Alger Horatio Jr.
Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life
CHAPTER XX. JACK IN CONFINEMENT
THE anxiety of Mr. Abel Crump’s family, when Jack failed to return at night, can be imagined. They feared that he had fallen among unscrupulous persons, of whom there is no lack in every large city, and that some ill had come to him. The baker instituted immediate inquiries, but was unsuccessful in obtaining any trace of his nephew. He resolved to delay as long as possible communicating the sad intelligence to his brother Timothy, who he knew would be quite (sic) overwhelwed by this double blow.
In the mean time, let us see how Jack enjoyed himself. We will look in upon him after he has been confined four days. To a youth as active as himself, nothing could be more wearisome. It did not add to his cheerfulness to reflect that Ida was in the power of the one who had brought upon him his imprisonment, while he was absolutely unable to help her. He did not lack for food. This was brought him three times a day. His meals, in fact, were all he had to look forward to, to break the monotony of his confinement. The books upon the table were not of a kind likely to interest him, though he had tried to find entertainment in them.
Four days he had lived, or rather vegetated in this way. His spirit chafed against the confinement.
“I believe,” thought he, “I would sooner die than be imprisoned for a long term. Yet,” and here he sighed, “who knows what may be the length of my present confinement? They will be sure to find some excuse for retaining me.”
While he was indulging in these uncomfortable reflections, suddenly the little door in the wall, previously referred to, slid open, and revealed the old man who had first supplied him with food. To explain the motive of his present visit, it will be remembered that he was under a misapprehension in regard to the cause of Jack’s confinement. He naturally supposed that our hero was acquainted with the unlawful practises of the gang of coiners with which he was connected.
The old man, whose name was Foley, had been favorably impressed by the bold bearing of Jack, and the idea had occurred to him that he might be able to win him as an accomplice. He judged, that if once induced to join them, he would prove eminently useful. Another motive which led him to favor this project was, that it would be very embarrassing to be compelled to keep Jack in perpetual custody, as well as involve a considerable expense.
Jack was somewhat surprised at the old man’s visit.
“How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?” he inquired, impatiently.
“Don’t you find your quarters comfortable?” asked Foley.
“As comfortable as any prison, I suppose.”
“My young friend, don’t talk of imprisonment. You make me shudder. You must banish all thoughts of such a disagreeable subject.”
“I wish I could,” groaned poor Jack.
“Consider yourself as my guest, whom I delight to entertain.”
“But, I don’t like the entertainment.”
“The more the pity.”
“How long is this going to last? Even a prisoner knows the term of his imprisonment.”
“My young friend,” said Foley, “I do not desire to control your inclinations. I am ready to let you go whenever you say the word.”
“You are?” returned Jack, incredulously. “Then suppose I ask you to let me go immediately.”
“Certainly, I will; but upon one condition.”
“What is it?”
“It so happens, my young friend, that you are acquainted with a secret which might prove troublesome to me.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Jack, mystified.
“Yes; you see I have found it out. Such things do not escape me.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” returned Jack, perplexed.
“No doubt, no doubt,”, said Foley, cunningly. “Of course, if I should tell you that I was in the coining business, it would be altogether new to you.”
“On my honor,” said Jack, “this is the first I knew of it. I never saw or heard of you before I came into this house.”
“Could Peg be mistaken?” thought Foley. “But no, no; he is only trying to deceive me. I am too old a bird to be caught with such chaff.”
“Of course, I won’t dispute your word, my young friend,” he said, softly; “but there is one thing certain; if you didn’t know it before you know it now.”
“And you are afraid that I shall denounce you to the police.”
“Well, there is a possibility of that. That class of people have a little prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody wants to do, making money.”
The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands at this joke, which he evidently considered a remarkably good one.
Jack reflected a moment.
“Will you let me go if I will promise to keep your secret?” he asked.
“How could I be sure you would do it?”
“I would pledge my word.”
“Your word!” Foley snapped his fingers in derision. “That is not sufficient.”
“What will be?”
“You must become one of us.”
“One of you!”
Jack started in surprise at a proposition so unexpected.
“Yes. You must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that it will be for your own interest to keep silent. Otherwise we cannot trust you.”
“And suppose I decline these terms,” said Jack.
“Then I shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my guest.”
Foley smiled disagreeably.
Jack walked the room in perturbation. He felt that imprisonment would be better than liberty, on such terms. At the same time he did not refuse unequivocally, as possibly stricter watch than ever might be kept over him.
He thought it best to temporize.
“Well, what do you say?” asked the old man.
“I should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal,” said Jack. “It is of so important a character that I do not like to decide at once.”
“How long do you require?”
“Two days,” returned Jack. “If I should come to a decision sooner, I will let you know.”
“Agreed. Meanwhile can I do anything to promote your comfort? I want you to enjoy yourself as well as you can under the circumstances.”
