CHAPTER XXXVIII.
UNPLEASANT QUARTERS
Donovan's red face turned fairly purple with rage.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" he said, adding an oath or two. "You're a bold little pup! You dare to insult me! Why, I could crush you with my little finger."
"I have not insulted you," said Dan. "I have only come for my sister."
"I don't know anything about your sister. So you can go about your business."
"That little girl is my adopted sister," said Dan, pointing to Althea. "Ask her if she doesn't know me."
"That is my daughter, Katy Donovan," said the saloon keeper.
"No, I am not," said Althea, beginning to cry. "I want to go away with my brother Dan."
"Shut up, you little jade!" said Donovan, roughly. "Mrs. Donovan," (by this time she was on her feet, looking on in a dazed sort of way), "is not this our little Katy?"
"Shure it is," she answered.
"You see, young man, you're mistaken. You can leave," and Donovan waved his hand triumphantly.
"That's too thin, Mrs. Donovan!" said Dan, provoked. "That don't go down. I can bring plenty of proof that Althea was until a week since living with my mother."
"That for your proof!" said Donovan, contemptuously snapping his fingers.
"I know who stole her, and who brought her to this house," continued Dan.
Donovan started. The boy knew more than he had expected.
"The same man has been here to-day," added Dan.
"You lie!" retorted Donovan, but he looked uneasy.
"You know that I tell the truth. How much does he pay you for taking care of the girl?"
"Enough of this!" roared the saloon keeper. "I can't waste my time talkin' wid you. Will you clear out now?"
"No, I won't, unless Althea goes with me," said Dan, firmly.
"You won't, then! We'll see about that," and Donovan, making a rush, seized Dan in his arms, and carried him down stairs, despite our hero's resistance.
"I'll tache you to come here insultin' your betters!" he exclaimed.
Dan struggled to get away, but though a strong boy, he was not a match for a powerful man, and could not effect his deliverance. The Irishman already referred to was still upon the settee.
"What's up, Donovan?" he asked, as the saloon-keeper appeared with his burden. "What's the lad been doin'?"
"What's he been doin', is it? He's been insultin' me to my face—that's what the Donovans won't stand. Open the trap-door, Barney."
"What for?"
"Don't trouble me wid your questions, but do as I tell you. You shall know afterward."
Not quite willingly, but reluctant to offend Donovan, who gave him credit for the drinks, Barney raised a trap-door leading to the cellar below.
There was a ladder for the convenience of those wishing to ascend and descend, but Donovan was not disposed to use much ceremony with the boy who had offended him. He dropped him through the opening, Dan by good luck falling on his feet.
"That's the best place for you, you young meddler!" he said. "You'll find it mighty comfortable, and I wish you much joy. I won't charge you no rint, and that's an object in these hard times—eh, Barney?"
"To be sure it is," said Barney; "but all the same, Donovan, I'd rather pay rint up stairs, if I had my choice!"
"He hasn't the choice," said Donovan triumphantly. "Good-by to you!" and he let the trap fall.
"What's it all about now, Donovan?" asked Barney.
"He wanted to shtale my Katy," said Donovan.
"What, right before your face?" asked Barney, puzzled.
"Yes, shure! What'll you take to drink?" asked Donovan, not caring to go into particulars.
Barney indicated his choice with alacrity, and, after drinking, was hardly in a condition to pursue his inquiries.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
DAN DISCOMFITS THE DONOVANS
Dan found himself at first bewildered and confused by his sudden descent into the cellar. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to get an idea of his surroundings. It was a common cellar with an earthen floor. Ranged along one side was a row of kegs, some containing whisky, others empty. Besides, there were a few boxes and odds and ends which had been placed here to get them out of the way.
"Not a very cheerful-looking place," thought Dan, "though I do get it rent free."
