CHAPTER XXXVII.
DANIEL CALLS AT THE PARKER HOUSE
It was half-past nine o'clock in the forenoon, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, detective, sat smoking a cigar in the famous hotel on School Street, known as "Parker's."
"I hope nothing has happened to the boy," he said to himself, uneasily, as he drew out his watch. "It is time he was here. Have I done rightly in leaving him in the clutches of a company of unprincipled men? Yet I don't know what else I could do. If I had accompanied him to the door, my appearance would have awakened suspicion. If through his means I can get authentic information as to the interior of this house, which I strongly suspect to be the headquarters of the gang, I shall have done a good thing. Yet perhaps I did wrong in not giving the boy a word of warning."
Mr. Baker took the cigar from his mouth and strolled into the opposite room, where several of the hotel guests were either reading the morning papers or writing letters. He glanced quickly about him, but saw no one that resembled Grit.
"Not here yet?" he said to himself, "perhaps he can't find the hotel. But he looks too smart to have any difficulty about that. Ha! whom have we here?"
This question was elicited by a singular figure upon the sidewalk. It was a tall, overgrown boy, whose well-worn suit appeared to have been first put on when he was several years younger, and several inches shorter. The boy was standing still, with mouth and eyes wide open, staring in a bewildered way at the entrance of the hotel, as if he had some business therein, but did not know how to go about it.
"That's an odd-looking boy," he thought. "Looks like one of Dickens' characters."
Finally the boy, in an uncertain, puzzled way, ascended the steps into the main vestibule, and again began to stare helplessly in different directions.
One of the employees of the hotel went up to him.
"What do you want?" he demanded, rather roughly.
"Be you Mr. Baker?" asked the boy.
"No; I am not Mr. Baker."
"Where is Mr. Baker?"
"I don't know anything about Mr. Baker," answered the attendant impatiently.
"The boy told me I would find him here," said Daniel, for of course my reader recognizes him.
"Then the boy was playing a trick on you, most likely."
By this time Mr. Baker thought it advisable to make himself known.
"I am Mr. Benjamin Baker," he said, advancing. "Do you want to see me?"
Daniel looked very much relieved.
"I've got a note for you," he said.
"Give it to me."
Daniel did so, and was about to go out.
"Wait a minute, my young friend, there may be an answer," said the detective.
Mr. Baker read rapidly the following note:
"I am in trouble. I think the letter I received was only meant to entrap me. I have not seen Mr. Weaver, but I have had an interview with Colonel Johnson, who planned the robbery of the bank at Chester. He seems to know that I had something to do with defeating his plans, and has sounded me as to whether I will help him in case I act again as bank messenger. On my refusing, he touched a spring, and let me down through a trap-door in the floor of the rear room to a cellar beneath, where I am kept in darkness. The boy who gives you this brings me my meals. He doesn't seem very bright, but I have agreed to pay him well if he will hand you this, and I hope he will succeed. I don't know what Colonel Johnson proposes to do with me, but I hope you will be able to help me.
Grit."
Benjamin Baker nodded to himself while he was reading this note.
"This confirms my suspicions," he said to himself. "If I am lucky I shall succeed in trapping the trappers. Hark you, my boy, when are you going back?"
"As soon as I have been to the market."
"Very well; what did the boy agree to give you for bringing this note?"
"Five dollars," answered Daniel, his dull face lighting up, for he knew the power of money.
"Would you like five dollars more?"
"Wouldn't I?" was the eager response.
"Then don't say a word to anybody about bringing this note."
"No, I won't. He'd strap me if I did."
"Shall you see the boy?"
"Yes, at twelve o'clock, when I carry his dinner."
"When you see him, tell him you've seen me, and it's all right. Do you understand?"
Daniel nodded.
"I may call up there some time this morning. If I do I want you to open the door and let me in."
Daniel nodded again.
"That will do. You can go."
Mr. Baker left the hotel with a preoccupied air.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
GRIT MAKES A DISCOVERY
Grit, left to himself, was subjected to the hardest trial, that of waiting for deliverance, and not knowing whether the expected help would come.
