Alger Horatio Jr.
Do and Dare — a Brave Boy's Fight for Fortune
CHAPTER XVI. A NEW BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL
Just opposite the monument is a small, one-story structure, where views of the shaft may be purchased and tickets obtained.
“There is a small admission fee,” said Herbert’s companion.
“How much is it?” asked our hero.
“Twenty cents.”
As Herbert thrust his hand into his pocket for the necessary money, his companion said:
“You had better let me pay for both tickets.”
Though he said this, he didn’t make any motion to do so.
“No, I will pay for both,” said Herbert.
“But I really cannot permit you to pay for mine.”
And still the speaker made no movement to purchase his ticket.
Herbert settled the matter by laying half a dollar on the desk, and asking for two tickets. He began to see that, in spite of his disclaimer, his guide intended him to do so. On the whole, this didn’t please him. He would rather have had his offer frankly accepted.
“I didn’t mean to have you pay,” said the young man, as they passed through the door admitting them to an inner apartment, from which there was an exit into a small, inclosed yard, through which they were to reach the entrance to a spiral staircase by which the ascent was made.
Herbert did not answer, for he understood that his guide was not telling the truth, and he did not like falsehood or deceit.
They entered the monument and commenced the ascent.
“We have a tiresome ascent before us,” said the other.
“How many steps are there?” asked Herbert.
“About three hundred,” was the reply.
At different points in the ascent they came to landings where they could catch glimpses of the outward world through long, narrow, perpendicular slits in the sides of the monument.
At last they reached the top.
Herbert’s guide looked about him sharply, and seemed disappointed to find a lady and gentleman and child also enjoying the view.
Herbert had never been so high before. Indeed, he had never been in any high building, and he looked about him with a novel sense of enjoyment.
“What a fine view there is here!” he said.
“True,” assented his companion. “Let me point out to you the different towns visible to the naked eye.”
“I wish you would,” said the boy.
So his guide pointed out Cambridge, Chelsea, Malden, the Charles and Mystic Rivers, gleaming in the sunshine, the glittering dome of the Boston State House and other conspicuous objects. Herbert felt that it was worth something to have a companion who could do him this service, and he felt the extra twenty cents he had paid for his companion’s ticket was a judicious investment.
He noticed with some surprise that his companion seemed annoyed by the presence of the other party already referred to. He scowled and shrugged his shoulders when he looked at them, and in a low voice, inaudible to those of whom he spoke, he said to Herbert: “Are they going to stay here all day?”
“What does it matter to me if they do?” returned Herbert, in surprise.
Indeed, to him they seemed very pleasant people, and he was especially attracted by the sweet face of the little girl. He wished he had been fortunate enough to possess such a sister.
At last, however, they finished their sightseeing, and prepared to descend. Herbert’s companion waited till the sound of their descending steps died away, and then, turning to Herbert, said in a quick, stern tone: “Now give me the money you have in your pocket.”
“What do you mean?” he said.
Herbert recoiled, and stared at the speaker in undisguised astonishment.
“I mean just what I say,” returned the other. “You have one hundred and fifty dollars in your pocket. You need not deny it, for I saw you draw it from the bank and put it away.”
“Are you a thief, then?” demanded Herbert.
“No matter what I am, I must have that money,” said the stranger. “I came over with you exclusively to get it, and I mean business.”
He made a step towards Herbert, but the boy faced him unflinchingly, and answered resolutely: “I mean business, too. The money is not mine, and I shall not give it up.”
“Take care!” said the other, menacingly, “we are alone here. You are a boy and I am a man.”
“I know that; but you will have to fight to get the money,” said Herbert, without quailing.
He looked to the staircase, but his treacherous guide stood between him and it, and he was practically a prisoner at the top of the monument.
“Don’t be a fool!” said the stranger. “You may as well give up the money to me first as last.”
“I don’t propose to give it up to you at all,” said Herbert. “My employer trusted me with it, and I mean to be true to my trust.”
“You can tell him that it was taken from you—that you could not help yourself. Now hand it over!”
“Never!” exclaimed Herbert, resolutely.
“We’ll see about that,” said his companion, seizing the boy and grappling with him.
