Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “Cheer up, dear,” said Phœbe, when their cousin had gone in. “Didn’t I promise to save you?”

  “Yes; but you can’t do that, little sister. No one can save me.”

  “There is one way,” announced the girl, decidedly.

  Phil sat thinking.

  “Yes,” he said; “if Eric would confess, that would end it all. Do you imagine he will?”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Nor I. I have thought of everything; but the snare is too strong to be broken.”

  Phœbe did not reply at once. She sat looking out into the night, lost in thought. Presently she roused herself and whispered:

  “Phil, will you take a little walk with me?”

  “I don’t mind. I’m not liable to sleep much tonight, so there’s little use in going to bed.”

  “Wait for me a moment” she said.

  Phil waited. She soon returned with a bulky newspaper packet partly concealed beneath her cloak.

  Together they strolled down the street toward the town. It was after ten o’ clock, and on Sunday evening Riverdale was like a deserted village.

  “We’re getting to be regular night owls, aren’t we?” asked Phœbe, with a nervous tremor in her voice.

  “Yes, indeed. But why are we prowling around town to-night? Wouldn’t it be more pleasant to walk in the lanes?”

  “We’re going to the bank,” said the girl.

  Phil stopped short to look at her, but the overhanging branches of a tree hid her face. With a sigh he walked on, deciding to let her have her way. But he could think of no good reason for this absurd whim.

  When they reached the bank Phœbe said:

  “We will go in, Phil. Unlock the door.”

  Mechanically he obeyed. Dully he wondered what she was going to do. But it did not matter, and he would soon know.

  “Now,” continued the girl, when they were inside, “open the safe.”

  “Why, Phœbe!” he gasped, glancing at her fearfully. “You’ re not going to — ”

  “No; I’m not going to rob Mr. Spaythe. Open the safe, Phil — quick!”

  He leaned over and set the combination. Then slowly the heavy door swung open.

  Phœbe breathed a sigh of relief. Hastily unwrapping her bundle she placed a bag of gold on one shelf and a thick packet of bank bills on another — in just the places from whence Eric had abstracted the money the night before.

  “All right, dear; you may lock the safe now.”

  Phil was bewildered. His eyes roamed from his sister’s smiling face to the safe, and back again.

  “Wha — what have you done?” he stammered.

  “I’ve restored the missing cash. Lock the safe, Phil, before it’s robbed again.”

  “Phœbe!”

  “Don’t look so wild, dear. Can’t you understand you are saved — that there will be no exposure of a theft to-morrow morning? Lock the safe, and let us go home.”

  He could not realize it, even yet. Still dazed and wondering he locked the safe and followed Phœbe into the street. They were halfway home before he asked:

  “Where did you find Erie?”

  “I haven’t seen Eric,” she replied.

  “Then where did the money come from?”

  “It’s my secret, Phil; you mustn’t ask.”

  “But I must know, Phœbe. Why, it’s — it’s amazing!”

  “Seems so, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s impossible! Three thousand — ”

  “ — Three hundred and ninety dollars,” she interrupted, with a laugh. “It’s all there, dear; all back in the safe.”

  “It’s a fortune! Where did you get it?” he persisted.

  “Now, Phil, I’ve forbidden you to ask questions, and I mean it,” she declared, very seriously. “It is a secret which I can’t reveal. Not now, anyway.”

  “Did Cousin Judith — ”

  “It’s no use, dear; I won’t tell.”

  He strode along in silence, wondering if it were really true. They were dreadfully poor, he knew, and Cousin Judith’s money was tied up in an annuity. Where could Phœbe obtain three thousand, three hundred and ninety dollars in currency? — and on Sunday, too! Suddenly a thought caused him to start.

  “You haven’t borrowed it of the Randolphs?” he demanded in a horrified tone.

  The suggestion made Phœbe laugh again.

  “Guess away!” she said, lightly.

  “We would never be able to repay such a loan — not for years and years, if at all,” he said miserably.