"At any rate I have done the best I could," he said to himself. "Daniel is the best messenger I could obtain. He doesn't seem to be more than half-witted, but he ought to be intelligent enough to find Mr. Baker and deliver my note."
The subterranean apartment, with its utter destitution of furniture, furnished absolutely no resources against ennui. Grit was fond of reading, and in spite of his anxiety might in an interesting paper or book have forgotten his captivity, but there was nothing to read, and even if there had been, it was too dark to avail himself of it.
"I suppose I sha'n't see Daniel till noon," he reflected. "Till then I am left in suspense."
He sat down in a corner and began to think over his position and future prospects. He was not wholly cast down, for he refused to believe that he was in any real peril. In fact, though a captive, he had never felt more hopeful, or more self-reliant than now. But he was an active boy, and accustomed to exercise, and he grew tired of sitting down.
"I will walk a little," he decided, and proceeded to pace up and down his limited apartment.
Then it occurred to him to ascertain the dimensions of the room, by pacing.
As he did so, he ran his hand along the side wall. A most remarkable thing occurred. A door flew open, which had appeared like the rest of the wall, and a narrow passageway was revealed, leading Grit could not tell where.
"I must have touched some spring," he thought. "This house is a regular trap. I wonder where this passageway leads?"
Grit stooped down, for the passage was but about four feet in height, and tried to peer through the darkness. But he could see nothing.
"Shall I explore it?" he thought.
He hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it would be prudent, but finally curiosity overruled prudence, and he decided to do so.
Stooping over, he felt his way for possibly fifty feet, when he came to a solid wall. Here seemed to be the end of the passage.
He began to feel slowly with his hand, when another small door, only about twelve inches square, flew open, and he looked through it into another subterranean apartment. It did not appear to be occupied, but on a small wooden table was a candle, and by the light of the candle Grit could see a variety of articles, including several trunks, one open, revealing its contents to be plate.
"What does it mean?" thought Grit.
Then the thought came to him, for, though he was a country boy, his wits had been sharpened by his recent experiences. "It must be a storehouse of stolen goods."
This supposition seemed in harmony with the character of the man who had lured him here, and now held him captive.
"If I were only outside," thought Grit, "I would tell Mr. Baker of this. The police ought to know it."
Just then he heard his name called, and, turning suddenly, distinguished by the faint light which the candle threw into the passage the stern and menacing countenance of Colonel Johnson.
"Come out here, boy!" he called, in an angry tone. "I have an account to settle with you."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
AN UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW
There was nothing to do but to obey. Judging by his own interpretation of the discovery our hero was not surprised that his captor should be incensed. He retraced his steps, and found himself once more in the subterranean chamber facing an angry man.
"What took you in there?" demanded Colonel Johnson.
"Curiosity, I suppose," answered Grit composedly. He felt that he was in a scrape, but he was not a boy to show fear or confusion.
"How did you happen to discover the entrance?"
"It was quite accidental. I was pacing the floor to see how wide the room was, when my hand touched the spring."
"Why did you want to know the width of the room?" asked Johnson suspiciously.
"I didn't care much to know, but the time hung heavily on my hands, and that was one way of filling it up."
Colonel Johnson eyed the boy attentively. He was at a loss to know whether Grit really suspected the nature and meaning of his discovery, or not. If not, he didn't wish to excite suspicion in the boy's mind. He decided to insinuate an explanation.
"I suppose you were surprised to find the passageway," he remarked.
"Yes, sir."
"As you have always lived in the country, that is natural. Such arrangements are common enough in the city."
"I wonder whether trap doors are common," thought Grit, but he did not give expression to his thought.
"The room into which you looked is under the house of my brother-in-law, and the passage affords an easy mode of entrance."
"I should think it would be easier going into the street," thought Grit.
"Still I am annoyed at your meddlesome curiosity, and shall take measures to prevent your gratifying it again. I had a great mind when I first saw you to shut you up in the passage. I fancy you wouldn't enjoy that."
