Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World

CHAPTER XXIII.
THROUGH THE GOLDEN GATE

“Well, this is certainly a remarkable letter,” said the reporter, as he handed it back to Dodger. “I am at a loss to understand the interest which this man appears to feel in you.”

“I look upon him as my enemy,” said Dodger. “But an enemy doesn’t spend so much money upon another as he has.”

“Unless he has object in it,” amended Leslie, shrewdly. “Do you know of any connection this man has with you?”

“No; I never heard of him until I entered his house,” and Dodger flushed as he thought that his entrance into the mansion on Madison Avenue had been as a burglar.

“It seems to me that he knows more about you than you do about him. It also seems to me that he is anxious to get you out of New York, the farther the better.”

“But what harm could I do him in New York?” asked Dodger, puzzled.

“That is the question which I cannot answer. You say he was instrumental in getting his Cousin Florence out of the house?”

“Yes; he wanted to marry her.”

“And she would not consent?”

“No; I think she hates him.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen.”

“And he?”

“He looks about thirty-five.”

“The difference in years isn’t great enough to constitute an obstacle, provided she loved him. I am thirty years old.”

“I am sure Florence would prefer you to Curtis Waring.”

“Don’t flatter me. I am vain enough already. The time may come when I may ask your good offices with Miss Linden. What I was about to ask was: Is Miss Linden also entitled to a share in her uncle’s estate?”

“She is just as nearly related to him as Mr. Waring.”

“Then I can understand his wishing to get rid of her. I don’t know why he should want to send you to a distance. I suppose there can’t be any relationship?”

“Is it likely that I—a poor street boy—should be related to a rich man like Mr. Linden?”

“It doesn’t seem likely, I admit,” said Leslie, musingly. “Well, I suppose,” he continued, after a pause, “there is no use in speculating about the matter now. The important point is, what are we to do with ourselves during the four or five months we must spend on shipboard?”

“I don’t know what I can do,” said Dodger. “I can’t sell papers, and I can’t smash baggage.”

“And there appears to be no need of your doing either, as you are provided with board and lodging till we reach shore.”

“That seems strange to me, for I’ve always had to hustle for a living.”

“I was about to make a proposal to you. But first let me ask you about your education. I suppose you are not an accomplished scholar?”

“I’m about as ignorant as they make ’em,” answered Dodger, drolly. “Tim was afraid to send me to college, for fear I’d get to know too much for my business.”

“Tending bar does not require an acquaintance with Latin and Greek. Would you like to know more?”

“I wish I did. Florence was teaching me nights when I was in New York. Now I’ve got to give up all that.”

“Not necessarily. Listen to me, Arthur. Before I came to New York to go into journalism, I taught school for two years; and I believe I may say that I was tolerably successful. Suppose I take you as a scholar?”

“I should like it very much, Mr. Leslie, but I’m afraid I haven’t got money enough to pay you.”

“That is true. You will need all the money you have when you land in California. Twenty-five dollars won’t go far—still you have all the money that is necessary, for I do not intend to charge you anything.”

“You are very kind to me, Mr. Leslie, considerin’ you don’t know me,” said Dodger, gratefully.

“On the contrary, I think I know you very well. But about the kindness—my motives are somewhat mixed. I should like to do you a service, but I should also like to find employment for myself that will make the days less monotonous. I have a collection of books in my trunk, enough for our needs, and if you will agree we will commence our studies to-morrow.”

“I should like it very much. I’d like to show Florence, when I see her, that I have improved. Till I saw her I didn’t care much, but when I talk with her I feel awfully ignorant.”

“In four months a great deal can be accomplished. I don’t know how quick you are to learn. After we have had one or two lessons I can judge better.”

Two days later Mr. Leslie pronounced his opinion, and a favorable one.

“You have not exaggerated your ignorance,” he said to Dodger. “You have a great deal to learn, but on the other hand you are quick, have a retentive memory, and are very anxious to learn. I shall make something of you.”

“I learn faster with you than with Florence,” said Dodger.

“Probably she would succeed better with girls, but I hold that a male teacher is better for boys. How long are you willing to study every day?”

