Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
“That is, if we get a heap of money?”
“Yes.”
“And if not?”
“Springfield again.”
“Why not Downey?”
“Tim?”
“Yes.”
“I never thought of that!”
Marcus listened intently.
“There’s money in it, Tim says,” continued Spofford.
“Yes, his letter to me says so.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes; he paid us well for the Robert Rawley affair. We’ll see. We might
go to him. We’re near the place. Yonder it is. That fine mansion among
the trees. Post the boy and scare him, Spofford.”
Spofford began to talk to Marcus. He showed him a pistol--told him that
he would be made independently rich if he obeyed them, killed if he
attempted treachery or flight.
They scaled a fence and approached a house. It was enveloped in
darkness, as if its inmates were asleep.
“There’s the small window in the pantry,” said Daley. “The boy is to
creep through it and unlock the door beyond.”
“In with you, and be cautious,” ordered Spofford.
Marcus was compelled to obey. He placed the satchel and the coat on the
ground, and was hoisted through the window.
Daley held a dark-lantern after him, so that its rays kept him in sight.
Marcus’ plan was to open not the door leading to the outside, but one
that led into the living portion of the house, and dashing through it
and out of sight of his companions, alarm the people.
In this he was baffled, however, for as he touched the knob of the
inside door he found that it was locked on the other side, and at the
same moment Daley at the other window called out gruffly:
“Here! not that door--this one!”
Marcus unlocked the outside door.
“You’re a good one!” murmured Daley. “Now go outside under the window
and keep watch, and warn us if anyone comes.”
“All right!” replied Marcus relievedly.
“You, Spofford, turn the key in the inner door. Stay here, and I’ll go
in quest of the cash.”
Marcus Ellison, the minute he was outside and out of sight of the two
men, did not delay a moment.
He seized the satchel and overcoat and dashed as fast as he could run
for the nearest house.
Its lights showed him the way. Glancing in through its windows, he saw
that some kind of a social gathering was in progress.
He did not wait to ring at the front door bell. Dashing in, he
electrified the people in the parlors with the announcement:
“Burglars have just broken in at the big house next here! Hurry up and
catch them!”
A minute later half a dozen excited men were rushing toward Judge
Oglesby’s mansion, Marcus bringing up the rear, lugging the satchel and
Daley’s overcoat, and wondering what the outcome of the adventures of
the night would be.
They were tragic for one person at least--Dean Mercer. He had reached
the mansion in advance of the burglars; but as he gained the garden,
and was about to ring the door bell and arouse the sleeping Judge
Oglesby, he hesitated.
Vague fears assailed him, and he suddenly remembered that Marcus had
warned him duly to follow out his instructions, keep himself and his
companions in view, and leave it to him to strike a decisive blow.
By warning the judge, Dean realized now he might upset all Marcus
Ellison’s plans--perhaps involve Marcus in trouble and arrest.
So, waveringly, he waited, and as he saw the two burglars and Marcus
appear, trembled with direful apprehension.
“They may murder the judge,” gasped Dean.
He ran around to the library. To his surprise, he found a window up a
few inches, although the inside blinds were closed.
Dean pushed the window up and opened the blinds. He now stood in the
library, and began groping his way about in the dark.
He had considerable knowledge of the lay-out of the house, and had
an idea of reaching the staircase, creeping up it, and, gaining the
chambers, arouse the sleeping inmates.
Halfway across the room he paused. Some one seemed just to have entered
the room.
Dean uttered a startled, cry as this person brushed against him.
A hand seized his throat.
“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.
Then the intruder flashed a dark-lantern from under his coat.
It was Daley. The clothes Dean wore were of precisely the same material
as those of Marcus Ellison.
His appearance completely deceived the excited burglar.
“I thought I told you to stay outside?” he growled.
“I--I----”
“Be cautious. Follow me, I’ve got the box of cash.”
He had put up the lantern again, but not before Dean saw that in his
hand he bore a small tin box.
A desperate resolve came into Dean’s mind. Through him, though
innocently, Judge Oglesby had already lost a small fortune.
The tin box probably contained several thousand dollars.
“I’ll rescue it. I’ll give the alarm, come what may,” breathed Dean
excitedly.
With a quick move, the venturesome boy placed his impulsive plan in
operation.
He glided forward and suddenly wrenched the tin box from the hand of
the amazed Daley. Then he dashed for the next room.
“You scoundrel! What do you mean?”
“Thieves! murder! help! help! help!”
In ringing tones the wild alarm echoed on the silent air of the house.
Dean ran recklessly forward. Daley, confused at his strange
proceedings, yet suspicious and alarmed, stumbled after him.
Overhead suddenly sounded footsteps and alarmed voices.
Crash!
Dean Mercer came to the floor with a shock. He was pinned there, held
there by some heavy object.
A light glowed in the hall, then in the next room. He made out Daley,
raving and baffled, hastening from the house.
A strange accident had happened to Dean Mercer. He had run against a
marble pedestal, holding a rare and expensive urn.
This had upset, and falling on him, held him pinned to the floor.
He now tried to extricate himself. He tore himself loose, and clinging
to the box of money, arose to his feet.
At that moment the judge and several members of his family, alarmed,
terrified, rushed into the room.
Dean was terribly excited.