"I certainly shouldn't," said Grit, smiling.
"I will have some consideration for you, and put a stop to your wanderings in another way."
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a thick, stout cord, and directing Grit to hold his hands together, proceeded to tie his wrists. This our hero naturally regarded as distasteful.
"You need not do this," he said. "I will promise not to go into the passage."
"Humph! Will you promise not to attempt to escape?"
"No, sir, I can't promise that."
"Ha! you mean, then, to attempt to escape?"
"Of course!" answered Grit. "I should be a fool to stay here if any chance offered of getting away."
"You are candid, young man," returned Johnson. "There is no earthly chance of your escaping. Still, I may as well make sure. Put out your feet."
"You are not going to tie my feet, too, are you?" asked Grit, in some dismay.
"To be sure I am. I can't trust you after what you have done this morning."
It was of no use to resist, for Colonel Johnson was a powerful man, and Grit, though strong, only a boy of sixteen.
"This doesn't look much like escaping," thought Grit. "I hope he won't search my pockets and discover my knife. If I can get hold of that, I may be able to release myself."
Colonel Johnson had just completed tying the last knot when the door, which had been left unbolted, was seen to open, and the half-witted boy, Daniel, entered hastily.
"How now, idiot!" said Johnson harshly. "What brings you here?"
"There's a gentleman up-stairs wants to see you, master," said Daniel, with the scared look with which he always regarded his tyrant.
"A gentleman!" repeated Johnson hastily. "Who let him in?"
"I did, sir."
"You did!" thundered Johnson. "How often have I told you to let in nobody? Do you want me to choke you?"
"I—forgot," faltered the boy. "Besides, he said he wanted to see you particular."
"All the more reason why I don't want to see him. What does he look like?"
"He's a small man, sir."
"Humph! Where did you leave him?"
"Room above, sir."
"I'll go up and see him. If it's somebody I don't want to see, I'll choke you."
"Yes, sir," said Daniel humbly.
As Johnson went out, Daniel lingered a moment, and, in a hoarse whisper, said to Grit: "It's him."
"Who is it?" asked Grit puzzled.
"It's the man you sent me to."
"Good! You're a trump, Daniel," said Grit joyfully.
A minute after a confused noise was heard in the room above. Daniel turned pale.
"Tell him where I am, Daniel," said Grit, as the boy timidly left the room.
CHAPTER XL.
COLONEL JOHNSON COMES TO GRIEF
We must now follow Johnson up-stairs.
In the room above, sitting down tranquilly in an arm-chair, but not in that in the center of the room, was a small, wiry man of unpretending exterior.
"What is your business here, sir?" demanded Johnson rudely.
"Are you the owner of this house?" asked Benjamin Baker coolly.
"Yes. That does not explain your presence here, however."
"I am in search of a quiet home, and it struck me that this was about the sort of a house I would like," answered Baker.
"Then, sir, you have wasted your time in coming here. This house is not for sale."
"Indeed! Perhaps I may offer you enough to make it worth your while to sell it to me."
"Quite impossible, sir. This is my house, and I don't want to sell."
"I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me over the house to let me see its arrangements, as I may wish to copy them if I build."
"It strikes me, sir, you are very curious, whoever you are," said Johnson angrily. "You intrude yourself into the house of a quiet citizen, and wish to pry into his private arrangements."
"I really beg your pardon, Mr. – I really forget your name."
"Because you never heard it. The name is of no consequence."
"I was about to say, if you have anything to conceal, I won't press my request."
"Who told you I had anything to conceal?" said Johnson suspiciously.
"I inferred it from your evident reluctance to let me go over your house."
"Then, sir, I have only to say that you are mistaken. Because I resent your impertinent intrusion, you jump to the conclusion that I have something to conceal."
"Just so. There might, for example, be a trap-door in this very room–"
Colonel Johnson sprang to his feet and advanced toward his unwelcome guest.
