CHAPTER XXVI.
LUCK FAVORS LYMAN
No patron of Delmonico's probably ever contemplated his sumptuous meal with more satisfaction than shone in the little match boy's eyes, as he gazed with watering mouth at the overdone, tough-looking steak, the mashed potato, the three slices of stale bread and dab of butter, which furnished the solid material of his meal. A cup of muddy coffee completed the bill of fare. After all, appetite is the best sauce, and Johnny had appetite enough to make his meal seem palatable.
Johnny did not stand upon ceremony, but "pitched in." It is not an elegant expression, but it describes accurately the energy with which the boy disposed of his dinner. Ten minutes sufficed for its entire disappearance. There was not even a crumb left.
"That was bully!" said Johnny to himself, with a sigh of supreme satisfaction "I wish I could have such a lay out every day."
But he evidently thought this was unattainable happiness. He did not even think of reserving from his little fund, enough to provide a similar feast on the following day—partly because he was an honest little fellow, and partly because he stood in fear of the burly woman whom he called Aunt Peggy.
"I wouldn't have Aunt Peggy know I've been here for something," he thought.
There seemed little chance of it, but, as ill luck would have it, as he was emerging from the restaurant, a boy he knew passed with a blacking-box on his shoulder.
"What have you been doin' in there?" asked Tim Roach. "Been havin' yer dinner?"
"I just got a little to eat," answered Johnny, ill at ease.
"Got any more money?"
"A little."
"Then just treat a feller, won't yer? I'll do as much for you to-morrer."
"I can't, Tim, the money isn't mine."
"You won't, you mean."
"I would if the money belonged to me."
"Does Peggy know yer went in there?" asked Tim, slyly.
"Don't tell her, Tim! I was so hungry."
"Then treat!"
"I can't, Tim!"
"All right!" replied Tim, nodding. "I'll let Peggy know how you spend her money."
Poor Johnny! These last words alarmed him terribly.
Lyman Taylor's stock of money was getting low. He was not a good financial manager. But even if he had been, he would not have been able long to live without work. When his stock of ready money was reduced to five dollars, he began to consider anxiously where he could obtain a further supply. It is not strange that his thoughts should have reverted to his uncle.
"I wonder if Uncle Anthony is well fixed or not. He got considerable money in California, but may have lost it. The old man is close-mouthed, and I can't worm the secret out of him. If I had any hold on him–" continued Lyman, thoughtfully.
He sauntered along till he came to a pool-room, connected with a cheap hotel, of the kind he was in the habit of frequenting. No one chanced to be playing, and by way of filling up the time he took up a St. Louis paper, and ran his eye listlessly over it.
But at one place in the advertising columns, his listlessness suddenly vanished, and his face assumed a look of eager interest. This was the advertisement that attracted his attention:
"Information Wanted.—Any one who can give information concerning a child named Jack Ransom, who was brought to St. Louis a little more than five years since, is desired to communicate with Mark Manning, at the Planters' Hotel. The boy, if living, is now seven or eight years of age."
"Well, I'll be–hanged!" ejaculated Lyman Taylor. "How, in the name of all that's mysterious, has my uncle got hold of a clue to little Jack's existence?
"So he's sent that country cub—Mark Manning—out to investigate. He must be crazy to trust a green boy, who has always lived in the country.
"But what beats me, is how he learned so much. I did take the boy to St. Louis, and placed him with an old woman, who very likely has starved or beaten him to death by this time. But suppose she hasn't," continued Lyman, after a pause.
"Suppose the child is still living. If I could only find out, then I would have the hold on my uncle that I require. I would kidnap the boy, and not part with him under a good round sum."
Lyman's face brightened, but only for an instant. It was a capital scheme, but how was he to get hold of the boy? How did he know if he were living?
He would have been amazed if he had known that he had seen the boy that very day, selling matches in the streets.
There was one thing, however, that seemed clear to Lyman. His uncle must still have a comfortable property, or he would not be able to send a messenger to St. Louis in search of his lost grandson.
"The old man may have twenty thousand dollars, for aught I know," reflected Lyman; "and doesn't spend the income of half that as he lives now. No doubt that country boy has an inkling of it, and is planning to get hold of it. That boy is foxy, and knows what he is about, I'll be bound."
