The Edward S. Ellis Megapack

by Edward S. Ellis

  It was important that the two clerks sleeping upstairs should not be awakened; for they were not only likely to begin shooting, if they heard intruders below, but, of necessity, would learn of the project which the detective and the merchant had in mind.

  Every foot was familiar to Mr. Warmore, who reached the large main room of his establishment without mishap. Lathewood did the same, by keeping close to him, and feeling each inch of the way.

  Here there was a light burning; and they had to be extremely careful, since their movements could be seen by any one passing the front. The opportunities, however, for concealment were so good that they readily secured a place where they could sit down behind the far end of the counter, and remain unobserved in comfort. This was done, and the trying wait began.

  The detective was so accustomed to that sort of thing, that he remained cool and collected. He would have liked to smoke a cigar to help while away the time, but was too wise to attempt anything of the kind. The odor of tobacco would be certain to warn any one who entered by means of the front door.

  Mr. Warmore was nervous, for the experience was new to him. He succeeded by a great effort in keeping himself well in hand, venturing only to whisper a word now and then.

  “You don’t think he is likely to come in the back way?” he asked in a guarded undertone.

  “There is not the slightest danger of his doing so. That would look suspicious. He will use the front door, so, if seen and challenged, he will be ready with the excuse that he has called on legitimate business of his own. At the same time, he will try to manage it so as not to be observed by any one. That watchman of yours is not the keenest-eyed fellow in the world.”

  Some time later, just as the town clock finished booming the hour of midnight, the officer touched the arm of his companion, who said,—

  “I haven’t noticed anything; what is it?”

  “Did you hear some one walk past?”

  “Yes; the footfall sounded plainly enough: what of it?”

  “That is the third time that man has gone by. He is on the alert.”

  “It may have been different persons.”

  “It was the same man—sh! there he comes on the porch.”

  In the stillness of the night the sound was plainly heard. The next moment a key turned in the lock of the door, which was silently shoved inward.

  The visitor, whoever he was, acted with the coolness of a professional. He entered by the main door, so, if it chanced that any one saw him, he could explain the cause of his visit. At the same time, he made as sure as was possible that no one did see him. Knowing the movements of the watchman, he waited until he was out of the way, with the certainty that he would not be back again under a half-hour at the least. That interval was more than sufficient to do all that he had in mind, and to take his departure.

  He opened the door so quietly that, but for the warning rattle of the key, it would have been hard for the watchers to hear him. Almost before they knew it he stood inside with the door closed. Here the light fell upon him, and revealed his identity to the men at the rear.

  Neither was surprised. Although they had not mentioned their suspicions to each other, both were morally certain the thief would prove to be the man whom they now identified. G. Field Catherwood.

  Walking quickly and softly across the floor to the private office, which opened off from the other end of the counter, the prospective partner of the business stooped down, turned the shining knob of the safe round until the right combination had been struck, and swung back the immense, massive door. Then from an inner drawer he drew the merchant’s bank-book, in which were clasped several hundred dollars in bills. Two of the largest denomination—fifty each—were withdrawn, and the book returned to its place.

  No veteran could have been cooler than Catherwood. He looked and acted no more like the exquisite on the steamboat than did Tom Gordon himself. He was the sleek, cunning, hypocritical villain he had always been, stealing, not because he was in need of money, but because it was his nature to do so.

  “Well, Mr. Catherwood, it looks as if the account will be a little short tomorrow!”

  The miscreant started as if he had heard the warning of a rattlesnake at his feet. Turning like a flash, he saw Mr. Warmore standing at his elbow. Had he received but a few seconds’ notice, he might have tried to bluff it out, by pretending he had come to look after some matters about which he was not fully satisfied. Holding the situation he did in the establishment, he could feel certain no one would suspect him of any sinister purpose.

  But the exposure dropped like a thunderbolt. He had not an instant to prepare himself. He was caught in the act, and could explain nothing.

  Mr. Warmore, upon seeing who the thief was, whispered to the detective,—

  “Leave him to me; don’t show yourself, unless he resists.”

  Before the shivering rogue could make protest, the merchant, suppressing his anger, said with a coolness which surprised himself as much as it did the officer crouching a few paces away, with his hand on his revolver,—

  “We will call the amount stolen an even thousand dollars, Mr. Catherwood. How soon will you be prepared to restore it?”

  “Why—why—why—”

  “As a beginning, suppose you return that which you have just taken.”

  Catherwood did as ordered without a word.

  “Now re-lock the safe. Be sure you have the right combination. No one knows it besides you and me. I will give you a week in which to send back the rest.”

  G. Field Catherwood was recovering his nerve. He was furious with himself that he had been so completely knocked out.

  “Suppose I don’t choose to return it, what then?”

  “It will be ten years or more in State prison.”

  “Bah! you will have a sweet time proving anything against me.”

  “I have a witness at hand.”

  “W-w-what!”

  “Give me the word and I’ll have the nippers on him before you can say Jack Robinson.”