"Tell me what you mean," he said savagely. "I am not the man to be bearded in my own house. You will yet repent your temerity in thrusting yourself here."
Benjamin Baker also rose to his feet, and, putting a whistle to his mouth, whistled shrilly.
Instantly two stalwart policemen sprang into the apartment from the hall outside.
"Seize that man!" said the detective.
"What does this mean?" asked Johnson, struggling, but ineffectually.
"It means, Colonel Johnson, alias Robert Kidd, that you are arrested on a charge of being implicated in the attempt to steal a parcel of bonds belonging to the National Bank of Chester, Maine."
"I don't know anything about it," said Johnson sullenly. "You've got the wrong man."
"Possibly. If so, you'll be released, especially as there are other charges against you. Guard him, men, while I search the house."
"Here, boy, show me where my young friend is concealed," said Baker to Daniel, who was timidly peeping in at the door.
A minute later and Baker cut the cords that confined the hands and feet of Grit.
"Now," said he quickly, "have you discovered anything that will be of service to me?"
Grit opened for him the dark passage. The detective walked to the end, and saw the room into which it opened.
"Do you know, Grit," he said, on his return, "you have done a splendid day's work? With your help I have discovered the headquarters of a bold and desperate gang of thieves, which has long baffled the efforts of the Boston police. There is a standing reward of two thousand dollars for their discovery, to which you will be entitled."
"No, sir; it belongs to you," said Grit modestly. "I could have done nothing without you."
"Nor I without your information. But we can discuss this hereafter."
Johnson ground his teeth when Grit was brought upstairs, free, to see him handcuffed and helpless.
"I believe you are at the bottom of this, you young rascal!" he said.
"You are right," said the detective. "We have received very valuable information from this boy, whom you supposed to be in your power."
"I wish I had killed him!" said Johnson furiously.
"Fortunately, you were saved that crime, and need expect nothing worse than a long term of imprisonment. Officers, take him along."
CHAPTER XLI.
CONCLUSION
The Boston and Portland papers of the next morning contained full accounts of the discovery of the rendezvous of a gang of robbers whose operations had been extensive in and near Boston, together with the arrest of their chief.
In the account full credit was given to our young hero, Grit, for his agency in the affair, and it was announced that the prize offered would be divided between Grit and the famous detective, Benjamin Baker.
It may readily be supposed that this account created great excitement in Chester. Most of the villagers were heartily pleased by the good fortune and sudden renown of the young boatman; but there was at least one household to which the news brought no satisfaction. This was the home of Phil Courtney.
"What a fuss the papers make about that boy!" exclaimed Phil, in disgust. "I suppose he will put on no end of airs when he gets home."
"Very likely," said Mr. Courtney. "He seems to have had good luck, that's all."
"It's pretty good luck to get a thousand dollars," said Phil enviously. "Papa, will you do me a favor?"
"What is it?"
"Can't you put a thousand dollars in the bank for me, so that the boatman can't crow over me?"
"Money is very scarce with me just now, Philip," said his father. "It will do just as well to tell him you have a thousand dollars in my hands."
"I would rather have it in a bank," said Philip.
"Then you'll have to wait till it is convenient for me," said his father shortly.
It was true that money was scarce with Mr. Courtney. I have already stated that he had been speculating in Wall Street heavily, and with by no means unvarying success. In fact, the same evening he received a letter from his brother, stating that the market was so heavily against him that he must at once forward five thousand dollars to protect his margin, or the stocks carried on his account must be sold.
As Mr. Courtney was unable to meet this demand, the stocks were sold, involving a loss of ten thousand dollars.
This, in addition to previous losses, so far crippled Mr. Courtney that he was compelled materially to change his way of living, and Phil had to come down in the social scale, much to his mortification.
But the star of the young boatman was in the ascendant.
On his return to Pine Point he found Mr. Jackson, the New York broker, about to leave the hotel for a return to the city. He congratulated Grit on his success as an amateur detective, and then asked:
"What are your plans, Grit? Probably you won't care to remain a boatman?"