  “That need not worry you,” she observed. “Why don’t you give it up, Phil? Be content until the time comes when I can tell you everything. It’s the best way. Can’t you trust me — Phœbe — your twin?”

  He caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, while the first sense of freedom he had experienced since the robbery swept over him.

  “Trust you? Of course I can, my darling!” he said.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR

  Phil had a restless night; but he slept a little, nevertheless. His chief source of worry had been removed by his sister’s mysterious action, yet the wonderment of it all remained, carrying with it an intense excitement whenever he thought of the probable outcome of this strange adventure.

  On Monday morning he was up bright and early, anxiously awaiting the time to go to work. Phœbe, looking at him with wistful eyes, kissed her brother good-by and said:

  “Good luck, Phil. Whatever happens, remember that I, and all who love you, will stand by you to the end.”

  But nothing exceptional happened at the bank.

  Mr. Boothe, looking a little more pale and worn than usual, arrived at the same time Phil did, and while he was carrying the cash from the safe to his cage, preparatory to counting it, Eric sauntered in and took his seat at the desk.

  He gave his fellow clerk a brief nod and looked curiously at Mr. Boothe. Said Phil, attempting to be cordial:

  “Back from St. Louis already, Eric?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you find Ned Thurber?”

  “Oh, Ned’s all right.”

  “When did you get home?”

  “Six, this morning.”

  Usually talkative, Eric seemed determined to be chary of speech on this occasion; but perhaps he was absorbed in watching Boothe count the money, for he never took his eyes off the cashier.

  In his usual careful, painstaking manner, Boothe first counted the checks, drafts, and other notes of exchange, checking them off on the tally sheet beside him. Then he began on the currency. As packet after packet of the bank bills was counted and laid aside Eric grew nervous and his breath came in short gasps. He pretended to be bending over his books, but Phil saw the exhibition of nervous fear and was not without a share of excitement himself.

  Check!

  Eric grew pale and then red. He was astounded. Mr. Boothe rapidly counted the gold contained in the four sacks — positively, there were four, Eric noted with dismay, and there should have been but three. He saw the cashier pick up his pencil, glance at the tally sheet and check the amount as correct.

  Eric swayed and almost fell from his stool. Great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.

  “Everything seems to check up all right,” called the cashier from his cage, speaking in a calm voice. “You Ve kept things pretty straight, Eric.”

  “Good; very good!” cried a deep voice, and the two clerks were for the first time aware that Mr. Spaythe stood in the open door of his office watching the scene.

  “Seems as if you could almost get on without me, sir,” said the cashier, apologetically.

  “No,” answered the banker, “your absence caused us all a lot of extra work and worry — especially Phil.’’ He came around to young Daring’s side, put on his glasses and began a calm but thorough examination of the ledgers.” Feeling better this morning, Mr. Boothe?” he asked, without looking at the man.

  “Quite myself again, sir
.”

  Phil stood aside, for it was evident Mr. Spaythe wished to carefully compare the books. Daring had been obliged to make entries in both his own set and Eric’s during the past few days; but there was little to criticise, he felt, and he welcomed the examination.

  Meantime Erie sat as if turned to stone, pale and red by turns, the perspiration oozing from every pore. His eyes, as they fell upon his father, were full of terror; when he looked at Phil it was with suspicion and fear combined. For a moment’s thought had convinced Eric that his theft had been discovered. How, or in what way, he had not the faintest idea. Until now, he had confidently believed he had covered up every trace of the crime with supreme cleverness. Yet in his brief absence someone had detected the robbery and replaced the money in the safe so that Mr. Boothe would find the bank’s accounts correct.

  There was only one person able to do this — his father. For it was not to be supposed for an instant that Phil Daring, or any of his friends, could raise so large a sum without recourse to the bank itself.

  Then came the thought that if Mr. Spaythe was aware of his son’s embezzlement, someone had betrayed Eric to him. The traitor could be none other than Phil Daring, the one he had naturally expected would be accused of the crime.