“Judge! judge!” he gasped, “the burglars have fled.”
His tones betrayed his identity, as his disguised appearance would
never have done, though the last was now certain to be another link in
the chain of circumstantial evidence against him.
“Dean Mercer!” exclaimed Judge Oglesby. “Is it possible you have sunk
to this?”
CHAPTER XXV.
DEAN MERCER IN JAIL.
It would be impossible to describe the consternation and alarm that
overwhelmed Dean at the words of Judge Oglesby.
He essayed to refute the terrible charge, and could not speak. In a
flash, he saw the position he was in.
Disguised, already branded as a thief, he had been found by the judge
with a box of valuables in his hand.
The real thieves had escaped. Who would believe Dean Mercer’s story of
the true facts of the case?
There had come a thundering knock at the front door of the house, and
the judge hastened to open it, to admit a half a dozen excited men--the
ones Marcus Ellison had just called to his aid.
Then there was hubbub and confusion. In horror they regarded Dean
Mercer, and then just as Dean in a transport of anguish tried to shout
out his story and avow his innocence, he was seized and borne from the
house.
Ten minutes later he was locked up in the corridor of the little town
jail, and in the outer room he could hear excited voices discussing the
events of the night.
“Worse and worse!” wailed Dean, utterly crushed and frightened. “Oh,
this is terrible!”
Yes, it was terrible. Circumstances were against him. He was doubly
condemned now, and he sat down on a bench in the corridor and tried to
think it all over and wonder what the outcome of it all would be.
The town marshal came in. He glanced at Dean with a stern face.
“Well, boy, you’re in a pretty bad fix,” he said.
“I am innocent, sir!” he gasped wildly.
The marshal shrugged his shoulders incredulously. “Don’t try to lie out
of it,” he said harshly.
“But the real burglars----”
“Nonsense! a fiction!”
“Can I see Judge Oglesby?”
“He don’t want to see you.”
Dean was left to himself again.
An hour went by--two. The jail became quiet and deserted again.
“Hist--Dean! Dean!”
Dean Mercer could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses.
From a barred window some one had spoken his name. He approached it and
peered forth.
The window looked out on the rear of the jail lot. There stood Marcus
Ellison.
“Marcus!” gasped Dean.
“Yes. Hist! don’t talk. We have work to do. I know all about it.
There’s only one thing--escape!”
“But they believe me guilty?”
“Stop talking, I tell you,” persisted Marcus. “You are lost if you
don’t escape before daylight.”
Without fully dreaming of the weight his decision was to have on
his whole future life, Dean Mercer hesitated before accepting the
alternative held out to him by his friend. It was the crucial moment in
his career.
While he knew that Marcus Ellison was sincere in his determination
to help him, he did not like the idea of running away under such
circumstances as he must if he escaped from the jail. It seemed far
worse to him than his flight from the reform school.
“I--I do not believe I had better do it, Marcus,” he finally said.
“Do what?”
“Why, run away from here--break jail.”
“Oh, fudge! it isn’t breaking jail in the real sense. You are innocent,
you know.”
“Then I need not fear the result if I stay.”
“But you can’t prove your innocence at present. Remember you are
leaving here just to get the evidence you need. I’ve got trace of Tim
Downey and we can run him to earth. Once we’ve got him cornered the
rest will be easy.”
“But if I leave here in this way, everybody will feel sure that I am
guilty. Marcus, I prefer to remain and fight it out.”
“Whew! I didn’t know but you had more common sense,” replied the other,
showing by his words and manner that he was disgusted by this flat
refusal to accept his assistance.
“Pardon me, Marcus. I know you mean all right. But I could never lift
up my head again if I should do it. It seems so cowardly. I know I am
already a fugitive, but I prefer not to try an escape from here in the
way you suggest.”
“It is easy enough. I have the tools with which to do it. I can saw
a couple of bars in short order. Once you are free, you and I can
bend our wits toward running our enemies to earth. But we are losing
valuable time, and I am taking a lot of risk in doing this.”
“I know it, Marcus, and I shall never forget it.”
“Obey me in this and you will come out O. K. If you’d done it at the
house when they were robbing the judge, you would not have been in this
box.”
“I know it, Marcus. But don’t take any more chances for me. I am
resolved to stay here and meet my fate.”
“Then it’s because you haven’t the sand in you I thought you had. Good
night and pleasant dreams.”
“Good night, Marcus. I wish you well. Take good care of yourself.”
A moment later the form of Marcus disappeared from the narrow orbit of
Dean’s range of vision, and he knew his last friend had left him alone.
“The worst of it is he is provoked at my action,” thought the young
prisoner. “I hope I have done what is for the best. I wonder what will
happen to me next.”
With these far from pleasant thoughts, Dean sank back upon his rude
couch, but not to sleep.
His mind was too active with the peril hanging over him. In the long,
painful hours that dragged away on leaden wings he thought of many
things.
Breakfast had been eaten the following morning at the home of Judge
Oglesby and he had repaired to his study, when Eva and Manly, who were
discussing the new development in regard to Dean Mercer, discovered a
man coming hastily toward the dwelling.
A second glance disclosed the identity of the early caller, as he
advanced at the peculiar rolling gait of one used all his life to being
on board of a sailing vessel.