  The detective, without rising to his feet or allowing himself to be seen, uttered these words in such a sepulchral tone that they almost lifted the hair on the head of the criminal. He started, and stared affrightedly back in the gloom.

  “What do you say?” asked the merchant.

  “It’s all right; it’s all right. I’ll send it to you as soon as I can get back to the city. Don’t be too hard on a fellow, Warmore. I declare—”

  “Enough has been said. Now go!”

  He went.

  “You are too tender-hearted,” remarked Detective Lathewood, when he and Mr. Warmore were walking homeward.

  “Perhaps I am; but mean as is the man, I shuddered at the thought of disgracing and ruining him for life.”

  “But it was he, not you, who does that.”

  “True; I know that’s the way you officers of the law look at it. But this is not the first time I have had dealings with young men who have yielded to temptation. I think it is safer to err on the side of charity than that of sternness. It is better to reform than to punish a man.”

  “Do you think you have reformed that specimen?”

  “Far from it; he is the most contemptible scoundrel I ever knew. He is rich, and therefore has no excuse for stealing. Worse than all, he tried to ruin a young man whose shoe-latchet he is not worthy to unloose.”

  “So you unloose him. But let him go. He is certain not to trouble you or any of your family again.”

  Two days later Mr. Warmore received a certified check for nine hundred dollars; and thus the account between him and G. Field Catherwood was closed. He was never seen in Bellemore again. Ten years later he died, while travelling abroad with a woman whom he had made his wife. Then, for the first time, Tom Gordon learned the particulars of the night when Mr. Warmore assisted the detective.

  Let us take one more, and the final, leap forward. Three years have passed since Tom Gordon checked runaway Jack, and saved the life of pretty Jennie Warmo
re. They have been three years of undimmed happiness to both; for during the last one of those years they two became man and wife.

  Oh, it all came about so naturally, that you would not care to know the particulars. Tom was given a share in the business which he had done so much to develop; and on the day previous to his wedding his prospective father-in-law presented him with a half interest, thus insuring him a handsome income for life.

  Tom made one condition, which was carried out in spirit and letter. Mr. Pitcairn, from whose hospitable roof he took his final departure, was to have all the groceries, dry-goods, and every sort of supplies from the store as long as he lived, without paying one penny therefor. And it is a pleasure to record that this arrangement continued without break until the old couple were finally laid to rest in the churchyard beside poor Jim Travers who had passed on long before.

  Among the wedding presents to the bride was the locket and chain which she herself had taken from her neck years previous, when drowning in the North River, and linked about the button on the coat of her rescuer. She and her parents were amazed beyond measure as they stood with only her smiling husband present, examining the treasure.

  “It is the same,” said the wondering mother, opening the locket, and looking at the childish features, “the very one you wore about your neck on that awful night.”

  “But where did it come from?” asked the father, taking it from his wife’s hand, and examining it with an interest that can hardly be described.

  “There is no name with it,” added Jennie, “and—do you know anything about it, Tom?” she asked abruptly, turning short upon him.

  “Didn’t I tell you years ago, when you related the story, that the boy would turn up sooner or later. Well, he has done so, and what of it?”

  “But where is he?”

  He opened his arms, and the proud, happy bride rushed into his embrace, while the parents stared, not able quite to understand what it all meant.

  “Yes,” said he, looking around, “I was the fortunate boy who jumped into the water after you, and found that chain wound round the button of my coat. I have kept it and the locket ever since, but I never knew you were the original until I heard the story from your lips.”

  “You scamp!” exclaimed Mr. Warmore. “And you never said a word about it.”

  “Yes, you mean fellow, why didn’t you tell us?” demanded Jennie, disposed to pout.

  “You were sure you would know the young gentleman; and I meant that if I ever gained your love you should love me for myself, and not for any accident of the past.”

  “But—but how jolly it would have been if we had known it was you! For you see I have had two heroes all along. One was you, and the other was that unknown boy who took a plunge in the icy river for my sake.”

  “You may have those two heroes still,” said Tom.

  “So I have; but now the two are one.”

  “And so are we,” he added, touching his lips to the sweet mouth that did not refuse to meet them.

  “And any way, I could not love you a bit more than I have all along.”

  And the grateful, happy fellow, in looking back over his stormy boyhood and young manhood, and feeling how strongly he had striven at all times to live by the Golden Rule, knew in his heart that it was to that fact that he had Fought the Battle that Won.

  THE CAMPERS OUT

  OR, THE RIGHT PATH AND THE WRONG

  CHAPTER I

  THE PLOTTERS

  Jim McGovern was poring over his lesson one afternoon in the Ashton public school, perplexed by the thought that unless he mastered the problem on which he was engaged he would be kept after the dismissal of the rest, when he was startled by the fall of a twisted piece of paper on his slate.

  He looked around to learn its starting point, when he observed Tom Wagstaff, who was seated on the other side of the room, peeping over the top of his book at him. Tom gave a wink which said plainly enough that it was he who had flipped the message so dexterously across the intervening space.

