Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
office of his former employer, Russell Montague, into the open air.
He knew that he had made the most momentous decision of his life--a
decision which was to shape his whole future course of action. In doing
this he had abandoned a promising law course, overcame the natural
preference of his parents and “struck out for himself,” as he put it.
“I can’t bear the stifling old place!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his
feelings with a low exclamation of exultation, as the fresh breeze from
Lake Seneca cooled his overheated temples. “Don’t that feel good--free,
just as I feel, free!
“I do not blame Mr. Montague for wanting to keep me, just as I was
becoming useful, and thinking, as he does, that he was doing father and
mother a great favor. I am grateful to him for his six months’ kindly
supervision of my fate, as he put it.
“Mother was loath to have me leave, but father could see more clearly
than she that my heart was not in it. They all have called it ‘a boyish
choice.’ Strange they all should have used the same words. But I am in
for it, and, make or break, I am going to win. Sleepy old town, little
do you realize that you are about to be suddenly awakened.”
Again the youthful speaker laughed softly to himself, his handsome,
manly countenance showing a firmness of character not usually seen in a
youth of seventeen.
Suddenly a look of concern swept over his face, and he started on a
smart run toward the lake shore, murmuring as he ran:
“The _Warrior_ is about to start. I shall miss my passage.”
Five minutes of his rapid advance brought Dean to within a few yards of
where one of the boats that plied on the lake, between that town and
another at the foot of the lake, was chafing at its moorings. Catching
sight of her commander, Dean asked:
“Is the _Warrior_ about to start, Captain Weymouth?”
“Start? Bless you, lad, did you ever know the _Warrior_ to start on
time? It will be a good two hours before we leave our moorings.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Then Dean added to himself:
“I shall have ample time to see Judge Oglesby, as I ought to, before
leaving for Springfield. Hello! what’s going on over yonder?”
If everything was quiet about the wharf, Dean had suddenly discovered
that there was excitement reigning but a short distance away, though
nothing could be seen to indicate trouble.
Still cries of distress came from near at hand, and a moment’s study of
the situation told Dean that they came from behind a pile of old boxes
and barrels.
Without further hesitation he sprang swiftly toward the spot, and in a
moment these bitter words, uttered in a revengeful tone, came to his
ears:
“Stung again!”
Biff--whack--biff! rang on the air, mingled with the cries for “help!”
Then Dean Mercer abruptly came upon a sight which made his blood boil
with indignation. A burly-framed youth of eighteen had succeeded in
throwing to the ground a boy of nearly his age, but considerably
smaller, and was pummelling him most unmercifully.
“Sass me, will ye?” half questioned, half answered the belligerent
bully, continuing to pound his victim with unremitting vengeance.
“Stop, Tim Downey!” fairly shouted Dean, who had quickly recognized the
bully.
Then, without stopping for the other to cease his beating, if he
would, Dean seized the fellow by the collar and hurled him backward a
dozen yards, when the other whirled about on his feet like a top for a
moment, to fall in a heap at last.
The abused boy slowly staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and
staring stupidly upon Dean, as if he was too bewildered to speak, which
in truth he was. He was considerably smaller than Dean, and a stranger
to him.
“Has he hurt you very much?” asked Dean.
“Broke me all up,” replied the latter. “And I was just walking along
without speaking to any one. I----”
“You crib every durned word you lisp!” cried Tim Downey fiercely,
regaining his feet at this juncture.
Then seeing and recognizing Dean, he snapped:
“So it’s you that hev durst to meddle in my ’fairs! Drat yer picter,
I’ll fix ye so ye won’t look in the glass fer one good spell!”
Tim had clenched his fists and was about to spring on Dean, when the
latter said, in a clear, ringing tone:
“Lay a hand on me if you dare, Tim Downey.”
“I do dare!” yelled the bully, suddenly making a dash for the other.
Tim could never tell just what took place in the next half minute. But
he soon found himself lying prone upon the ground again. He got up
slower than he had before, his eyes filled with dirt and a stinging
sensation behind the ear where Dean Mercer’s fist had landed. He stood
glowering upon his victor without speaking.
Dean, seeing he had quite knocked out the bully for the time, turned to
speak to the boy he had rescued from the other’s abuse.
“You look like a stranger in Millville?”
“I am, mister. My name is Marcus Ellison. I sha’n’t forget the good
turn you did me. I thank you, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going.
Hope the fellow won’t make you any trouble on my account.”
“Never fear for that.”
Seeing that the strange youth was anxious to be going his way, Dean
said nothing further to him, while he again faced his enemy.
“Mebbe ye think ye’ve done yerself up brown with that, Dean Mercer. But
I’ll do you up browner afore I’m through with yer miserable meddling.
I know a thing or two that you don’t think I know,” and with these
words the bully hastily left the place, Dean looking after him with a
quizzical expression upon his countenance.
“Didn’t take long to stop that fuss,” he mused. “But perhaps it isn’t
ended as far as I am concerned. Tim Downey has the reputation of being
the worst boy in town, but that does not mean that I need fear him.