He sat down on a box, and began to consider his position. Was there any way of escape? The walls were solid, and although there was a narrow window, consisting of a row of single panes, it was at the top of the cellar, and not easily accessible. He might indeed reach it by the ladder, but he would have to break the glass and crawl through, a mode of escape likely to be attended by personal risk.
"No, that won't do," thought Dan. "At any rate, I won't try it till other things fail."
Meanwhile Donovan, in the bar-room above, was in high good humor. He felt that he had done a sharp thing, and more than once chuckled as he thought of his prisoner below. Indeed he could not forbear, after about half an hour, lifting the trap and calling down stairs:
"Hallo, there!"
"Hallo!" said Dan, coolly.
"What are you doin'?"
"Sitting on a box."
"How do you like it?" chuckled Donovan.
"Come down and see."
"You're an impudent jackanapes!" retorted Donovan, wrathfully. "You'll get enough of it before you're through."
"So will you," answered Dan, boldly.
"I'll take the risk," chuckled Donovan. "Do you know what you remind me of?"
"Suppose you tell me."
"You're like a rat in a trap."
"Not exactly," answered Dan, as a bright thought dawned upon him.
"Why not?"
"Because a rat can do no harm, and I can."
It occurred to Donovan that Dan might have some matches in his pocket, and was momentarily alarmed at the thought that our hero might set the house on fire.
"Have you matches with you?" he asked.
"No," answered Dan.
"If you had," said the saloon-keeper, relieved, "it would do you no good to set a fire. You would only burn yourself up."
"I don't mean to set the house on fire," said Dan, composedly.
"Then you may do your worst. You can't scare me."
"Can't I?" returned Dan, rising from his seat on the box.
"What are you going to do?" asked Donovan, following with his glance the boy's motion.
"I'll tell you," said Dan. "I'm going to take the spigot out of them whisky-kegs, and let the whisky run out on the floor."
"Don't you do it!" exclaimed the saloon-keeper, now thoroughly frightened.
"Then let me up."
"I won't."
"All right. You must take the consequences."
As he spoke Dan dextrously pulled the spigot from a keg, and Donovan, to his dismay, heard the precious liquid—precious in his eyes—pouring out upon the floor.
With an exertion he raised the trap-door, hastily descended the ladder, and rushed to the keg to replace the spigot.
Meanwhile Dan ran up the ladder, pulled it after him, and made his late jailer a captive.
"Put down the ladder, you young rascal!" roared Donovan, when, turning from his work, he saw how the tables had been turned.
"It wouldn't be convenient just yet," answered Dan, coolly.
He shut the trap-door, hastily lugged the ladder to the rear of the house (unobserved, for there were no customers present), then dashed up stairs and beckoned to Althea to follow him. There was no obstacle, for Mrs. Donovan was stupefied by liquor.
Putting on her things, the little girl hastily and gladly obeyed.
As they passed through the saloon, Donovan's execrations and shouts were heard proceeding from the cellar.
"What's that, Dan?" asked Althea, trembling.
"Never you mind, Althea," said Dan. "I'll tell you later."
The two children hurried to the nearest horse-car, which luckily came up at the moment, and jumped on board.
Dan looked back with a smile at the saloon, saying to himself:
"I rather think, Mr. Donovan, you've found your match this time. I hope you'll enjoy the cellar as much as I did."
In about an hour and a half Dan, holding Althea by the hand, triumphantly led her into his mother's presence.
"I've brought her back, mother," he said.
"Oh, my dear, dear little girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt, joyfully. "I thought I should never, never see you again. How did you find her, Dan?"
But we will not wait to hear a twice-told tale. Rather let us return to Donovan, where the unhappy proprietor is still a captive in his own cellar. Here he remained till his cries attracted the attention of a wondering customer, who finally lifted the trap-door.
"What are you doin' down there?" he asked, amazed.
"Put down the ladder and let me up first of all."
"I don't see any ladder."
"Look round, then. I suppose the cursed boy has hidden it."
