh, you may rely upon that. That I happened to know.”
“This very evening I called upon Mr. Simpson and asked him about the matter. He told me that father had about five thousand dollars at the time he disappeared.”
“Then Simpson lied,” said the tramp, bluntly.
“I don’t know why he should misrepresent things to me.”
“I suppose he had his reasons.”
“But what were they?”
“I give it up. Where do you live?”
“In that little cottage.”
By this time Tom had reached his own house, the stranger walking slowly by his side.
“From the appearance of your house I shouldn’t suppose you were very rich.”
“Rich!” echoed Tom. “We have all we can do to live.”
“Who do you mean by we?”
“My mother, and sister, and myself.”
“Doesn’t John Simpson help you?”
“He has given me a chance to peg in his manufactory, and paid me fifty cents a day, which is considerably below the regular wages in other establishments. If you call that helping us, then he has helped us.”
“That I call rather mean, since he has plenty of money.”
“So do I; but we never asked him for help. All I wanted was fair wages for my work.”
“Did you ever ask him to increase your small pay?”
“I asked him this very evening.”
“What did he say?”
“He got angry, and discharged me from his employment.”
“Money has evidently hardened his heart. What are you going to do?”
“I must try to find something else to do, or else go to the poor-house.”
“You won’t go to the poor-house. You don’t look like that kind of a boy. I wish I had John Simpson’s money and shop. I’d employ you at double his wages.”
“Thank you for your kind intentions, sir,” said Tom.
The tramp looked so far from being a capitalist, and, judging again from his appearance, his prospect of becoming a capitalist seemed so poor, that Tom did not gain much encouragement from his last words.
“At present I am quite unable to help you, but it may not be always so,” continued the stranger.
“Thank you, sir,” said Tom, politely.
He reflected that a man’s generous feelings were of little account if he had no money.
“I see you want to go in,” said the tramp. “Don’t let me keep you. I think I’ll go and make a call on John Simpson.”
“You’ll find him at home, sir. That is, he was at home twenty minutes since.”
“All right. I guess I’ll find him.”
Just as the stranger was leaving, Tom, impelled by the thought he might some time want to secure further information from this man, who appeared to have met his father in California, asked him:
“Would you be kind enough to tell me your name, sir?”
“My name! What do you want of my name?” demanded the tramp.
“Except John Simpson, who will tell me nothing, I have never before met any one who knew anything of my father’s life in California. I might wish to meet you again and ask you more questions.”
“I will take care that you have a chance to meet me some time,” said the other, after a pause. “At present I prefer not to mention my name.”
“Suppose I want to write to you?”
“Then you may address your letter to Darius Darke, New York Post-office.”
“Darius Darke.”
“Yes; I don’t think you will forget that name. It isn’t my real name, of course. Sorry I haven’t got a card to offer you,” he added, with grim humor.
“I shall remember the name.”
As Tom entered his humble home, he asked himself:
“Why did Mr. Simpson misrepresent the amount of father’s treasure? Of course he knew that he was deceiving me.”
But this question was easier to ask than to answer.
CHAPTER VI.
ENDS IN A FIRE.
Darius Darke, to call him by the name by which he chose to be known, on parting company with Tom, turned his steps toward the house of Mr. Simpson, the wealthy shoe manufacturer.
As he walked along, he thought over the information which Tom had given him.
“What a scoundrel Simpson is!” he said to himself. “He might at least have taken care of poor Thatcher’s family. Now he has actually turned the boy out of his shop, depriving him of his living. There would be small chance of his doing anything for me if I hadn’t a hold upon him. I think I may be able to persuade him that it will be for his interest to provide for me.”
He walked on, till he stood opposite the fine mansion of the man he sought.
“So John Simpson lives here, and I have no roof to cover me. The wicked do prosper sometimes, it appears. Well, I’ll pull the bell, and see if he knows me.”
John Simpson was sitting in the same room in which he had had his interview with Tom.
He was ill at ease, for Tom’s questioning had stirred up unpleasant thoughts in the mind of the rich man. He was almost sorry that he had discharged Tom from his employment. He knew very well that Tom was popular in the village, as his father had been before him, and that the townspeople would take sides with him. Again, everybody knew the relations which had existed between him and the boy’s father, and he foresaw that he would be considered mean in thus treating the son of an old comrade. Yet he felt so irritated with Tom that he was not prepared as yet to recall his hasty words.