“As long as you think best.”

“Then we will say from two to three hours. I think you have talent for arithmetic. I don’t expect to make you fit for a bookkeeper, but I hope to make you equal to most office boys by the time we reach San Francisco. What do you intend to do in California?”

“I don’t know. I should like to go back to New York, but I shall not have money enough.”

“No; twenty-five dollars would go but a little way toward the passage. Evidently Mr. Waring did not intend to have you return, or he would have provided you with more.”

“That is just why I should like to go back. I am afraid he will do some harm to Florence.”

“And you would like to be on hand to protect her?”

“Yes.”

Randolph Leslie smiled.

“You seem to take a great deal of interest in Florence, if I may make as free with her name as you do.”

“Yes; I do, Mr. Leslie.”

“If you were only a little older I might suspect the nature of that interest.”

“I am older than she is.”

“In years, yes. But a young lady of seventeen, brought up as she has been, is older by years than a boy of eighteen. I don’t think you need apprehend any harm to Miss Linden, except that Mr. Waring may cheat her out of her rightful share of the inheritance. Is her uncle in good health?”

“No, sir; he is a very feeble man.”

“Is he an old man?”

“Not so very old. I don’t believe he is over sixty.”

Really Mr. Linden was but fifty-four, but, being a confirmed invalid, he looked older.

“Should you say that he was likely to live very long?”

“No,” answered Dodger. “He looks as if you could knock him over with a feather. Besides, I’ve heard Florence say that she was afraid her uncle could not live long.”

“Probably Curtis Waring is counting upon this. If he can keep Florence and her uncle apart for a few months, Mr. Linden will die, and he will inherit the whole estate. What is this will he speaks of in the letter you showed me?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Whatever the provisions are, it is evident that he thinks it important to get it into his possession. If favorable to him, he will keep it carefully. If unfavorable, I think a man like him would not hesitate to suppress it.”

“No doubt you are right, sir. I don’t know much about wills,” said Dodger.

“No; I suppose not. You never made any, I suppose,” remarked the reporter, with a smile.

“I never had nothing to leave,” said Dodger.

“Anything would be a better expression. As your tutor I feel it incumbent upon me to correct your grammar.”

“I wish you would, Mr. Leslie. What do you mean to do when you get to San Francisco?”

“I shall seek employment on one of the San Farncisco daily papers. Six months or a year so spent will restore my health, and enable me to live without drawing upon my moderate savings.”

“I expect I shall have to work, too, to get money to take me back to New York.”

And now we must ask the reader to imagine four months and one week passed.

There had been favorable weather on the whole, and the voyage was unusually short.

Dodger and the reporter stood on deck, and with eager interest watched the passage through the Golden Gate. A little later and the queen city of the Pacific came in sight, crowning the hill on which a part of the city is built, with the vast Palace Hotel a conspicuous object in the foreground.

CHAPTER XXIV.
FLORENCE IN SUSPENSE

We must now return to New York to Dodger’s old home.

When he did not return at the usual hour, neither Florence nor Mrs. O’Keefe was particularly disturbed.

It was thought that he had gone on some errand of unusual length, and would return an hour or two late.

Eight o’clock came, the hour at which the boy was accustomed to repair to Florence’s room to study, and still he didn’t make his appearance.

“Dodger’s late this evening, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Florence, going up to the room of her landlady.

“Shure he is. It’s likely he’s gone to Brooklyn or up to Harlem, wid a bundle. He’ll be comin’ in soon.”

“I hope he will be well paid for the errand, since it keeps him so long.”

“I hope so, too, Florence, for he’s a good boy, is Dodger. Did I tell you how he served the rapscallion that tried to stale my apples the other day?”

“No; I would like to hear it.”

“A big, black-bearded man came along, and asked me for an apple.

“ ‘You can have one for two pennies,’ says I.

“ ‘But I haven’t got them,’ says he.

“ ‘Then you must go widout it,’ says I.

“ ‘We’ll see about that,’ says he.

“And what do you think?—the fellow picked out one of my biggest apples, and was walkin’ away! That made me mad.