“If you have any interesting books, I wish you would send them up. It is rather dull staying here with nothing to do.”
“You shall have something to do as soon as you please, my young friend. As to books, we are not very bountifully supplied with that article. We ain’t any of us college graduates, but I will see what I can do for you in that way. I’ll be back directly.”
Foley disappeared, but soon after returned, laden with one or two old magazines, and a worn copy of the “Adventures of Baron Trenck.”
It may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this singular book. Baron Trenck was several times imprisoned for political offences, and this book contains an account of the manner in which he succeeded, in some cases after years of labor, in breaking from his dungeon. His feats in this way are truly wonderful, and, if not true, at least they have so very much similitude that they find no difficulty in winning the reader’s credence.
Such was the book which Foley placed in Jack’s hands. He must have been in ignorance of the character of the book, since it was evident to what thoughts it would lead the mind of the prisoner.
Jack read the book with intense interest. It was just such a one as he would have read with avidity under any circumstances. It gratified his taste for adventure, and he entered heart and soul into the Baron’s plans, and felt a corresponding gratification when he succeeded. When he completed the perusal of the fascinating volume, he thought, “Why cannot I imitate Baron Trenck? He was far worse off than I am. If he could succeed in overcoming so many obstacles, it is a pity if I cannot find some means of escape.”
He looked about the room in the hope that some plan might be suggested.
CHAPTER XXI. THE PRISONER ESCAPES
TO give an idea of the difficulties of Jack’s situation, let it be repeated that there was but one door to the room, and this was bolted on the outside. The room was in the second story. The only two windows looked out upon a court. These windows were securely fastened. Still a way might have been devised to break through them, if this would at all have improved his condition. Of this, however, there seemed but little chance. Even if he had succeeded in getting safely into the court, there would have been difficulty and danger in getting into the street.
All these considerations passed through Jack’s mind, and occasioned him no little perplexity. He began to think that the redoubtable Baron Trenck himself might have been puzzled, if placed under similar circumstances.
At length this suggestion occurred to him: Why might he not cut a hole through the door, just above or below the bolt, sufficiently large for him to thrust his hand through, and slip it back? Should he succeed in this, he would steal down stairs, and as, in all probability, the key would be in the outside door, he could open it, and then he would be free.
With hope springing up anew in his heart, he hastened to the door and examined it. It was of common strength. He might, perhaps, have been able to kick it open, but of course this was not to be thought of, as the noise would at once attract the attention of those interested in frustrating his plans.
Fortunately, Jack was provided with a large, sharp jack-knife. He did not propose, however, to commence operations at present. In the daytime he would be too subject to a surprise. With evening, he resolved to commence his work. He might be unsuccessful, and subjected, in consequence, to a more rigorous confinement; but of this he must run the risk. “Nothing venture, nothing have.”
Jack awaited the coming of evening with impatience. The afternoon had never seemed so long.
It came at last—a fine moonlight night. This was fortunate, for his accommodating host, from motives of economy possibly, was not in the habit of providing him with a candle.
Jack thought it prudent to wait till he heard the city clocks pealing the hour of twelve. By this time, as far as he could see from his windows, there were no lights burning, and all who occupied the building were probably asleep.
He selected that part of the door which he judged to be directly under the bolt, and began to cut away with his knife. The wood was soft, and easy of excavation. In the course of half an hour Jack had cut a hole sufficiently large to pass his hand through, but found that, in order to reach the bolt, he must enlarge it a little. This took him fifteen minutes longer.
His efforts were crowned with success. As the city clock struck one Jack softly drew back the bolt, and, with a wild throb of joy, felt that freedom was half regained. But his (sic) embarassments were not quite at an end. Opening the door, he found himself in the entry, but in the darkness. On entering the house he had not noticed the location of the stairs, and was afraid that some noise or stumbling might reveal to Foley the attempted escape of his prisoner. He took off his boots, and crept down-stairs in his stocking feet. Unfortunately he had not kept the proper bearing in his mind, and the result was, that he opened the door of a room on one side of the front door. It was used as a bedroom. At the sound of the door opening, the occupant of the bed, Mr. Foley himself, called out, drowsily, “Who’s there?”
Jack, aware of his mistake, precipitately retired, and concealed himself under the front stairs, a refuge which his good fortune led him to, for he could see absolutely nothing.
The sleeper, just awakened, was naturally a little confused in his ideas. He had not seen Jack. He had merely heard the noise, and thought he saw the door moving. But of this he was not certain. To make sure, however, he got out of bed, and opening wide the door of his room, called out, “Is anybody there?”
Jack had excellent reasons for not wishing to volunteer an answer to this question. One advantage of the opened door (for there was a small oil lamp burning in the room) was to reveal to him the nature of the mistake he had made, and to show him the front door in which, by rare good fortune, he could discover the key in the lock.
