Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
As he drank he grew boisterous, so the men became alarmed. Near the
close of day he was seen to emerge from his cabin and stagger across
the deck to the gangway.
Then, drawing his heavy, gold watch from his vest pocket, he gazed
unsteadily at its face for a minute or more, when he suddenly blurted
out:
“Five o’clock and the steamer at her dock here! Where is the crew?”
One of the men who had been left to keep watch over the boat while the
others were ashore upon one errand or another ventured to approach the
delirious speaker, saying:
“I am sorry, Colonel Darringford, but there ain’t no crew here but me
and the fireman.”
“No crew?” fairly roared the colonel. “And the steamer lying here with
all those passengers waiting to come aboard for a start. Wake up, you
idiot! summon the crew; let on the steam; ye gods! I’ll discharge every
man of you at Springfield!”
The watchman looked upon the crazed speaker and then glanced toward the
shore. A few boys were playing about the place, and in the distance he
could see three or four men going about their duties. Further away he
saw faintly the captain of the boat, but he was beyond his hail. There
was not a passenger in sight.
Colonel Darringford glowered upon him fiercely, and then yelled:
“To your post, you lubber! Order the men to lower the staging so all
those passengers can come aboard. They have paid their money, and they
shall have passage to their journey’s end.”
Then, as if a new thought had come into his bewildered brain, he
demanded:
“Where’s that new boat--that infernal----”
“You mean the _Spray_, Colonel? She’s gone on to Springfield.”
“And left the only decent boat on the lake here, with a
thousand passengers waiting to come aboard, and--and--and
not--a--not--a--man----”
His rage making him speechless, Colonel Darringford made an attempt to
reach the watchman, muttering:
“I’ll choke the life out----”
In the midst of his incoherent speech he staggered to and fro, making
a vain attempt to maintain his equilibrium, but a moment later he sank
upon the deck unconscious. From thence he was carried to the cabin
and left there to sleep off the delirium and stupor of his protracted
debauch.
The whole scene would have been ridiculous had not its price been a
ruined manhood.
Upon reaching Springfield, the first thing Judge Oglesby and Dean did
was to arrange for the needed repairs of the _Spray_, after which they
sought the bank officials to learn about the check that had been cashed
there.
But that institution had been closed for over two hours, and the
cashier had been called out of town, and would not be back until the
afternoon of the following day.
Messrs. Brown and Sewall were found, but they could throw no light upon
the situation. They had not sent a man to represent them and so it was
evident some one had got possession of the check through deception.
“I assure you we are not worried about the money, Judge Oglesby,” said
Mr. Brown.
But there was more than the loss of money at stake.
While the judge and Dean were trying to solve this mystery, Mr.
Montague was meeting with keener disappointment elsewhere in his
endeavor to find what had become of Marcus Ellison.
Late the following evening not a single clew had been found to settle
either of these mooted questions.
Dean Mercer was fain to return to the steamer to spend the night, while
the judge went to one of the hotels and Mr. Montague accepted the
invitation of his colleague, Mr. Durand, to go to his home.
At the small hour of one only a few belated wayfarers were abroad, and
a comparative silence lay upon the town.
Then the stillness was suddenly broken by the most startling cry that
robs man of rest:
“Fire--fire--fire!”
The alarm had started down by the dock.
CHAPTER XIV.
A LINK IN THE CHAIN OF MYSTERY.
“The _Spray_ is burning up!”
This astounding cry awoke Judge Oglesby from a sound sleep.
When he finally reached the pier the ill-fated steamer was beyond hope
of being saved.
“Where is Dean--Captain Mercer?” he asked, excitedly, as he looked upon
the doomed boat which had held out so much promise to him.
“He can’t be found!” replied a bystander. “He has been burned with the
steamer.”
“Shiver yer toplight! Let go the anchor there. I’ll find the lad if I
die in the flames.”
It took four strong men to hold Jack Carboy from rushing to what must
have proved certain death.
“Be calm, Jack,” admonished the judge. “We shall find the boy safe and
sound. No doubt he has done his best----”
“See him coming ashore,” said a bystander. “He ’peared to be running
away like a sneak thief.”
“He fired the boat and then skipped,” declared some one else.
But many believed that the missing youth had perished in the fire.
The _Spray_ burned to the water’s edge, and the following morning only
the charred and dismantled hulk was left of the proud steamer.
A search failed to reveal any trace of Dean Mercer.
One man alone believed fully in the innocence of Dean. That was Jack
Carboy.
Filled with the wild hope that “his lad” had somehow, and he could not
have explained how, gone home, he started for Millville.
Judge Oglesby telephoned home, but, as he had expected, nothing had
been seen or heard of Dean.
Judge Oglesby arrived at a definite conclusion soon. The _Spray_ had
been burned by an incendiary.
Who?
Where was Dean Mercer?
By nightfall a terrible suspicion assailed the judge’s mind.
On the morning of the third day after the fire, all Millville knew that
Dean Mercer had disappeared, taking with him, it was believed, nine
thousand dollars in stolen money.
On the morning of the fourth day, officers representing the judge’s
interests, started out to scour the country around in an endeavor to
secure some trace of the fugitive.
A reward of a thousand dollars was offered for the arrest of Dean, and
two thousand for the recovery of the money.