“I’ll let him shift for himself for awhile,” he decided. “It may teach him a lesson, and cure him of his impertinence to me.”
At this moment the bell rang.
“Very likely the boy has come back to beg that I will take him on again,” thought the rich man complacently, and he smiled in anticipation of the triumph this would afford him.
But he did not know Tom, or he would never have thought of this. Our hero was poor, but he had plenty of self-respect and proper pride. He would have humiliated himself if he saw no other way of saving his mother and sister from privation, but not until he had tried earnestly to find employment elsewhere.
The servant appeared at the door.
“Please, sir, there’s a poor man wants to see you, Mr. Simpson.”
“A poor man! Who is he?”
“Never saw him before, sir. He looks like a tramp.”
“I don’t care to see him.”
“He told me to say that he used to know you in California.”
John Simpson started uneasily.
“Bring him in,” he said.
Directly afterward Darius Darke entered the room and coolly seated himself in an arm-chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. Simpson,” he said.
“It appears to me that you are very ready to make yourself at home in a gentleman’s house,” said John Simpson, angrily.
“Why shouldn’t I? I was once a gentleman myself.”
“It must have been long ago,” said the rich man with a sneer.
“Oh, you judge by my clothes,” said the tramp, coolly. “That’s wrong. Such as you see me I am a man of education, and a college graduate.”
“I don’t care what you have been. You are down in the world now.”
“That’s true enough.”
“What did you mean by sending me word that you knew me in California?”
“I told the truth.”
“Where was it?”
“At Rocky Gulch. You were associated with a man named Thatcher. By the way is he living now?”
“No, he is not,” said Simpson, uneasily.
“How long has he been dead?”
“Eight years. He never came home from California.”
“How was that?”
“I suppose he was robbed.”
“And murdered?”
“Very probable. But you must excuse my speaking on this subject. It is painful to me.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” said Darius Darke, in a tone which was pointed and significant.
John Simpson scanned his face sharply.
“Of course,” he explained, “it is painful to think of the sad fate of a man with whom I was so intimate.”
Darius Darke moved his chair nearer that on which the rich man was seated and asked, abruptly:
“John Simpson, what became of Thatcher’s money?”
“How should I know?” answered the shoe manufacturer nervously. “I suppose the men who stole it have spent it long ago. Why do you come to me with such a question?”
“I supposed you would be as likely to know as any one.”
“Then, sir, you are very much mistaken. I don’t understand what business it is of yours. I should judge that your own affairs required all your attention.”
“So they do,” said Darius Darke, imperturbably. “I am coming to them by and by. But it occurred to me that poor Thatcher’s family needed the money he had when I knew him at Rocky Gulch.”
“How do you know he left a family?”
“I was speaking to his boy this evening. A fine, manly fellow Tom Thatcher is. He’ll make a smart man if he lives.”
“You were speaking to Tom Thatcher this evening?” gasped John Simpson, unpleasantly surprised. “At what time this evening?”
“Just before I came in.”
“And you hadn’t met him before?”
“No; I asked him the way to your house, and he told me he had just left it.”
John Simpson was relieved. He feared at first that Tom’s call was induced by a previous interview with his present visitor.
“He seems a fine boy,” repeated Darke.
“He is a very impertinent boy.”
“He doesn’t look like it. By the way, he tells me you have discharged him from your employment.”
“He forced me to it. I may take him on again after a time. Did you speak to Tom about his father?” asked John Simpson, uneasily.
“Yes. He says that you told him his father had only five thousand dollars.”
“Suppose I did.”
“He got ten thousand dollars for his share of the money you jointly sold the claim for, John Simpson.”
“How do you know that? Who are you?” demanded the rich man, with feverish interest.
“How do I know? I certainly ought to know, for I was one of the two men who bought you out.”
“You!” exclaimed Simpson, with undisguised amazement.