Herbert was a strong boy for his age, and he accepted the challenge. Though his antagonist was a man, he found that the boy was powerful, and not to be mastered as easily as he anticipated.
“Confound you!” he muttered, “I wish I had a knife!”
Though Herbert made a vigorous resistance, his opponent was his superior in strength, and would ultimately have got the better of him. He had thrown Herbert down, and was trying to thrust his hand into his coat pocket, when a step was heard, and a tall man of Western appearance stepped on the scene.
“Hello!” he said, surveying the two combatants in surprise. “What’s all this? Let that boy alone, you skunk, you!”
As he spoke, he seized the man by the collar and jerked him to his feet.
“What does all this mean?” he asked, turning from one to the other.
“This boy has robbed me of one hundred and fifty dollars,” said the man, glibly. “I fell in with him in the Boston cars, and he relieved me of a roll of bills which I had drawn from a bank in Boston.”
“What have you got to say to this?” asked the Western man, turning to Herbert, who was now on his feet.
“Only this,” answered Herbert, “that it is a lie. It was I who drew the money from the Merchants’ Bank in Boston. This man saw me cash the check, followed me, and offered to come here with me, when I asked him for directions.”
“That’s a likely story!” sneered the young man. “My friend here is too sharp to believe it.”
“Don’t call me your friend!” said the Western man, bluntly. “I’m more than half convinced you’re a scamp.”
“I don’t propose to stay here and be insulted. Let the boy give me my money, and I won’t have him arrested.”
“Don’t be in too much of a hurry, young man! I want to see about this thing. What bank did you draw the money from?”
“From the Merchants’ Bank—the boy has got things reversed. He saw me draw it, inveigled himself into my confidence, and picked my pocket.”
“Look here—stop right there! Your story doesn’t hang together!” said the tall Westerner, holding up his finger. “You said you met this boy in a horse car.”
“We came over together in a Charlestown horse car,” said the rogue, abashed.
“You’ve given yourself away. Now make yourself scarce! Scoot!”
The rascal looked in the face of the tall, resolute man from the West, and thought it prudent to obey. He started to descend, but a well-planted kick accelerated his progress, and he fell down several steps, bruising his knees.
“Thank you, sir!” said Herbert, gratefully. “It was lucky you came up just as you did. The rascal had got his hand on the money.”
“He is a miserable scamp!” answered Herbert’s new friend. “If there’d been a police-man handy, I’d have given him in charge. I’ve come clear from Wisconsin to see where Warren fell, but I didn’t expect to come across such a critter as that on Bunker Hill.”
Herbert pointed out to his new friend the objects in view, repeating the information he had so recently acquired. Then, feeling that he could spare no more time, he descended the stairs and jumped on board a horse car bound for Boston.
CHAPTER XVII. AN ACCEPTABLE PRESENT
As the clock at the Old South Church struck one, Herbert ascended the steps of Parker’s Hotel, and walked into the reading room. George Melville was already there.
“You are on time, Herbert,” he said, with a smile, as our hero made his appearance.
“Yes, sir; but I began to think I should miss my appointment.”
“Where have you been?”
“To Bunker Hill.”
“Did you ascend the monument?”
“Yes, sir, and had a fight at the summit.”
Mr. Melville looked at Herbert in amazement.
“Had a fight at the top of Bunker Hill Monument?” he ejaculated.
“Yes, sir; let me tell you about it.”
When the story was told, Mr. Melville said: “That was certainly a remarkable adventure, Herbert. Still, I am not sorry that it occurred.”
It was Herbert’s turn to look surprised.
“I will tell you why. It proves to me that you are worthy of my confidence, and can be trusted with the care of money. It has also taught you a lesson, to beware of knaves, no matter how plausible they may be.”
“I haven’t got over my surprise yet, sir, at discovering the real character of the man who went with me. I am sorry I met him. I don’t like to distrust people.”
“Nor I. But it is not necessary to distrust everybody. In your journey through the world you will make many agreeable and trustworthy acquaintances in whom it will be safe to confide. It is only necessary to be cautious and not give your confidence too soon.”
“Oh, I didn’t mention that I met somebody from Wayneboro,” said Herbert.
“Was it Eben Graham?”