It was a considerable time before the ladder was found. Then the saloon-keeper emerged from his prison in a very bad humor.
"How did you get shut up there?" asked his liberator.
"What business is it of yours?" demanded Donovan, irritably.
"I wish I had left you there," said the customer, with justifiable indignation. "This is your gratitude for my trouble, is it?"
"Excuse me, but I'm so mad with that cursed boy. What'll you take? It's my treat."
"Come, that's talking," said the placated customer. "What boy do you mean?"
"Wait a minute," said Donovan, a sudden fear possessing him.
He rushed up stairs and looked for Althea.
His wife was lying on the floor, breathing heavily, but the little girl was gone.
"The boy's got her! What a cursed fool I have been!" exclaimed Donovan, sinking into a chair.
Then, in a blind fury with the wife who didn't prevent the little girl's recapture, he seized a pail of water and emptied it over the face of the prostrate woman.
Mrs. Donovan came to, and berated her husband furiously.
"Serves you right, you jade!" said the affectionate husband.
He went down stairs feeling better. He had had revenge on somebody.
It was certainly an unlucky day for the Donovans.
CHAPTER XL.
HARTLEY SURPRISED
After calling at Donovan's, on the day when Dan recovered Althea, John Hartley crossed the Courtlandt street ferry, and took a train to Philadelphia with Blake, his accomplice in the forged certificates. The two confederates had raised some Pennsylvania railway certificates, which they proposed to put on the Philadelphia market.
They spent several days in the Quaker City, and thus Hartley heard nothing of the child's escape.
Donovan did not see fit to inform him, as this would stop the weekly remittance for the child's board, and, moreover, draw Hartley's indignation down upon his head.
One day, in a copy of the New York Herald, which he purchased at the news-stand in the Continental Hotel, Hartley observed the arrival of Harriet Vernon at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.
"I thought she would come," he said to himself, with a smile. "I have her in my power at last. She must submit to my terms, or lose sight of the child altogether."
"Blake," he said, aloud, "I must take the first train to New York."
"Why, what's up, partner?" asked Blake, in surprise. "Anything gone wrong?"
"On the contrary, I see a chance of making a good haul."
"How?"
"Not in our line. It's some private business of my own."
"All right. I wish you success. When will you return?"
"That I can't exactly say. I will write or telegraph you."
In the evening of the same day Mrs. Vernon sat in her room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. A servant brought up a card bearing the name of John Hartley.
"He is prompt," she said to herself, with a smile. "Probably he has not heard of Althea's escape from the den to which he carried her. I will humor him, in that case, and draw him out."
"I will see the gentleman in the parlor," she said.
Five minutes later she entered the ladies' parlor. Hartley rose to receive her with a smile of conscious power, which told Harriet Vernon that he was ignorant of the miscarriage of his plans.
"I heard of your unexpected arrival, Mrs. Vernon," he commenced, "and have called to pay my respects."
"Your motive is appreciated, John Hartley," she said, coldly. "I expected to see you."
"That's pleasant," he said, mockingly. "May I beg to apologize for constraining you to cross the Atlantic?"
"Don't apologize; you have merely acted out your nature."
"Probably that is not meant to be complimentary. However, it can't be helped."
"I suppose you have something to say to me, John Hartley," said Mrs. Vernon, seating herself. "Pray proceed."
"You are quite right. I wrote you that I had ferreted out your cunningly devised place of concealment for my daughter."
"You did."
He looked at her a little puzzled. She seemed very cool and composed, whereas he expected she would be angry and disturbed.
"We may as well come to business at once," he said. "If you wish to recover the charge of your ward, you must accede to my terms."
"State them."
"They are expressed in my letter to you. You must agree to pay me a thousand dollars each quarter."
"It strikes me you are exorbitant in your demands."
"I don't think so. At any rate, the money won't come out of you. It will come from my daughter's income."
"So you would rob your daughter, John Hartley?"