This estimate did not exactly agree with the one Lyman had recently expressed of Mark, but he did not think it necessary to be consistent.
"Twenty thousand dollars!" he repeated, and his nephew almost starving here in Chicago. Oh, it was a cunning scheme to buy me off for a paltry sum, and give a free field to that boy. That's a pretty way for a man to treat his only living relation.
"But who could have put it into his head that his grandson was alive? I presume the little beggar has kicked the bucket before this. If I only could get hold of him, I would make the old man pay handsomely for his return."
The chances, however, did not seem very flattering, and Lyman had no money to expend in searching for the boy, apart from the doubt whether he was still living. Gradually a new idea came to him. He might pick up some boy who would answer the purpose, whom he could palm off on his uncle as his grandson. True, it would be raising up a rival heir; but he was thoroughly persuaded that in no case did he himself stand any chance of succeeding to his uncle's property.
"It will be worth something," he muttered, "to cut out that country boy. All I have to do, is to find a boy who is without relatives, and I can concoct some story that will impose upon Uncle Anthony. That little match boy, for instance! Why wouldn't he do?"
Lyman became so excited by his castle building, that he determined to lose no time in carrying out his design. He left the tavern, and retraced his steps to the place where he had encountered the match boy. Johnny, after eating his dinner, had resumed his business, and was within a block of the same place offering his wares to the passers by.
He was a little worried by Tim's threat to expose his extravagant dinner to the old woman with whom he lived, but persistently refused to buy off his persecutor.
"I say, little boy, what's your name?"
Johnny turned round at these words, and recognized in the man addressing him, the one with whom he had already had trouble. His face showed the fear which he not unnaturally felt.
"Don't be frightened, my boy!" said Lyman, with an ingratiating smile. "I am afraid I was rough to you this morning. Don't mind it! I was worried about my business affairs, and didn't mean what I said. Shake hands, and let us be friends."
With rather a bewildered look, Johnny allowed Lyman to take his small, thin hand, and looked perplexed.
"Come, you don't harbor no malice, my lad, do you?" said Lyman with a smile.
"No—o," answered Johnny, doubtfully.
"The fact is, I feel an interest in you, my boy. You look like a little cousin of mine that I haven't seen since he was a baby."
Johnny was more and more puzzled. The neglected little match boy was not used to such attention.
"Did you ever live in St. Louis?" asked Lyman, at a venture.
"Yes," answered the match boy.
Lyman opened his eyes in surprise. He had not expected such an answer. Even then he did not suspect that Chance had led him to the very boy whom he desired to meet.
"Have you any father or mother?" he asked.
"No sir."
"Good!"
Johnny could not understand why his questioner should be pleased to hear that he was an orphan. Lyman Taylor seemed to him a very incomprehensible man. He felt rather uncomfortable in his presence, and hoped the man would go away, and leave him to attend to his business.
"Who do you live with, then, sonny?" was Lyman's next question.
"With my aunt."
"What is your aunt's name?"
"I always call her Aunt Peggy."
"What?" exclaimed Lyman, in a tone that made the little match boy jump. "You live with an old woman named Peggy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is she your aunt?"
"I suppose so. I always call her Aunt Peggy."
"It's the very boy!" was Lyman's exulting thought. "I'm in luck at last. Lyman, old man, your plans are going to be realized."
"Were you ever called Jack?" he asked, anxiously.
"Yes; that's what Aunt Peggy calls me. Other people call me Johnny."
"My boy," said Lyman, fervently, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. I am sure now you are my little cousin. Where does Peggy live?"
The match boy named the place—a poor street in a poor neighborhood.
"Take me there at once. I want to see your Aunt Peggy."
"But Peggy will be mad if I don't stay and sell matches, sir."
"Come along; I will make it right with her."
Lyman took the little boy's hand, and the two turned off Clark Street, and went in pursuit of Peggy.
CHAPTER XXVII.
OLD PEGGY
Tim Roach was not only selfish, but liked to make mischief. He resolved to be revenged upon Johnny for declining to "treat" him to a dinner, and having plenty of time on his hands, took pains to seek out the humble home tenanted by old Peggy.