Meanwhile the old man, to make sure that all was right, went up-stairs, far enough to see that the door of the apartment in which Jack had been confined was closed. Had he gone up to the landing he would have seen the aperture in the door, and discovered the hole, but he was sleepy, and anxious to get back to bed, which rendered him less watchful.
“All seems right,” he muttered to himself, and re-entered the bed-chamber, from which Jack could soon hear the deep, regular breathing which indicated sound slumber. Not till then did he creep cautiously from his place of concealment, and advancing stealthily to the front door, turn the key, and step out into the faintly-lighted street. A delightful sensation thrilled our hero, as he felt the pure air fanning his cheek.
“Nobody can tell,” thought he, “what a blessed thing freedom is till he has been cooped up, as I have been, for the last week. Won’t the old man be a little surprised to find, in the morning, that the bird has flown? I’ve a great mind to serve him a little trick.”
So saying, Jack drew the key from its place inside, and locking the door after him, went off with the key in his pocket. First, however, he took care to scratch a little mark on the outside of the door, as he could not see the number, to serve as a means of identification.
This done Jack made his way as well as he could guess to the house of his uncle, the baker. Not having noticed the way by which Peg had led him to the house, he wandered at first from the straight course. At length, however, he came to Chestnut Street. He now knew where he was, and, fifteen minutes later, he was standing before his uncle’s door.
Meanwhile, Abel Crump had been suffering great anxiety on account of Jack’s protracted absence. Several days had now elapsed, and still he was missing. He had been unable to find the slightest trace of him.
“I am afraid of the worst,” he said to his wife, on the afternoon of the day on which Jack made his escape. “I think Jack was probably rash and imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the death of him.”
“Don’t you think there is any hope? He may be confined.”
“It is possible; but, at all events, I don’t think it right to keep it from Timothy any longer. I’ve put off writing as long as I could, hoping Jack would come back, but I don’t feel as if I ought to hold it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy to come right on. It’ll be a dreadful blow to him.”
“Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from Jack before that time?”
The baker shook his head.
“If we’d been going to hear, we’d have heard before this time,” he said.
He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the thought of his brother’s affliction, kept him awake.
About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by a knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, “Who’s there?”
“A friend,” was the answer.
“What friend?” asked the baker, suspiciously. “Friends are not very apt to come at this time of night.”
“Don’t you know me, Uncle Abel?” asked a cheery voice.
“Why, it’s Jack, I verily believe,” said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.
“Where in the name of wonder have you been, Jack?” he asked, surveying his nephew by the light of the candle.
“I’ve been shut up, uncle,—boarded and lodged for nothing,—by some people who liked my company better than I liked theirs. But to-night I made out to escape, and hero I am. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. Just now I’m confoundedly hungry, and if there’s anything in the pantry, I’ll ask permission to go in there a few minutes.”
“I guess you’ll find something, Jack. Take the candle with you. Thank God, you’re back alive. We’ve been very anxious about you.”
CHAPTER XXII. MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE
PEG had been thinking.
This was the substance of her reflections. Ida, whom she had kidnapped for certain purposes of her own, was likely to prove an (sic) incumbrance rather than a source of profit. The child, her suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose. So firmly resolved was she not to do what was wrong, that threats and persuasions were alike unavailing. Added to this was the danger of her encountering some one sent in search of her by the Crumps.
Under these circumstances, Peg bethought herself of the ultimate object which she had proposed to herself in kidnapping Ida—that of extorting money from a man who is now to be introduced to the reader.
John Somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome lodging-house on Walnut Street. A man wanting yet several years of forty, he looked a greater age. Late hours and dissipation, though kept within respectable limits, had left their traces on his face. At twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined with some professional practice (for he was a lawyer, and not without ability), was quite sufficient to support him handsomely, and leave a considerable surplus every year. But, latterly, he had contracted a passion for gaming, and however shrewd he might be naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily habitues of the gaming-table, who had marked him as their prey.
The evening before he is introduced to the reader’s notice he had, passed till a late hour at a fashionable gambling-house, where he had lost heavily. His reflections, on awakening, were not of the pleasantest. For the first time, within fifteen years, he realized the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. The evening previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his I O U. Where to raise this money, he did not know. He bathed his aching head, and cursed his ill luck, in no measured terms. After making his toilet, he rang the bell, and ordered breakfast.
For this he had but scanty appetite. Scarcely had he finished, and directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to announce a visitor.
“Is it a gentleman?” he inquired, hastily, fearing it might be a creditor. He occasionally had such visitors.
“No, sir.”
“A lady?”
“No, sir.”
“A child? But what could a child want of me?”
“If it’s neither a gentleman, lady, nor child,” said Somerville, somewhat surprised, “will you have the goodness to inform me who it is?”