“Yes.”
“I met him myself on Washington Street. Did you speak to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose he goes back to-night?”
“I don’t think he will go back at all, Mr. Melville.”
His employer looked at him inquiringly.
“I saw him buy a ticket to Chicago, though he does not know it,” continued Herbert. “When he spoke with me he didn’t admit it, but spoke of going back by an afternoon train.”
“I am afraid he has appropriated some of his father’s funds,” said Melville. “I doubt if Ebenezer Graham would voluntarily furnish him the means of going West.”
“That was just what occurred to me,” said Herbert; “but I didn’t like to think that Eben would steal.”
“Perhaps he has not. We shall be likely to hear when we return. But you must be hungry. We will go in to dinner.”
Herbert followed Mr. Melville into the dining room, where a good dinner was ordered, and partaken of. Herbert looked over the bill of fare, but the high prices quite startled him. He was not used to patronizing hotels, and it seemed to him that the price asked for a single dish ought to be enough to pay for a whole dinner for two. He knew about what it cost for a meal at home, and did not dream that it would amount to so much more at a hotel.
When the check was brought Herbert looked at it.
“Two dollars and a half!” he exclaimed.
“It costs an awful amount to live in Boston.”
“Oh a dinner can be got much cheaper at most places in Boston,” said George Melville, smiling, “but I am used to Parker’s, and generally come here.”
“I am glad it doesn’t cost so much to live in Wayneboro,” said Herbert. “We couldn’t afford even one meal a day.”
“You haven’t asked me what the doctor said,” remarked Melville, as they left the dining room.
“Excuse me, Mr. Melville. It wasn’t from any lack of interest.”
“He advises me to go West by the first of October, either to Colorado or Southern California.”
Herbert’s countenance fell. The first of October would soon come, and his pleasant and profitable engagement with Mr. Melville would close.
“I am sorry,” he said, gravely.
“I am not so sorry as I should have been a few weeks ago,” said Melville. “Then I should have looked forward to a journey as lonely and monotonous. Now, with a companion, I think I may have a pleasant time.”
“Who is going with you, Mr. Melville?” asked Herbert, feeling, it must be confessed, a slight twinge of jealousy.
“I thought perhaps you would be willing to accompany me,” said Melville.
“Would you really take me, Mr. Melville?” cried Herbert, joyfully.
“Yes, if you will go.”
“I should like nothing better. I have always wanted to travel. It quite takes my breath away to think of going so far away.”
“I should hardly venture to go alone,” continued George Melville. “I shall need some one to look after the details of the journey, and to look after me if I fall sick. Do you think you would be willing to do that?”
“I hope you won’t fall sick, Mr. Melville; but if you do, I will take the best care of you I know how.”
“I am sure you will, Herbert, and I would rather have you about me than a man. Indeed, I already begin to think of you as a younger brother.”
“Thank you, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, gratefully. “I am glad you do.”
“Do you think your mother will object to your leaving home, Herbert?”
“Not with you. She knows I shall be well provided for with you. Can I arrange to send money regularly to mother?” asked the boy. “I shouldn’t like to think of her as suffering for want of it.”
“Yes, but to guard against emergencies, we can leave her a sum of money before you start.”
After dinner Mr. Melville proposed to Herbert to accompany him on a walk up Washington Street, They walked slowly, Herbert using his eyes diligently, for to him the display in the shop windows was novel and attractive.
At length they paused at the door of a large and handsome jewelry store—one of the two finest in Boston.
“I want to go in here, Herbert,” said his employer.
“Shall I stay outside?”
“No, come in with me. You may like to look about.”
Though Herbert had no idea of the cost of the fine stock with which the store was provided, he saw that it must be valuable, and wondered where purchasers enough could be found to justify keeping so large a supply of watches, chains, rings and the numberless other articles in gold and silver which he saw around him.
“I would like to look at your watches,” said Melville to the salesman who came forward to inquire his wishes.
“Gold or silver, sir?”
“Silver.”
“This way, if you please.”
He led the way to a case where through the glass covering Herbert saw dozens of silver watches of all sizes and grades lying ready for inspection.
“For what price can I get a fair silver watch?” asked Melville.