It was on the third floor of a tall, shabby brick house, not far from the Chicago and Alton depot. Tim had been there before, and didn't require directions. He ascended the rickety staircase, nearly treading on two dirty faced children belonging to a neighbor of Peggy's, who were playing on the landing. As a third child, older, made her appearance, Tim stopped long enough to inquire, "Is Peggy at home?"
"Yes," answered the girl. "She's home, but, oh my, ain't she tight!"
"That's nothin' new," said Tim, composedly.
He knocked at Peggy's door, and receiving no answer, opened it.
The old woman had thrown herself on a truckle bed at one corner of the room, and was breathing noisily with her eyes half closed.
"Is it you, Johnny!" she asked, without turning her head.
"No, it's me!"
"Who's me?"
"Tim Roach."
"What do you want?"
"I've just seed Johnny, Peggy."
"Has he sold many matches? Where is he?"
"I seed him in an eatin' house. He was eatin' a bully dinner."
"What!" exclaimed Peggy, now thoroughly roused, raising herself on her elbow. "What's that you say, Tim Roach?"
Tim, quite enjoying the commotion he had raised, repeated his information.
"So he's spendin' my money in fillin' his stomach, the little wretch!" exclaimed Peggy. "That's why he brings home so little money. The ungrateful little imp that I've slaved and slaved for these last six years, takin' advantage of a poor old woman when her back's turned! Where was it, Tim, dear?"
Tim mentioned the restaurant.
"And what was he eatin', Tim?"
"He ordered a cup o' coffee and beefsteak—I don't know what else he had."
"I'll learn him to chate and decave me!" said the old woman, angrily. "He only brought home twenty-five cents yesterday, and I takin' care of him, and buyin' him close and vittles."
"I guess he buys some dinner every day," said Tim.
"And I never to suspect it! Tim, dear, you're a good boy to come and tell me. You wouldn't treat your best friend that way?"
"No, I wouldn't!" said Tim, virtuously. "What are you goin' to do to him, Peggy?"
"Where's my stick, Tim? Do you see it anywhere?"
"No, I don't," answered Tim, after a search.
"Some of them children downstairs must have carried it off."
"I can buy you a cane for ten cents."
"And where would the ten cents come from I would like to know. I'll bate him wid my fists, the ongrateful young kid."
"What are you goin' to give me for tellin' you, Peggy?" asked Tim.
"I'll give you a penny the next time I see you," said Peggy, vaguely.
"That isn't enough. Give me a nickel to buy a glass of beer?"
"I haven't got it, Tim. I wish I had, for I'm awful dhry myself."
"I wouldn't have come all the way to tell you if I'd know'd that," said Tim, discontentedly.
Just then a noise was heard on the stairs, and Tim, opening the door wider, looked out.
"Here's Johnny now, Peggy!" he said in excitement.
"Come home the middle of the afternoon, too, the young rascal!" ejaculated the old woman. "I'll fix him!"
"So here you are, you young–," commenced Peggy, as Johnny made his appearance, but the threat with which she was about to conclude, died in the utterance, when she saw that Johnny was closely followed by a tall man of middle age.
"Who are you, sir?" she asked irritably, "and what brings you here? If you're the agent, I haven't got any money for you."
"Don't you remember me, Peggy?" asked Lyman, sinking with rare courage into a chair which cracked under his weight.
"No, sir, I don't. If I had my glasses, perhaps–"
"I see you've got company, Peggy," continued Lyman, with a significant look at Tim. "I would like to speak to you alone. It'll be to your advantage, mind," he added, detecting a suspicious look on the old woman's face. "Just send the two boys out to play, and we'll speak together."
"First, hand over what money you've got, Jack," said Peggy. "I ain't goin' to have you wastin' it outside. Let me see your matches! How many boxes did you sell?"
"Five," answered Johnny.
"Only five!" exclaimed the old woman, holding up her hands. "You were playin' in the strates, I'll be bound!"
"No, I wasn't, Aunt Peggy. I tried to sell more, but–"
"Oh, yes, I understand! And you'd done so well you thought you'd buy yourself a dinner off my money. Come here and let me shake you!"
"Tim told you!" said the little boy, with a reproachful look at his betrayer.