"Rob my daughter!" he exclaimed, angrily. "She will have enough left. Is she to live in luxury, and with thousands to spare, while I, her only living parent, wander penniless and homeless about the world."
"I might sympathize with you, if I did not know how you have misused the gifts of fortune, and embittered the existence of my poor sister. As it is, it only disgusts me."
"I don't want you sympathy, Harriet Vernon," he said, roughly. "I want four thousand dollars a year."
"Suppose I decline to let you have it?"
"Then you must take the consequences," he said, quickly.
"What are to be the consequences?" she asked, quietly.
"That you and Althea will be forever separated. She shall never see you again."
He looked at her intently to see the effect of his threat.
Harriet Vernon was as cool and imperturbable as ever.
"Have you been in New York for a week past?" she asked, as he thought, irrelevantly.
"Why do you ask?"
"I have a reason."
"No, I have not."
"So I thought."
"Why did you think so?"
"Because you don't appear to know what has happened."
"What has happened?" he asked, uneasily.
"Mr. Donovan can tell you. As for me, I bid you good-evening."
A wild fear took possession of him.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, hurriedly.
"I mean, John Hartley, that you are not as shrewd as you imagine. I mean that a boy has foiled you; and while you were doubtless laughing at his simplicity, he has proved more than a match for you. You have no claim upon me, and I must decline your disinterested proposal."
She left the room, leaving him crest-fallen and stupefied.
"Has Donovan betrayed me?" he muttered. "I will soon find out."
He started for Brooklyn immediately, and toward eleven o'clock entered the saloon at Donovan's.
"Where is the child?" he demanded, sternly.
The rubicund host turned pale.
"She's gone," he cried, "but I couldn't help it, Mr. Hartley. On my honor, I couldn't."
"How did it happen? Tell me at once."
The story was told, Donovan ending by invoking curses upon the boy who had played such a trick upon him.
"You're a fool!" said Hartley, roughly. "I am ashamed of you, for allowing a boy to get the best of you."
"That boy's a fox," said Donovan. "He's a match for the old one, he is. I'd like to break his neck for him."
"It's not too late. I may get hold of the girl again," mused Hartley, as he rose to go. "If I do, I won't put her in charge of such a dunderhead."
He left Donovan's and returned to New York, but he had hardly left the Fulton ferry-boat when he was tapped on the shoulder by an officer.
"I want you," he said.
"What for?" asked Hartley, nervously.
"A little financial irregularity, as they call it in Wall street. You may know something about some raised railroad certificates!"
"Confusion!" muttered Hartley. "Luck is dead against me."
CHAPTER XLI.
DAN IS ADOPTED
The morning papers contained an account of John Hartley's arrest, and the crime with which he was charged.
Harriet Vernon read it at the breakfast-table with an interest which may be imagined.
"I don't like to rejoice in any man's misfortune," she said to herself, "but now I can have a few years of peace. My precious brother-in-law will doubtless pass the next few years in enforced seclusion, and I can have a settled home."
Directly after breakfast, she set out for the humble home of her niece. She found all at home, for Dan was not to go back to business till Monday.
"Well, my good friend," she said, "I have news for you."
"Good news, I hope," said Dan.
"Yes, good news. Henceforth I can have Althea with me. The obstacle that separated us is removed."
Mrs. Mordaunt's countenance fell, and Dan looked sober. It was plain that Althea was to be taken from them, and they had learned to love her.
"I am very glad," faltered Mrs. Mordaunt.
"You don't look glad," returned Mrs. Vernon.
"You see we don't like to part with Althea," explained Dan, who understood his mother's feelings.
"Who said you were to part with the child?" asked Mrs. Vernon, bluntly.
"I thought you meant to take her from us."
"Oh, I see. Your mistake is a natural one, for I have not told you my plans. I mean to take a house up town, install Mrs. Mordaunt as my housekeeper and friend, and adopt this young man (indicating Dan), provided he has no objection."