  Hardly knowing which way to turn or what to do or say, reading condemnation in every face and fearing exposure at any moment, Eric Spaythe was indeed in a pitiable plight. Why was his father inspecting the books so carefully? It could not be that he mistrusted Phil. Was he then looking for those former defalcations of which his son had been guilty? Eric had intended to accuse Phil of those things, when the logical time came. Perhaps Phil knew that, and had saved himself by denouncing Eric.

  There was nothing to be learned from Daring’s face. It was grave and serene, as if he had the situation well in hand. Mr. Spaythe seemed stern and vigilant, his practised eye running up and down the entries, observing every item with intelligent care. Boothe was imperturbable as ever and paid no attention to the group in the back room.

  Eric writhed on his stool and kept silent. He was fully prepared for the impending denunciation and intended to deny everything and stick to the lie to the last. But no denunciation came.

  Mr. Spaythe finished his examination and then turned to Phil with a satisfied nod.

  “Daring,” said he, “you have done well — very well indeed, considering your brief experience. I believe you are destined to prove of considerable future value to this bank, and hereafter your salary will be fifteen dollars a week.”

  Without a word or a look toward his son he re-entered his office and closed the door. He was still angry with Eric for foolishly making that long and expensive trip to St. Louis for a day’s stay, and moreover he resented the unkind insinuations his son had made about young Daring’s honesty. But Eric attributed his father’s displeasure to entirely different causes.

  Phil resumed his work, paying no attention to his companion. Eric waited for a while for him to speak, and then grew savage.

  “Think you’ve caught me at it, I suppose!” he growned, with reckless disregard of the fact that he had betrayed himself. The restoration of the money was evidence enough that the cat was out of the bag.

  “You are caught, Eric,” was the quiet answer. “There is no need for me to assure you of that.”

  Eric glared.

  “Where’s the proof?” he demanded, uneasily.

  Phil looked up with a smile.

  “Has it never occurred to you that money may be marked, and also a record kept of the numbers of bank notes?”

  “Oh, that was it, was it?” returned the other, plainly discomfited by the suggestion, which had been hazarded merely to tease him. “Then you’ve been trying to trap me for a long time, it seems. Grateful return for my getting you the job here, isn’t it?”

  “I haven’t trapped you at all, Eric. The fault is your own from beginning to end,” said Phil, seriously.

  Eric walked to the window and stood looking ont. He was trying to understand why his father had not frankly accused him of stealing the money. The banker’s reticence was vastly more terrifying to the boy than prompt exposure and denunciation would have been. Perhaps he had hesitated to let the world know that his only son was a thief. Yes; that must be the explanation. Therefore, Eric was destined to receive his scourging in the private office, and he experienced a distinct sense of relief at this thought, for he could stand any paternal tongue-lashing if his disgrace was but kept from the knowledge of his fellows. Eric’s disgrace would mean to an extent his father’s disgrace. Come to think of it, he had no great cause to worry, in any event. His protection lay in his father’s regard for his own good name.

  Following this clue, Eric decided that Phil Daring’s raise of salary was merely a bribe not to expose the secret. But the culprit’s momentary satisfaction in this solution of the problem was promptly dampened when he remembered another of Mr. Spaythe’s characteristics — to let no fault go unpunished. He well knew his father’s stern nature, and shuddered a little as he wondered what punishment would be decreed for so grave an offense.

  “What’s the program, Phil?” he inquired, coming back to the desk.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not in the gov’nor’s confidence, eh?”

  “Not entirely, I imagine.”

  Eric stared at him thoughtfully. Strangely enough, Daring had not reproached him or gloated over his downfall. Daring had always been a very decent fellow. Perhaps he would prove a friend, even yet. Eric’s attitude changed from one of defiance to that of entreaty.

  “We’ve always been pretty good chums, Phil,” he said, in a hesitating tone. “Tell me what to do, there’s a good fellow.”

  Phil reflected.