"Yes, he told me, and he was a good bye for doin' it."
"He said he'd tell if I didn't buy him some, too."
"Is that threu?" asked Peggy.
"Hark to him!" said Tim, with virtuous indignation. "It's a lie, and he knows it."
"Did you spend all the money, Jack?" demanded Peggy. "If you did–"
"But I didn't, Aunt Peggy. Some good people gave me some money, and–"
"It was for me, then. How dared you spind it?"
"I've brought most of it home, Peggy. See here!" and Johnny took out a handful of small silver coins and pennies, and poured them into the old woman's lap.
Peggy was agreeably surprised. She saw that there was nearly a dollar, much more than Johnny generally brought home, and it put her in a good humor.
"You've done well, Jack!" she said. "I won't grudge the money you spent for a bit of dinner. Now go out and play wid Tim."
"I don't want to play with him. He told on me."
"My lad," said Lyman, "can't you bring a bottle of beer for your good aunt and myself. Here's money; you can bring back the change."
"You go, Jack, for the gentleman," said Peggy, quite restored to good humor. "I don't mind sayin' that my throat is just parched with bein' so dhry."
Johnny went out, and soon returned, for he had not far to go. In spite of his company being so unwelcome, Tim went and returned with him.
"Won't you give me a little, Peggy," he asked.
"No, I won't. You wanted Jack to trate you on my money. Now clear out, and never let me see your ugly face here ag'in."
"That's the thanks I get for tellin' you!" complained Tim. "And after runnin' myself out of breath, too!"
"Clear out wid you! And you, Jack, go back and see if you can't sell some more matches. It's only the middle of the afternoon, and there's plenty of time before sunset to sell half-a-dozen boxes."
Johnny obeyed, not unwillingly, for he was not partial to home, nor did he enjoy Peggy's company. Tim accompanied him, but Johnny, gentle as he was, refused to have anything to say to him. Tim felt that he was badly treated. Johnny turned his back on him, and Peggy had utterly failed to acknowledge the service he had rendered her. Tim was of opinion that it was a cold world, and that there was little encouragement to be virtuous.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
LYMAN'S PLAN
"Here's your health, Peggy!" said Lyman, emptying his glass.
"Thank you, sir!" said Peggy, following his example. "You're very kind, I'm sure, and I ought to remember you, but my memory ain't what it was."
"So you don't remember me?"
"I can't remimber that I iver set eyes on your face before, sir."
"Then you don't remember the man that brought you a small child to take care of near six years ago?"
"Shure it's himself!" ejaculated the old woman, peering curiously into Lyman's face. "I only saw you twice, and that's why I forgot. Shure it was a cruel thrick you played upon a poor old woman, when you gave her a baby to take care of, and then, five long years never sent her even a penny. It's hundreds and hundreds of dollars I've spent on little Jack, and he no kin to me!"
"No doubt he has been brought up in the lap of luxury! He looks like it," said Lyman with an amused smile.
"And now you've come to pay me all I spent on the child?" insinuated Peggy.
"Well, not just yet. The fact is, Peggy, unavoidable circumstances prevented my communicating with you, and the same won't admit of my paying over the hundreds of dollars that Jack has cost you."
"Then what do you want of me?" inquired the old woman disappointed.
"I think I can see a way by which both of us can make something out of the boy. By-the-way, it strikes me just at present that he is supporting you instead of you taking care of him."
"He only brings in a few pennies a day," said Peggy. "Shure it's hardly enough to pay his salt."
"Then Jack must be immoderately fond of salt. However, I'll let you into a secret. His grandfather is looking for him."
"His grandfather?"
"Yes; no doubt you are surprised that Jack possesses a grandfather, but that is a fact. His grandfather is my uncle, and what is more to the purpose he has a fair property."
"And little Jack is goin' to be rich?" gasped Peggy in amazement.
"Well, I don't know! That depends on whether we allow his grandfather to find him."
"And why shouldn't he? Wouldn't he be givin' a big reward?"
"That is where you come to the point, my good Peggy. If he will make it worth our while, we may restore him to the old gentleman."
"And how much would he be givin', d'ye think?" asked Peggy, her bead-like eyes sparkling with greed.