“Swiss or Waltham?”
“Waltham. I may as well patronize home manufactures.”
“Here is a watch I will sell you for fifteen dollars,” said the salesman, drawing out a neat-looking watch, of medium size. “It will keep excellent time, and give you good satisfaction.”
“Very well; I will buy it on your recommendation. Have you any silver chains?”
One was selected of pretty pattern, and George Melville paid for both.
“How do you like the watch and chain, Herbert?” said his employer, as they left the store.
“They are very pretty, sir.”
“I suppose you wonder what I want of two watches,” said Melville.
“Perhaps you don’t like to take your gold watch with you when you go out West, for fear of thieves.”
“No, that is not the reason. If I am so unfortunate as to lose my gold watch, I will buy another. The fact is, I have bought this silver watch and chain for you.”
“For me!” exclaimed Herbert, intensely delighted.
“Yes; it will be convenient for you, as well as me, to be provided with a watch. Every traveler needs one. There; put it in your pocket, and see how it looks.”
“You are very kind to me, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, gratefully. “You couldn’t have bought me anything which I should value more.”
When Herbert had arranged the watch and chain to suit him, it must be confessed that it engrossed a large part of his attention, and it was wonderful how often he had occasion to consult it during the first walk after it came into his possession.
CHAPTER XVIII. A THIEF IN TROUBLE
“Have you ever visited the suburbs of Boston?” asked Melville.
“No,” answered Herbert. “I know very little of the city, and nothing of the towns near it.”
“Then, as we have time to spare, we will board the next horse car and ride out to Roxbury.”
“I should like it very much, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, in a tone of satisfaction. I may remark that Roxbury was at that time a separate municipality, and had not been annexed to Boston.
They did not have to wait long for a car. An open car, of the kind in common use during the pleasant season, drew near, and they secured seats in it. After leaving Dover Street, Washington Street, still then narrow, broadens into a wide avenue, and is called the Neck. It was gay with vehicles of all sorts, and Herbert found much to attract his attention.
“The doctor tells me I ought to be a good deal in the open air,” said Melville, “and I thought I would act at once upon his suggestion. It is much pleasanter than taking medicine.”
“I should think so,” answered Herbert, emphatically.
Arrived at the end of the route, Melville and Herbert remained on the car, and returned at once to the city. When they reached the crowded part of Washington Street a surprise awaited Herbert.
From a small jewelry store they saw a man come out, and walk rapidly away.
“Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, in excitement, “do you see that man?”
“Yes. What of him?”
“It is the man who tried to rob me on Bunker Hill Monument.”
He had hardly uttered these words when another man darted from the shop, bareheaded, and pursued Herbert’s morning acquaintance, crying, “Stop, thief!”
The thief took to his heels, but a policeman was at hand, and seized him by the collar.
“What has this man been doing?” he asked, as the jeweler’s clerk came up, panting.
“He has stolen a diamond ring from the counter,” answered the clerk. “I think he has a watch besides.”
“It’s a lie!” said the thief, boldly.
“Search him!” said the clerk, “and you’ll find that I have made no mistake.”
“Come with me to the station house, and prepare your complaint,” said the policeman.
By this time a crowd had gathered, and the thief appealed to them.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am a reputable citizen of St. Louis, come to Boston to buy goods, and I protest against this outrage. It is either a mistake or a conspiracy, I don’t know which.”
The thief was well dressed, and some of the bystanders were disposed to put confidence in him. He had not seen Herbert and George Melville, who had left the car and joined the throng, or he might not have spoken so confidently.
“He doesn’t look like a thief,” said one of the bystanders, a benevolent-looking old gentleman.
“I should say not,” said the thief, more boldly. “It’s a pretty state of things if a respectable merchant can’t enter a store here in Boston without being insulted and charged with theft. If I only had some of my friends or acquaintances here, they would tell you that it is simply ridiculous to make such a charge against me.”
“You can explain this at the station house,” said the policeman. “It is my duty to take you there.”
“Is there no one who knows the gentleman?” said the philanthropist before referred to. “Is there no one to speak up for him?”
Herbert pressed forward, and said, quietly:
“I know something of him; I passed the morning in his company.”