“ ‘Come back, you thafe of the worruld!’ says I.

“ ‘Silence, you old hag!’ says he.

“Actilly he called me an old hag! I wanted to go after him, but there was two hoodlums hangin’ round, and I knew they’d carry off some of my apples, when, just as I was at my wits’ end, Dodger came round the corner.

“ ‘Dodger,’ I screamed, ‘go after that man! He’s taken one of my apples, widout lave or license!’

“Upon that, Dodger, brave as a lion, walked up to the man, and, says he:

“ ‘Give back that apple, or pay for it!’

“ ‘What’s that to you, you impudent young rascal?’ says the man, raisin’ the apple to his mouth. But he didn’t get a chance to bite it, for Dodger, with a flip of his hand, knocked it on the sidewalk, and picked it up.

“Wasn’t the man mad just?”

“ ‘I’ll smash you, boy,’ he growled.

“ ‘I’m a baggage-smasher myself,’ says Dodger, ‘and I can smash as well as you.’

“Wid that the man up with his fist and struck at Dodger, but he dodged the blow, and gave him one for himself wid his right. Just then up came a cop.

“ ‘What’s all this?’ says he.

“ ‘That man tried to run off wid one of my apples,’ says I.

“ ‘Come along,’ says the cop. ‘You’re wanted at the station-house.’

“ ‘It’s a lie,’ says the man. ‘I paid the woman for the apple, and that young rascal knocked it out of my hand.’

“ ‘I know the boy,’ says the cop, ‘and he ain’t one of that kind. I’ll let you go if you buy five apples from the lady, and pay for ’em.’

“The man made up an ugly face, but he didn’t want to be locked up, and so he paid me a dime for five apples.”

“Dodger is very brave,” said Florence. “Sometimes I think he is too daring. He is liable to get into trouble.”

“If he does he’ll get himself out of it, never you fear. Dodger can take care of himself.”

Nine o’clock came, and Florence became alarmed. She had not been aware how much she had depended upon the company of her faithful friend, humble as his station was.

Again she went into Mrs. O’Keefe’s room. The apple-woman had been out to buy some groceries and had just returned.

“I am getting anxious about Dodger,” said Florence. “It is nine o’clock.”

“And what’s nine o’clock for a boy like him? Shure he’s used to bein’ out at all hours of the night.”

“I shall feel relieved when he comes home. What should I do without him?”

“Shure I’d miss him myself; but it isn’t the first time he has been out late.”

“Perhaps that terrible Tim Bolton has got hold of him,” suggested Florence.

“Tim isn’t so bad, Florence. He isn’t fit company for the likes of you, but there’s worse men nor Tim.”

“Didn’t he send out Dodger to commit a burglary?”

“And if he hadn’t you’d never made Dodger’s acquaintance.”

“That’s true; but it doesn’t make burglary any more excusable. Don’t you really think Tim Bolton has got hold of him?”

“If he has, he won’t keep him long, I’ll make oath of that. He might keep him over night, but Dodger would come back in the morning.”

Florence was somewhat cheered by Mrs. O’Keefe’s refusal to believe that Dodger was in any serious trouble, but she could not wholly free herself from uneasiness. When eleven o’clock came she went to bed very unwillingly, and got very little rest during the night. Morning came, and still Dodger did not show up. As we know, he was fairly started on his long voyage, though he had not yet recovered consciousness.

Florence took a very light breakfast, and at the usual time went to Mrs. Leighton’s to meet her pupil. When the study hour was over, she did not remain to lunch, but hurried back, stopping at Mrs. O’Keefe’s apple-stand just as that lady was preparing to go home to prepare dinner.

“Have you seen anything of Dodger, Mrs. O’Keefe?” asked Florence, breathlessly.

“No, I haven’t, Florence. I’ve had my eye out watchin’ for him, and he hasn’t showed up.”

“Is there anything we can do?” asked Florence, anxiously.

“Well, we might go around and see Tim—and find out whether he’s got hold of him.”

“Let us go at once.”