"No, sir; I have decided to give up that business, at any rate."
"Have you anything in view?"
"I thought I might get a situation of some kind in Boston. The prize-money will keep us going till I can earn a good salary."
"Will your mother move from Pine Point?"
"Yes, sir; she would be lonely here without me."
"I have an amendment to offer to your plans, Grit."
"What is that, sir?"
"Come to New York instead of Boston."
"I have no objection, sir, if there is any opening there for me."
"There is, and in my office. Do you think you would like to enter my office?"
"I should like it very much," said Grit eagerly.
"Then I will engage you at a salary of twelve dollars per week—for the first year."
"Twelve dollars!" exclaimed Grit, overwhelmed. "I had no idea a green hand could get such pay."
"Nor can they," answered Mr. Jackson, smiling; "but you remember that there is an unsettled account between us. I have not forgotten that you saved the life of my boy."
"I don't want any reward for that, sir."
"I appreciate your delicacy, but I shall feel better satisfied to recognize it in my own way. I have another proposal to make to you. It is this: Place in my hands as much of your thousand dollars as you can spare, and I will invest it carefully for your advantage in stock operations, and hope materially to increase it."
"I shall be delighted if you will do so, Mr. Jackson, and think myself very fortunate that you take this trouble for me."
"Now, how soon can you go to New York?"
"When you think best, sir?"
"I advise you to go on with me, and select a home for your mother. Then you can come back for her, and settle yourself down to work."
* * * * * * * *
A year later, in a pleasant cottage on Staten Island, Grit and his mother sat in a neatly furnished sitting-room. Our young hero was taller, as befitted his increased age, but there was the same pleasant, frank expression which had characterized him as a boy.
"Mother," said he, "I have some news for you."
"What is it, Grit?"
"Mr. Jackson has raised my pay to twenty dollars a week."
"That is excellent news, Grit."
"He has besides rendered an account of the eight hundred dollars he took from me to operate with. How much do you think it amounts to now?"
"Perhaps a thousand."
"Between four and five thousand!" answered Grit, in exultation.
"How can that be possible?" exclaimed Mrs. Morris, in astonishment.
"He used it as a margin to buy stocks which advanced greatly in a short time. This being repeated once or twice, has made me almost rich."
"I can hardly believe it, Grit. It is too good to be true."
"But it is true, mother. Now we can change our mode of living."
"Wait till you are worth ten thousand dollars, Grit—then I will consent. But, I, too, have some news for you."
"What is it?"
"I had a letter from Chester to-day. Our old neighbor, Mr. Courtney, has lost everything—or almost everything—and has been compelled to accept the post of bank messenger, at a salary of fifty dollars per month."
"That is indeed a change," said Grit. "What will Phil do?"
"He has gone into a store in Chester, on a salary of three dollars a week."
"Poor fellow!" said Grit. "I pity him. It must be hard for a boy with his high notions to come down in the world so. I would rather begin small and rise, than be reared in affluence only to sink into poverty afterward."
It was quite true. The result of his rash speculations was to reduce Mr. Courtney to poverty, and make him for the balance of his life a soured, discontented man.
As for Phil, he is still young, and adversity may teach him a valuable lesson. Still, I hardly think he will ever look with satisfaction upon the growing success and prosperity of the young boatman.
I must note another change. It will be observed that I have referred to Grit's mother as Mrs. Morris. Mr. Brandon was accidentally drowned in Portland Harbor, having undertaken, while under the influence of liquor, to row to Peake's Island, some two miles distant. His wife and Grit were shocked by his sudden death, but they could hardly be expected to mourn for him. His widow resumed the name of her former husband, and could now lay aside all anxiety as to the quiet tenor of her life being broken in upon by her ill-chosen second husband.
It looks as if Grit's prosperity had come to stay. I am privately informed that Mr. Jackson intends next year to make him junior partner, and this will give him a high position in business circles. I am sure my young readers will feel that his prosperity has been well earned, and will rejoice heartily in the brilliant success of the young boatman of Pine Point.