"I shouldn't wonder, Peggy, if you might get a hundred dollars out of it."
"A hundred dollars—after my takin' care of the boy ever since he was a babby. Now you're jokin'."
"Well, you see, his grandfather isn't a rich man—" explained Lyman, fearing he had unduly raised the expectations of the old woman.
"You said he was!" retorted Peggy sharply.
"I said he had a comfortable property—for a country town. That means a few thousand dollars."
"He sha'n't have him for such a thrifle," snapped Peggy.
"The police might take him from you, without your getting a cent."
"How would they know, unless you told 'em?" asked Peggy suspiciously.
"Look here, Peggy!" said Lyman in a conciliatory tone. "We've got to stand by each other in this thing. Just leave the matter in my hands, and I'll manage it as well as I can. I'll get as much money from the old gentleman as I can."
"And you'll give me half?"
"Of course—that is, after necessary expenses are paid."
"And what am I to do then?"
"Nothing, except to stay here, and see that nobody gets hold of Jack. Does he know who he is?"
"He thinks I'm his aunt."
"And is proud of the connection, no doubt," said Lyman, who could not restrain his tendency to sarcasm. "Well, perhaps that is as well. Don't let any one know that it is not true. We can keep quiet till the time comes to make it known. Now, I'll leave you, and take the first step by writing to my uncle. Good afternoon, Peggy! I'll call again in a day or two."
"Couldn't you leave me a dollar or two before you go?" whined Peggy. "Me health is very poor, and I can't work, and it's only a few pennies the boy brings in."
"You're better off than I am," said Lyman curtly, "for I am out of employment and I have no boy to bring me in pennies. I don't know but I'd better take Jack at once, and then you won't have to take care of him."
"I'll kape him," said the old woman hurriedly—for she had no wish to lose the income the match boy brought in, small as it was. "I'll kape him, for he's used to me life, and he's happier here."
"Just as you like, Peggy!" returned Lyman with a smile at the success of his stratagem. "I'd help you if I could, but I'm almost at the bottom of my purse as it is. I'll see you again in a day or two, and report progress."
"I've done a good day's work," reflected Lyman, as he picked his way downstairs, nearly slipping on a piece of orange peel on one of the steps. "It was a piece of good luck, my finding Jack so soon after seeing that St. Louis paper—but I must write an effective letter to my uncle."
Lyman went to the Sherman House, and entering the writing-room procured a sheet of note paper, and penned the following note:
"Chicago, September 7, 18—.
"My Dear Uncle:
"I am afraid you are feeling anxious about me, and I will therefore relieve your affectionate solicitude, by saying that I am well in health, but low—very low in pocket. It costs more to live in Chicago than in Pocasset, and the sum of money with which you provided me is nearly gone. As I am a little afraid this hint won't be sufficient to open your heart, let me add that I can make it worth your while to be generous.
"It has come to my knowledge that you have sent out Mark Manning in search of your grandson. How you came to suspect that my cousin left a boy I can't imagine, but I don't mind telling you that you are correct. She did leave a boy, whose name is Jack Ransom. He is now about eight years of age. I know where he is and can lay my hands upon him at any moment. Whether I will or not depends on how you propose to deal with me. Of course it isn't to my interest that the boy should be found, as outside of him I am your natural and legal heir. I know that Mark Manning is scheming to get possession of your property when you are gone, but I am sure you wouldn't throw it away on a stranger, when your brother's son is living.
"Now, Uncle Anthony, I am going to make you a proposition. Bear in mind, if you please, that I am the only one who can restore little Jack to you. Only one other person knows about him and she never heard of you, and doesn't know Jack's last name. If you will guarantee me five thousand dollars within three months, two thousand being cash down, I will myself bring on little Jack, and place him in your arms. Now, I am sorry to say that the boy has a miserable home, and is scantily supplied with the necessaries of life. A miserable career of poverty and perhaps crime, awaits him unless you come to my terms. Let me know as soon as possible what you propose to do.
"A letter directed to me at the Chicago post-office will reach me safely.
"Your affectionate nephew,
"Lyman Taylor."
Anthony received this letter in due time, and deemed it of sufficient importance to warrant a visit to New York. He wished to lay it before Mr. Hardy, and ask his advice.