“Shure I didn’t know you cared so much for the boy,” said Mrs. O’Keefe, with a shrewd look at Florence’s anxious face.

“Why shouldn’t I care for him? He is my only friend.”

“Is he now? And what’s the matter wid Bridget O’Keefe?” asked the apple-woman.

“Excuse me, Mrs. O’Keefe. I know very well you are my friend, and a kind friend, too. I should not have forgotten you.”

“It’s all right, Florence. You’re flustrated like, and that’s why you forget me.”

“I have so few friends that I can’t spare one,” continued Florence.

“That’s so. Come along wid me, and we’ll see what Tim has to tell us.”

A short walk brought the two strangely assorted companions to the entrance of Tim Bolton’s saloon. “I’m afraid to go in, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Florence.

“Come along wid me, my dear, I won’t let anything harm you. You ain’t used to such a place, but I’ve been here more than once to fill the growler. Be careful as you go down the steps, Florence.”

Tim Bolton was standing behind the bar, and as he heard steps he looked carelessly toward the entrance, but when he saw Florence, his indifference vanished. He came from behind the bar, and advanced to meet her.

“Miss Linden,” he said.

Florence shrank back and clung to her companion’s arm.

“Is there anything I can do for you? I am a rough man, but I’m not so bad as you may think.”

“That’s what I told her, Tim,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “I told Florence there was worse men than you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Keefe. Can I offer you a glass of whiskey?”

The apple-woman was about to accept, but she felt an alarmed tug at her arm, and saw that Florence would be placed in an embarrassing position if she accepted. So, by an exercise of self-denial—for Mrs. O’Keefe was by no means insensible to the attractions of whiskey, though she never drank to excess—she said:

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Bolton. I won’t take any just now; but I’ll remind you of your offer another day.”

“Have it your own way, Mrs. O’Keefe. And now, what can I do for you and Miss Linden?”

“Oh, Mr. Bolton,” broke in Florence, unable to bear the suspense longer, “where is Dodger?”

CHAPTER XXV.
FINDING THE CLEW

Tim Bolton looked at Florence in undisguised astonishment.

“Dodger!” he repeated. “How should I know? I supposed that you had lured him away from me.”

“He didn’t like the business you were in. He preferred to make a living in some other way.”

“Then why do you ask me where he is?”

“Because he did not come home last night. Shure he rooms at my house,” put in Mrs. O’Keefe, “and he hasn’t showed up since–”

“And you thought I might have got hold of him?” said Bolton, inquiringly.

“Then you are mistaken. I haven’t seen the boy for weeks.”

Tim Bolton spoke so straightforwardly that there was no chance to doubt his word.

“When he was living with you, Mr. Bolton,” continued Florence, “did he ever stay away like this?”

“No,” answered Bolton. “Dodger was always very regular about comin’ home.”

“Then something must have happened to him,” said Florence, anxiously.

“He might have got run in,” suggested the apple-woman. “Some of them cops is mighty officious.”

“Dodger would never do anything to deserve arrest,” Florence said, quickly.

“Thrue for you, Florence, but some innersent parties are nabbed. I know of one young man who was standin’ on a strate corner waitin’ for the cars, when a cop came up and arristed him for disorderly conduct.”

“But that is shameful!” said Florence, indignantly.

“Thrue for you, my dear. We might go round to the police headquarters and inquire if the boy’s been run in.”

“What do you think, Mr. Bolton?” asked Florence.

Tim Bolton seemed busy thinking. Finally he brought down his hand forcibly on the bar, and said: “I begin to see through it.”

Florence did not speak, but she fixed an eager look of inquiry on the face of the saloon-keeper.

“I believe Curtis Waring is at the bottom of this,” he said.

“My cousin!” exclaimed Florence, in astonishment.

“Yes, your cousin, Miss Linden.”

“But what can he have against poor Dodger! Is it because the boy has taken my part and is a friend to me?”

“He wouldn’t like him any better on account of hat; but he has another and a more powerful reason.”

“Would you mind telling me what it is? I cannot conceive what it can be.”