“It’s a woman, sir,” said the servant, grinning.
“Why didn’t you say so when I asked you?” said his employer, irritably.
“Because you asked if it was a lady, and this isn’t—at least she don’t look like one.”
“You can send her up, whoever she is,” said Mr. Somerville.
A moment afterwards Peg entered the apartment.
John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for charity. So many years had passed since he had met with this woman, that she had passed out of his remembrance.
“Do you wish to see me about anything?” he asked, indifferently. “If so, you must be quick, for I am just going out.”
“You don’t seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville,” said Peg, fixing her keen black eyes upon his face.
“I can’t say I do,” he replied, carelessly. “Perhaps you used to wash for me once.”
“I am not in the habit of acting as laundress,” said the woman, proudly. It is worth noticing that she was not above passing spurious coin, and doing other things which are stamped as disreputable by the laws of the land, but her pride revolted at the imputation that she was a washer-woman.
“In that case,” said Somerville, carelessly, “you will have to tell me who you are, for it is out of my power to conjecture.”
“Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection,” said Peg, composedly.
“Ida!” repeated John Somerville, changing color, and gazing now with attention at the woman’s features.
“Yes.”
“I have known several persons of that name,” he said, evasively. “Of course, I can’t tell which of them you refer to.”
“The Ida I mean was and is a child,” said Peg. “But, Mr. Somerville, there’s no use in beating about the bush, when I can come straight to the point. It is now about eight years since my husband and myself were employed in carrying off a child—a female child of about a year old—named Ida. We placed it, according to your directions, on the door-step of a poor family in New York, and they have since cared for it as their own. I suppose you have not forgotten that.”
John Somerville deliberated. Should he deny it or not? He decided to put a bold face on the matter.
“I remember it,” said he, “and now recall your features. How have you fared since the time I employed you? Have you found your business profitable?”
“Far from it,” answered Peg. “We are not yet able to retire on a competence.”
“One of your youthful appearance,” said Solmerville, banteringly, “ought not to think of retiring under ten years.”
Peg smiled. She knew how to appreciate this speech.
“I don’t care for compliments,” said she, “even when they are sincere. As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into my second childhood.”
“Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business has brought you here?”
“I want a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars!” repeated John Somerville. “Very likely, I should like that amount myself. You have not come here to tell me that?”
“I have come here to ask that amount of you.”
“Suppose I should say that your husband is the proper person for you to apply to in such a case.”
“I think I am more likely to get it out of you,” answered Peg, coolly. “My husband couldn’t supply me with a thousand cents, even if he were willing, which is not likely.”
“Much as I am flattered by your application,” said Somerville, “since it would seem to place me next in your estimation to your husband, I cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent rendered.”
“I am ready to give you an equivalent.”
“Of what value?”
“I am willing to be silent.”
“And how can your silence benefit me?”
John Somerville asked this question with an assumption of indifference, but his fingers twitched nervously.
“That you will be best able to estimate,” said Peg.
“Explain yourself.”
“I can do that in a few words. You employed me to kidnap a child. I believe the law has something to say about that. At any rate, the child’s mother may have.”
“What do you know about the child’s mother?” demanded Somerville, hastily.
“All about her!” returned Peg, emphatically.
“How am I to know that? It is easy to claim the knowledge.”
“Shall I tell you all? In the first place she married your cousin, after rejecting you. You never forgave her for this. When a year after marriage her husband died, you renewed your proposals. They were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain of forfeiting her friendship forever. You left her presence, determined to be revenged. With this object you sought Dick and myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. There is the whole story, briefly told.”
John Somerville listened, with compressed lips and pale face.
“Woman, how came this within your knowledge?” he demanded, coarsely.
“That is of no consequence,” said Peg. “It was for my interest to find out, and I did so.”
“Well?”
“I know one thing more—the residence of the child’s mother. I hesitated this morning whether to come here, or carry Ida to her mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what I demand from you, because it is your interest to comply with my request.”
“You speak of carrying the child to her mother. She is in New York.”
“You are mistaken,” said Peg, coolly. “She is in Philadelphia.”
“With you?”
“With me.”
“How long has this been?”
“Nearly a fortnight.”
John Somerville paced the room with hurried steps. Peg watched him carelessly. She felt that she had succeeded. He paused after awhile, and stood before her.
“You demand a thousand dollars,” he said.
“I do.”
“I have not that amount with me. I have recently lost a heavy sum, no matter how. But I can probably get it to-day. Call to-morrow at this time,—no, in the afternoon, and I will see what I can do for you.”
“Very well,” said Peg.
Left to himself, John Somerville spent some time in reflection. Difficulties encompassed him—difficulties from which he found it hard to find a way of escape. He knew how impossible it would be to meet this woman’s demand. Something must be done. Gradually his countenance lightened. He had decided what that something should be.