  “You might help yourself in one way,” he suggested.

  “What is it?”

  “Have you any of that money left?”

  Eric nodded, trying to read the other’s solemn face.

  “Then I advise you to fix up those little irregularities in the books.”

  “What irregularities?”

  “That check of Mrs. Randolph’s, for instance. It will be sent to her the first of the month, and she will claim it’s a forgery. Then, there’s that deposit of Martin’s, and several other little things. It would be policy for you to straighten out those tangles at once, Eric, before you are made to do it.”

  Eric pondered a while, then drew a sheet of paper toward him and began to figure. He seemed pleased with the results and at once set to work to correct the books. It took him until noon to finish his task, for he had undertaken a delicate matter, and some transactions were difficult to cover up or gloss over.

  While Mr. Boothe was at dinner Eric took occasion to make the cash straight, in such a way that it would not arouse the cashier’s suspicion. Phil took no part in the matter and let Eric make restitution in his own way.

  “I’ve made good, Phil,” the young culprit whispered, eagerly. “Every customer’s account is now as square as a die, as far as I know, and I’ve charged my own account with some of the withdrawals and credited it with the money I’ve just turned over to the bank.”

  “I’m glad of that,” said Phil, greatly relieved. But he spoke coldly, for he knew the banker’s son had acted only from fear, and not because it was the right thing to do. Involuntarily, however, Eric had saved Phil Daring from the possibility of being accused of those dangerous defalcations.

  During the afternoon Eric glanced continually at the door of his father’s office, expecting any moment a summons into that stern presence. The strain upon his nerves was terrible, and Phil knew that he was already beginning to suffer punishment. At one time Eric asked anxiously:

  “What ought I to do with the rest of the money, Phil?”

  “I don’t know,’ was the reply; for Phil thought of Phœbe and her secret and was unable to advise Eric because he had no idea where the money had come from that his sister had put in the safe.

  CHAPTER XXr />
  ACCUSED

  Phœbe had been watching impatiently for her brother’s return and ran to meet him. He told her of the scene at the bank — of Eric’s astonishment and terror, and how Mr. Spaythe had raised Phil’s salary quite materially. Then he related the manner in which he had worked upon the culprit’s fears and induced him to apply a part of the stolen money to replacing his former embezzlements, thus saving Phil from the possibilities of future complications.

  Tears stood in Phœbe’s eyes as she murmured:” I’mso glad. Oh, I’m so glad!”

  “But the greatest mystery is not yet cleared up,” said her brother. “I’mas much as ever in the dark concerning your own share in this puzzling affair. Phœbe, where did that money come from?”

  She shook her head, smiling through her tears, and accompanied him to dinner. But afterward, when Phil had gone back to work, the girl sat in her room facing the consequences of her act. Con-

  science stirred at last and gained control of her and its vivid accusations made her cringe. Her dearly beloved brother, her twin, had been saved from impending disgrace, but in saving him Phœbe had herself been guilty of a theft equal to that of Eric Spaythe. She had robbed her grandfather in exactly the same way that he had robbed his father, and if Eric had earned such bitter condemnation, Phœbe could not expect to escape censure. True, their motives were different. Eric stole for selfish reasons; Phœbe, to save her twin from unmerited obloquy.

  Searching her heart with candid inquiry, she wondered if she were really guilty of a crime. Civil laws might condemn her, but would not the great moral laws of humanity uphold her for what she had done?

  “I’m not wicked, I know,” she told herself, positively. “I have wronged no one by my act. There is more than enough of Gran’pa Eliot’s hoard remaining to last him during his brief lifetime. And what better use could a share of that idle money be put to than saving his grandson from humiliation and shame?”

  But, Phœbe’s obdurate conscience was not to be appeased by such sophistry as this. “What right had you to take that money? — what right had you?” the small voice constantly asked, and at last she grew distressed by the vague, yet persistent fear that she had done an evil deed that good might come of it. Was that a sufficient excuse? she asked herself, and feared it was not.