“Yes. I don’t look like it now, do I? But I had money then, and I paid ten thousand dollars down for a half interest in the claim. I may as well tell you that I never got the money back. The claim was nearly exhausted at the time you sold, though I am sure neither you nor Thatcher knew it. Well, you both remained awhile. After you left my partner and myself came to the conclusion that we had made a bad bargain, and he deputed me to follow you and see if you wouldn’t return a part of the money under the circumstances.”
“Well?”
“Well, I finally came up with you. It was a bright moonlight night. I found where you were encamped.”
Darius Darke paused. He rose from his chair, went to the door, and closed it; then he came back, and approaching Mr. Simpson’s chair, said, in a low voice:
“Don’t ask me to tell what I saw. You, of all men, would shrink from hearing it.”
John Simpson looked at him with a dazed air.
“Why have you come here to tell me this?” he asked.
Darius Darke’s manner changed.
“Because,” said he, “I need money. The world has not used me well. Let me have five hundred dollars, and you will not see me again for a year.”
“I cannot do it,” answered Simpson, hastily.
“Reflect upon it for five minutes. I think you will let me have it.”
There was a little haggling, but Darke remained firm. In the end he prevailed. Before he left the room, money and securities amounting to five hundred dollars were in his hands.
“Where are you going?” asked Simpson.
“I leave this town to-morrow, but I must pass the night somewhere. I suppose I will not be received in the hotel, looking as I am. Will you allow me to sleep in your stable?”
John Simpson hesitated. Finally he spoke.
“Follow me,” he said.
Out of the back door they went unobserved, to the back of the lot, six hundred feet away, where was an old ruined barn, now no longer used, as Mr. Simpson had built a stable near the house.
“You will find some hay in the loft,” he said, “and can rest undisturbed till morning. I expect you to keep your promise then, and leave this village.”
“I will do so.”
About one o’clock there was an alarm of fire in the village. John Simpson’s old barn was discovered to be on fire, and was past saving when the village hook-and-ladder fire-engine arrived on the spot.
CHAPTER VII.
THE MIDNIGHT FIRE.
Fire! When Tom Thatcher heard the bells ringing, and the ominous cry of “Fire!” rang with startling distinctness through the streets of the village, he sprang from his bed and hurried on his clothes.
“Where are you going, Tom?” asked his mother, as she saw him pass her chamber door.
“To the fire, mother.”
“But it is past midnight.”
“I’ll be home soon, mother.”
“Don’t go too near, Tom.”
“No, I won’t.”
And Tom hurried out of the little cottage, and joined those who were hastening to the scene of the midnight fire.
For boys in their teens, and for some beyond that period, fires have an irresistible fascination. This is especially true in a village, where such occasions are uncommon, and where, as all are acquainted, the loss will come upon a friend or neighbor.
“Where is the fire?” asked Tom, of the first man he met.
“At Squire Simpson’s.”
“Not his house?” asked Tom, excited.
“No, it’s the old barn at the back of his house.”
“I wonder how it could have caught fire?” thought Tom, but as no answer suggested itself, he hurried on to the fire.
It was enveloped in a blaze when he came up, and surrounded by a group of men and boys, some in their shirt-sleeves, though it was a December night. The fire-engine was on the ground, but the firemen were inactive, for it was clear that nothing could be done to arrest the flames.
Prominent among those present was the rather portly form of John Simpson, bareheaded, and clad in a showy dressing-gown, the same he had worn in his interview with Tom and Darius Darke only a few hours earlier.
Mr. Simpson seemed excited and nervous, but that certainly was not surprising, considering that the fire was on his own premises, and might as well have involved his dwelling-house.
“Well, squire,” said Newell Ingalls, a near neighbor, “the old barn will have to go.”
“Yes, sir, there’s no doubt about that.”
“Is there any insurance?”
“No; but the building was worth very little. There might have been two or three tons of hay inside.”
“Have you any suspicion as to how it caught fire? It seems rather queer it should have caught of itself.”
“I am afraid I can explain the matter, Mr. Ingalls,” said Squire Simpson, raising his voice a little, as if he desired the crowd to hear what he was about to say.
Naturally his neighbors gathered a little more closely about him, induced by curiosity.