“At present,” answered Bolton, cautiously, “I prefer to say nothing on the subject. I will only say the boy’s disappearance interferes with my plans, and I will see if I can’t find out what has become of him.”

“If you only will, Mr. Bolton, I shall be so grateful. I am afraid I have misjudged you. I thought you were an enemy of Dodger’s.”

“Then you were mistaken. I have had the boy with me since he was a kid, and though I’ve been rough with him at times, maybe, I like him, and I may some time have a chance to show him that old Tim Bolton is one of his best friends.”

“I will believe it now, Mr. Bolton,” said Florence, impulsively, holding out her hand to the burly saloon-keeper.

He was surprised, but it was evident that he was pleased, also, and he took the little hand respectfully in his own ample palm, and pressed it in a friendly manner.

“There’s one thing more I want you to believe, Miss Linden,” he said, “and that is, that I am your friend, also.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bolton. And now let us all work together to find Dodger.”

“You can count on me, Miss Linden. If you’ll tell me where you live I’ll send or bring you any news I may hear.”

“I live with Mrs. O’Keefe, my good friend, here.”

“I haven’t my kyard with me, Tim,” said the apple-woman, “but I’ll give you my strate and number. You know my place of business?”

“Yes.”

“If you come to me there I’ll let Florence know whatever you tell me. She is not always at home.”

The two went away relieved in mind, for, helpless and bewildered as they were, they felt that Tim Bolton would make a valuable ally.

When they had gone Tim turned to Hooker and Briggs, who were lounging at a table, waiting for some generous customer to invite them to the bar.

“Boys,” said Tim, “has either of you seen anything of Dodger lately?”

“No,” answered the two in unison.

“Have you heard anything of him?”

“I heard that he was baggage-smashin’ down by the steamboat landings,” said Hooker.

“Go down there, both of you, and see if you can see or hear anything of him.”

“All right, Tim.”

And the two left the saloon and took a westerly route toward the North River piers.

Three hours later they returned.

“Have you heard anything?” asked Bolton. “Did you see Dodger?”

“No; we didn’t see him.”

“But you heard something?”

“Yes; we found a boy, a friend of his, that said the last he saw of Dodger was last evenin’.”

“Where did he see him?”

“Near the pier of the Albany boats.”

“What was he doin’?”

“Carryin’ a valise for a man.”

“What kind of a man? How did he look?”

“He had gray hair and gray whiskers.”

Tim was puzzled by the description.

If, as he suspected, Curtis were concerned in the abduction, this man could not have been he.

“The man was a passenger by the Albany boat, I suppose?”

“No; that was what looked queer. Before the Albany boat came in the man was lyin’ round with his valise, and the boy thought he was goin’ off somewhere. But when the boat came in he just mixed in with the passengers, and came up to the entrance of the pier. Two boys asked to carry his valise, but he shook his head till Dodger came round, and he engaged him right off.”

Tim Bolton nodded knowingly.

“It was a plan,” he said. “The man wanted to get hold of Dodger. What puzzles me is, that you said he was an old man.”

“His hair and beard were gray.”

“And Curtis has no beard, and his hair is black.”

“But the boy said he didn’t look like an old man, except the hair. He walked off like a young man.”

Tim Bolton’s face lighted up with sudden intelligence.

“I’ll bet a hat it was Curtis in disguise,” he soliloquized.

“That’s all we could find out, Mr. Bolton,” said Briggs, with another longing look at the bar.

“It is enough! You have earned your whiskey. Walk up, gentlemen!”

Hooker and Briggs needed no second invitation.

“Will either of you take a note for me to Mrs. O’Keefe? For another drink, of course.”

“I will, Tim,” said Hooker, eagerly.

“No; take me, Mr. Bolton,” entreated Briggs.

“You can both go,” said Tim, generously. “Wait a minute, and I’ll have it ready for you.”

He found a half sheet of note paper, and scribbled on it this message:

“Mrs. O’Keefe:—Tell Miss Linden that I have a clew. I am almost surtin her cozen has got away with Dodger. He won’t hurt him, but he will get him out of the city. Wen I hear more I will right.

“T. Bolton.”