It took hours, weary and torturing, to fully convince Judge Oglesby
that his young protege, the boy he had so completely trusted, had
proven an ingrate and a criminal.
Evaline was dumbfounded--crushed.
“Oh, papa! it cannot be true!” she had gasped, pale with horror.
“He never did it,” affirmed Lawyer Montague stanchly.
But clue by clue fastened the network of guilt more completely
around Dean. The judge’s mind passed through all the graduations of
stupefaction, alarm, grief, and finally, stern, unrelenting justice.
Even Lawyer Montague at last agreed that the temptation of money had
been too much for Dean Mercer. He had been dazzled with the glare
of wealth--he had sold honor and respectability for a fortune, and
forgetting home and friends, had fled to some remote place to enjoy his
stolen plunder.
“But what did he burn the _Spray_ for?” muttered the perplexed
Montague. “I can’t understand that, judge?”
“Maybe he was hired.”
“Who by?”
“My rivals in business.”
“Dean wouldn’t do that.”
“A boy who would feign honesty and friendship, and betray a trust,
and rob a benefactor, would do anything evil,” replied Judge Oglesby
bitterly. “We have simply been deceived, and at a terrible cost.”
“A terrible cost, indeed,” sighed Montague. “I am comparatively a poor
man and the loss of the thousand dollars will fall heavily upon me.
Dear! dear! what is the world coming to?”
Yes, Judge Oglesby had lost, but he could afford it. As to Montague,
the missing thousand dollars and the papers meant beggary. Certainly a
severe blow to his prospects.
The money represented all that was possessed by Robert Ellison, a man
who had reposed the most implicit confidence in him.
It was a strange and mysterious case. He was charged with killing his
uncle, a miserly relative, who had led a lonely life back in the hills,
and circumstances almost proved his guilt.
Ellison had just returned from a two years’ sojourn to far Western
mines. He had left his son, Marcus, in charge of his uncle.
When he returned he had accumulated a little over a thousand dollars.
This he intended to invest in some little business, and take his son in
with him.
To his surprise, when he went to his uncle, James Conroyd, for his boy,
he found Conroyd in the worst possible humor.
The latter stated that he had tired of caring for Marcus Ellison, and
had sent him adrift.
“Why?” asked the amazed Ellison.
“Because I did not hear from you.”
“I wrote you and sent money for his care.”
“I never got your letters!” snapped the ill-natured Conroyd.
There was an angry interview, for Ellison was provoked at Conroyd’s
heartlessness. The crabbed, irritable nature of the latter became more
and more resentful, as Ellison charged him with heartlessness.
They had a fierce quarrel, and Conroyd ordered Ellison out of his
house, and Ellison, wild with rage, vowed to “get even” with him.
That night, from Millville, he wrote his uncle that unless he put him
on the track of his missing boy he would make him trouble.
That night James Conroyd was found shot dead near his cabin. The next
day a pistol that Ellison had brought from the West with him was
discovered among some bushes near the house.
One chamber was empty. The missing bullet was found in James Conroyd’s
heart.
Of course Ellison was at once arrested. Conroyd’s hired man, a surly,
low-browed being named Manseur, swore that he had seen Ellison lurking
around the cabin.
The threatening letter that Ellison had written was also found. People
remembered his threats.
In jail Ellison sent for Lawyer Montague, an old-time friend, and told
him the truth. He was innocent. Montague believed him.
Ellison gave the lawyer his money, and engaged him to clear him from
the crime imputed to him.
He was taken to the jail at Springfield. Public opinion was against
him, but the shrewd Montague began to work up clue after clue toward
proving his innocence.
His suspicions became directed toward the hired man, Manseur, as the
real assassin. He watched him, questioned him, and discerned that the
latter was beginning to get suspicious of him and uneasy.
Montague believed that Manseur had murdered his employer to rob him,
and had taken advantage of his quarrel with Ellison, to involve the
latter.
He saw that when the case came to trial he could entangle Manseur in
contradictory statements and weaken his fake story of having seen
Ellison lurking near the Conroyd cabin the night of the murder.
Then, again, he had secured a bit of evidence that in a measure
corroborated Ellison’s claim that the night of the murder he was forty
miles away from Millville in quest of his missing son, Marcus.
Old James Conroyd had sent him a letter telling him that the last he
had heard of Marcus was at Highcliffe, a town some distance away. The
letter, too, spoke of his being sorry for his unreasonable anger, and
it was written evidently only a few hours previous to the murder.
This letter, other evidence and the thousand dollars were contained in
the wallet that Lawyer Montague had given to Dean Mercer to take to
Lawyer Durand at Springfield.
Montague and everybody else believed that Dean had made off with the
money.
If he lost or destroyed James Conroyd’s evidence, or the other papers,
Ellison was doomed to the electric chair.
Without the money Ellison could not fight his case successfully, but
Montague determined to replace the thousand dollars, if it beggared him.
Then anxiously he began to advertise.
Such items as the following appeared in the city papers:
“D. M.--Return the papers and keep the money.”
“D. M.--You will not be prosecuted if you return the Conroyd letter and
papers.”
“D. M.--An innocent man is doomed if you lose or destroy the Conroyd
documents. For the sake of humanity, return them!”