"How kind you are, Mrs. Vernon," ejaculated Mrs. Mordaunt.
"No, I am selfish. I have plenty of money, and no one to care for, or to care for me. I have taken a fancy to you all, and I am quite sure that we can all live happily together. Althea is my niece, and you, Dan, may call me aunt, too, if you like. Is it a bargain?"
Dan offered her his hand in a frank, cordial way, which she liked.
"So it is settled, then," she said, in a pleased voice. "I ought to warn you," she added, "that I have the reputation of being ill-tempered. You may get tired of living with me."
"We'll take the risk," said Dan, smiling.
Mrs. Vernon, whose habit it was to act promptly, engaged a house on Madison avenue, furnished it without regard to expense, and in less than a fortnight, installed her friends in it. Then she had a talk with Dan about his plans.
"Do you wish to remain in your place," she asked, "or would you like to obtain a better education first?"
"To obtain an education," said Dan, promptly.
"Then give notice to your employer of your intention."
Dan did so.
Mrs. Vernon in a second interview informed him that besides defraying his school expenses, she should give him an allowance of fifty dollars a month for his own personal needs.
"May I give a part of it to my mother?" asked Dan.
"No."
His countenance fell, but Mrs. Vernon smiled.
"You don't ask why I refuse," she said.
"I suppose you have a good reason," said Dan, dubiously.
"My reason is that I shall pay your mother double this sum. Unless she is very extravagant it ought to be enough to defray her expenses."
"How liberal you are, Mrs. Vernon!" exclaimed Dan, in fresh astonishment.
"Mrs. Vernon!"
"Aunt Harriet, I mean."
"That is better."
All these important changes in the position of the Mordaunts were unknown to their old friends, who, since their loss of property, had given them the cold shoulder.
One day Tom Carver, in passing the house, saw Dan coming down the steps quite as handsomely dressed as himself. His surprise and curiosity were aroused.
"Are you running errands?" he asked.
"No. What makes you think so?" returned Dan, smiling.
"I didn't know what else could carry you to such a house."
"Oh, that's easily explained," said Dan. "I live here."
"You live there!" ejaculated Tom.
"Yes."
"Oh, I see. You are in the employ of the family."
"Not exactly," said Dan. "I have nothing to do."
"Does your mother live there?"
"Yes."
"You don't mean to say she boards there?"
"We are living with my aunt."
"Is your aunt rich?" asked Tom, in a more deferential tone.
"I believe she is. At any rate she gives me a handsome allowance."
"You don't say so! How much does she give you?"
"Fifty dollars a month."
"And you don't have anything to do?"
"Only to study. I am going back to school."
"What a lucky fellow!" exclaimed Tom, enviously. "Why, my father only allows me three dollars a week."
"I could get along on that. I don't need as much as my aunt allows me."
"I say, Dan," said Tom, in the most friendly terms, "I'm awfully hard up. Could you lend me five dollars?"
"Yes," said Dan, secretly amused with the change in Tom's manner.
"You always were a good fellow!" said Tom, linking his arm in Dan's. "I'm very glad you're rich again. You must come to see me often."
"Thank you," said Dan, smiling, "but I'm afraid you have forgotten something."
"What do you mean?"
"You know I used to be a newsboy in front of the Astor House."
"That don't matter."
"And you might not care to associate with a newsboy."
"Well, you are all right now," said Tom, magnanimously.
"You didn't always think so, Tom."
"I always thought you were a gentleman, Dan. I am coming to see you soon. You must introduce me to your aunt."
"I suppose it's the way of the world," thought Dan. "It is lucky that there are some true friends who stick by us through thick and thin."
Mrs. Mordaunt had an experience similar to Dan's. Her old acquaintances, who, during her poverty never seemed to recognize her when they met, gradually awoke to the consciousness of her continued existence, and left cards. She received them politely, but rated their professions of friendship at their true value. They had not been "friends in need," and she could not count them "friends indeed."