The thief turned quickly, but he didn’t seem gratified to see Herbert.
“The boy is mistaken,” he said, hurriedly; “I never saw him before.”
“But I have seen you, sir,” retorted our hero. “You saw me draw some money from a bank in State Street, scraped acquaintance with me, and tried to rob me of it on Bunker Hill.”
“It’s a lie!” said the prisoner, hoarsely.
“Do you wish to make a charge to that effect?” asked the policeman.
“No, sir; I only mentioned what I knew of him to support the charge of this gentleman,” indicating the jeweler’s clerk.
The old gentleman appeared to lose his interest in the prisoner after Herbert’s statement, and he was escorted without further delay to the station house, where a gold watch and the diamond ring were both found on his person. It is scarcely needful to add that he was tried and sentenced to a term of imprisonment in the very city—Charlestown—where he had attempted to rob Herbert.
“It is not always that retribution so quickly overtakes the wrongdoer,” said Melville. “St. Louis will hardly be proud of the man who claims her citizenship.”
“Dishonesty doesn’t seem to pay in his case,” said Herbert, thoughtfully.
“It never pays in any case, Herbert,” said George Melville, emphatically. “Even if a man could steal enough to live upon, and were sure not to be found out, he would not enjoy his ill-gotten gain, as an honest man enjoys the money he works hard for. But when we add the risk of detection and the severe penalty of imprisonment, it seems a fatal mistake for any man to overstep the bounds of honesty and enroll himself as a criminal.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, thoughtfully. “I don’t think I shall ever be tempted, but if I am, I will think of this man and his quick detection.”
When they reached the depot, a little before four o’clock, George Melville sent Herbert to the ticket office to purchase tickets, while he remained in the waiting room.
“I might as well accustom you to the duties that are likely to devolve upon you,” he said, with a smile.
Herbert had purchased the tickets and was turning away, when to his surprise he saw Ebenezer Graham enter the depot, laboring evidently under considerable excitement. He did not see Herbert, so occupied was he with thoughts of an unpleasant nature, till the boy greeted him respectfully.
“Herbert Carr!” he said; “when did you come into Boston?”
“This morning, sir.”
“Have you seen anything of my son, Eben, here?” gasped Mr. Graham.
“Yes, sir; he was on the same train, but I did not see him to speak to him till after I reached the city.”
“Do you know what he has been doing here?” asked Ebenezer, his face haggard with anxiety.
“I only saw him for five minutes,” answered Herbert, reluctant to tell the father what he knew would confirm any suspicion he might entertain.
“Where did you see him?” demanded Ebenezer, quickly.
“At a railroad ticket office not far from the Old South Church.”
“Do you know if he bought any ticket?” asked Ebenezer, anxiously.
“Yes,” answered Herbert. “I overheard him purchasing a ticket to Chicago.”
Ebenezer groaned, and his face seemed more and more wizened and puckered up.
“It is as I thought!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “My own son has robbed me and fled like a thief, as he is.”
Herbert was shocked, but not surprised. He didn’t like to ask particulars, but Ebenezer volunteered them.
“This morning,” he said, “I foolishly gave Eben a hundred dollars, and sent him to Boston to pay for a bill of goods which I recently bought of a wholesale house on Milk Street. If I had only known you were going in, I would have sent it by you.”
Herbert felt gratified at this manifestation of confidence, especially as he had so recently been charged with robbing the post office, but did not interrupt Mr. Graham, who continued:
“As soon as Eben was fairly gone, I began to feel sorry I sent him, for he got into extravagant ways when he was in Boston before, and he had been teasing me to give him money enough to go out West with. About noon I discovered that he had taken fifty dollars more than the amount I intrusted to him, and then I couldn’t rest till I was on my way to Boston to find out the worst. I went to the house on Milk Street and found they had seen nothing of Eben. Then I knew what had happened. The graceless boy has robbed his father of a hundred and fifty dollars, and is probably on his way West by this time.”
“He was to start by the three o’clock train, I think,” said Herbert, and gave his reasons for thinking so.
Ebenezer seemed so utterly cast down by this confirmation of his worst suspicions, that Herbert called Mr. Melville, thinking he might be able to say something to comfort him.