“This evening,” said the squire, “I had a call from a man whom I knew slightly some years since in California. I didn’t remember him at first, but he managed to recall himself to my recollection. The poor fellow had been unlucky. He was miserably dressed, and appeared like a tramp. I gave him something in memory of old times, and at his request I allowed him to pass the night in the old barn. I didn’t think to caution him against smoking. I have no doubt he lighted his pipe, and somehow the fire was communicated to the hay on which he was probably lying. That probably accounts for the fire.”
“Then the man must have been burned in the fire!” exclaimed Ingalls, with an expression of horror.
“I am very much afraid of it,” said Mr. Simpson, with a nervous shudder.
“Poor fellow! It’s lucky you did not put him in the stable.”
“Indeed it is, for in that case the fire would inevitably have spread to the house, which would probably now be in ashes.”
“How happened it that you did not let him sleep in the stable?” asked Reuben Hunting.
“I was about to do so,” answered the squire, “when, for some reason which I cannot explain, I changed my mind and led him out to this old barn.”
“Did the thought of fire occur to you?” asked Hunting.
“I don’t think it did. It was a providential thought, as it seems to me now.”
“What was the man’s name?” inquired George Ingalls.
“I can’t at this moment recall it. My acquaintance with the man was very slight, and I never knew him very well.”
It may be imagined with what feelings Tom listened to this conversation. He knew very well who this unhappy man was who had perished in the flames. That is he knew him by the name he had mentioned.
Our hero shuddered, and a feeling of awe crept into his mind, as he reflected that within a few hours he had talked with Darius Darke, to whom the gates of a terrible death had now opened.
He stood there, silent and grave, when, unexpectedly, public attention was turned to him.
“This man was seen by at least one who is now present,” continued the squire. “He told me that he had inquired the way to my house of Thomas Thatcher.”
“Did you see him, Tom?” asked a dozen voices at once.
“Yes,” answered Tom. “I talked with him from ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“He gave me a name, but he as much as said that it wasn’t his real name.”
“What name was it?” asked several, eagerly.
“Darius Darke.”
“That’s a queer name. Is it his real name, squire?”
“I don’t think it is. I know very little of him or his career. He may have had reasons for using a false name.”
“Very likely.”
“If he was burnt in the fire, squire, you’ll be likely to find his bones among the ashes,” suggested Newell Ingalls.
“I hope not. I hope he had time to escape,” said the squire. “However, it will be well to look in the morning.”
By this time the barn was completely consumed, and the embers alone remained.
“Friends and neighbors,” said Squire Simpson, “it is all over, and there seems to be no danger of the fire spreading. I won’t keep you any longer out of your beds. I thank you heartily for your kindly coming to my help, and I will on a future occasion express my acknowledgments in a suitable manner.”
The crowd dispersed, the engine was returned to the engine-house, and John Simpson sought his chamber.
He looked into the mirror, and hardly knew the image reflected there, so pale and bloodless were his cheeks.
“I look badly,” he said, to himself, “but it will pass off. As to that man, the world is well rid of him, and so am I. He should not have tried to blackmail me. I never should have got rid of him if----”
He did not finish the sentence, but with a nervous shudder sought his bed. He slept at last, but it was a troubled sleep, that gave him no refreshment.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BARN LOFT.
Was Darius Darke really burned to death in the old barn assigned him as a resting-place?
So Squire Simpson thought, but he was mistaken.
When John Simpson went back to the house the tramp climbed up on the loft and lay down on the hay.
It was a comfortable place, far more comfortable than many in which he had been compelled to lodge, but it did not please him.
“Why,” he asked himself, “should John Simpson pass by his comfortable stable and put me in this out-of-the-way barn? I have fallen pretty low, it is true, but I still think a stable is not too good a place for me. What! what is that?”
He started as he felt something cold on his face, and quickly rose to a sitting posture.
“It is a rat!” he exclaimed, in disgust. “I felt his cold paws on my face. I never can sleep here!”
Then the thought occurred to him that the stable was near by, and he could probably get in easily. He groped his way down from the loft, opened the door through which he had entered, and retraced his steps along the path leading to the house, deviating at last and seeking the stable.
He could not open the large door, but there was a small side door through which he entered. Leaving it open for a minute till he could get his bearings, he caught a glimpse of a ladder, by which he easily ascended to the loft, which was about half filled with hay.
He stretched himself out on his humble bed with a sigh of satisfaction.