  Jim next glanced at the teacher, who was busy with a small girl that had gone to his desk for help in her lessons. The coast being clear, so to speak, he unfolded the paper and read:

  Meat Bill Waylett and me after scool at the cross roads, for the bizness is of the utmoast importants dont fale to be there for the iurn is hot and we must strike before it gits cool.

  Tom.

  The meaning of this note, despite its Volapük construction, was clear, and Jim felt that he must be on hand at all hazards.

  So the urchin applied himself with renewed vigor to his task, and, mastering it, found himself among the happy majority that were allowed to leave school at the hour of dismissal. A complication, however, arose from the fact that the writer of the note was one of those who failed with his lesson, and was obliged to stay with a half-dozen others until he recited it correctly.

  Thus it happened that Jim McGovern and Billy Waylett, after sauntering to the crossroads, which had been named as the rendezvous, and waiting until the rest of the pupils appeared, found themselves without their leader.

  But they were not compelled to wait long, when the lad, who was older than they, was seen hurrying along the highway, eager to meet and explain to them the momentous business that had led him to call this special meeting.

  “Fellers,” said he, as he came panting up, “let’s climb over the fence and go among the trees.”

  “What for?” asked Billy Waylett.

  “It won’t do for anybody to hear us.”

  “Well, they won’t hear us,” observed Jim McGovern, “if we stay here, for we can see any one a half mile off.”

  “But they might sneak up when we wasn’t watching,” insisted the ringleader, who proceeded to scale the fence in the approved style of boyhood, the others following him.

  Tom led the way for some distance among the trees, and then, when he came to a halt, peered among the branches overhead, and between and behind the trunks, to make sure no cowens were in the neighborhood.

  Finally, everything was found to be as he wished, and he broke the important tidings in guarded undertones.

  “I say, boys, are you both going to stick?”

  “You bet we are,” replied Billy, while Jim nodded his head several times to give emphasis to his answer.

  “Well, don’t you think the time has come to strike?”

  “I’ve been thinking so for two—three weeks,” said Billy.

  “What I asked you two to meet me here for was to tell you that I’ve made up my mind we must make a move. Old Mr. Stearns, our teacher, is getting meaner every day; he gives us harder lessons than ever, and this afternoon he piled it on so heavy I had to stay after you fellers left. If Sam Bascomb hadn’t sot behind me, and whispered two or three of them words, I would have been stuck there yet.”

  “He come mighty nigh catching me, too,” observed Jim McGovern.

  “You know we’ve made up our minds to go West to shoot Injuns, and the time has come to go.”

  The sparkle of the other boys’ eyes and the flush upon their ruddy faces showed the pleasure which this announcement caused. The bliss of going West to reduce the population of our aborigines had been in their dreams for months, and they were impatient with their chosen leader that he had deferred the delight so long. They were happy to learn at last that the delay was at an end.

  “Now I want to know how you fellers have made out,” said Tom, with an inquiring look from one to the other.

  “I guess you’ll find we’ve done purty well,” said Jim; “anyways I know I have; I stole my sister’s gold watch the other night and sold it to a peddler for ten dollars.”

  “What did you do with the ten dollars?”

  “I bought a revolver and a lot of cartridges. Oh! I tell you I’m primed and ready, and I’m in favor of not leaving a single Injun in the West!”

  “Them’s my idees,” chimed Billy Waylett.

  “Well, how have you made out, Billy?”

&n
bsp; “I got hold of father’s watch, day before yesterday, but he catched me when I was sneaking out of the house and wanted to know what I was up to. I told him I thought it needed cleaning and was going to take it down to the jeweler’s to have it ’tended to.”

  “Well, what then?”

  Billy sighed as he said, meekly:

  “Father said he guessed I was the one that needed ’tending to, and he catched me by the nape of the neck, and, boys, was you ever whipped with a skate strap?”

  His friends shook their heads as an intimation that they had never been through that experience.

  “Well, I hope you never will; but, say,” he added, brightening up,“mother has a way of leaving her pocket-book layin’ round that’s awful mean, ’cause it sets a fellow to wishing for it. Pop makes her an allowance of one hundred dollars a month to run things, and last night I scooped twenty dollars out of her pocket-book, when it laid on the bureau in her room.”

  “Did she find it out?” asked Tom Wagstaff.

  “Didn’t she? Well, you had better believe she did, and she raised Cain, but I fixed things.”

  “How?” asked his companions, deeply interested.

  “I told her I seen Kate, our hired girl, coming out of the room on tip-toe, just after dark. Then mother went for Kate, and she cried and said she wouldn’t do a thing like that to save her from starving. It didn’t do no good, for mother bounced her.”

  No thought of the burning injustice done an honest servant entered the thought of any one of the three boys. They chuckled and laughed, and agreed that the trick was one of the brightest of the kind they had ever known. Could the other two have done as well, the party would have been on their Westward jaunt at that moment.

  “I’ve sometimes thought,” said Tom Wagstaff, “that the old folks must have a ’spicion of what’s going on, for they watch me so close that I haven’t had a chance to steal a dollar, and you know it will never do to start without plenty of money; but I’ve a plan that’ll fetch ’em,” he added, with a meaning shake of his head.