Wonder what made that other boy in such a hurry.”
Dean then came out from the dark corner into the main street which ran
nearly parallel with the waterline.
Millville lacked but one quality to make it one of the most beautiful
and attractive places anywhere in the country. That quality was life, a
very essential element.
Situated at the head of one of the most beautiful sheets of water in
our fair land, its broad bosom dotted with fairy-like islands, it was
located so as to command the business of a long line of towns running
up and down the lake. Summer tourists had already been attracted here,
and several villas and groups of cottages had sprung up among the
delightful groves that covered its isles and lined its shore.
Dean had not gone a dozen steps before he stopped with a short whistle.
He had seen a man rapidly approaching him, and his name was called
anxiously. He saw at a glance that the newcomer was Mr. Montague, his
recent employer and master.
“Whew!” panted the lawyer, quite out of breath with his exertions, “I
was afraid I should miss you, Dean.”
“A delay in the starting of the steamer leaves me here, Mr. Montague.
Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You are going to Springfield?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I want you to do an errand for me. I forgot it when you left my
office, I was so flustered with your leaving.”
“Anything I can do for you, Mr. Montague, I will gladly do.”
“I thought you would. Come with me to a side street. It is something
important and confidential.”
Dean followed his friend away from the main thoroughfare, though not a
person was in sight at that moment.
“I am going to intrust you with an errand, Dean, I would not trust
with another. Here is this wallet for you to take to Springfield. It
contains a thousand dollars in money and papers that are more valuable
than the money. You remember the Ellison case?”
“Yes. You mean the Robert Ellison who was tried for murder?”
“Exactly. But we appealed, and he is to be given another chance.
Well, I have found new evidence that will clear him. The proof is in
that wallet. Take the papers and money to Mr. Durand, my associate at
Springfield, and hand him the package as soon as possible. Mind you, do
not let anyone else get it.”
“I will guard it with my life, Mr. Montague.”
“I know I can trust you, Dean. And I hope you will have reconsidered
your hasty leave of me, and resume your law studies.”
“I do not believe I ever shall, Mr. Montague.”
“Time will show. Everything is made clear in those papers, but if
Mr. Durand wants me, I will come to Springfield upon short notice.
Good-day. The _Warrior_ must be about to start.”
“Good-day, sir.”
As the couple separated, each to go his way, the scowling face of
Tim Downey appeared around the corner of a near-by building, and the
tall, angular figure of the young bully came into full sight, while he
watched the departure of Dean Mercer, muttering under his breath as he
did so:
“So the wise Rube has fallen into a big pile of money! A thousand
dollars and something a feller don’t understand. Guess he don’t size me
up if he thinks I’m going to slump on that.”
CHAPTER II.
LEFT BEHIND.
Tim Downey was the worst boy in Millville. Everybody in the village
knew it, and Tim himself knew it, and rather gloried in the fact.
His parents were worthless, dissolute characters, who lived on the
sands north of the village, where a low community of squatters and
fishermen resided.
Tim had been twice in jail for stealing, and was avoided by all
respectable boys in Millville.
Unconscious of the discovery his enemy had made, Dean Mercer walked
with rapid steps in the direction of the more attractive portion of the
town, where the better class of dwellings were to be found.
One of the finest of these was the residence of Judge Oglesby, and
hither he was shaping his course. He soon came in sight of the
well-kept grounds with groves of maples and birches, under whose
cooling shade a brawling stream ran zigzag across one corner. The
owner of this beautiful estate had left its surroundings in their
natural state, as far as it had been possible without sacrificing his
convenience.
The concrete driveway ran under an iron arch hung with electric lights
of different colors and supported by two massive stone posts. A pair of
huge stone dogs, as if on guard duty, crouched near the entrance to the
magnificent retreat inside.
A bright boy of a dozen years was astride of one of these mute
sentinels as Dean approached, while a pretty miss of fifteen, his
sister, was warning him against falling from his perch.
At sight of the newcomer, the active youngster called out with boyish
friendliness that put to rout all pretension to polite manners:
“Hello, Dean! Papa is waiting for you.”
Nodding to the youthful speaker, Dean bowed courteously to the sister,
as he met her gaze with a look of admiration.
“Yes; you will find papa in the library, Dean,” she said, with a smile
of welcome. “He told me to tell you to come right in, though he has
company. He is such a strange-looking and acting man, too.”
“Indeed, Miss Eva. Did you learn his name?”
“No; but papa said he was a fine sailor. He looks and acts more like
a big brown bear. And don’t you think instead of ringing the door
bell----”
“He yelled like a pirate to the servants: ‘Avast there, you lubbers!
Ship ahoy!’” broke in the boy, with enthusiasm.
“Do be still, Manly,” admonished his sister. “What is the mystery of
all this, Dean?” she asked. “I am sure you know, for papa hinted that
he had enlisted you in some new enterprise of his.”
“And he also pledged me to secrecy, Miss Eva. If you will watch the
lake a few days, I think you will discover the key to the mystery.”
As she did not seem inclined to reply to this, Dean continued his
approach to the fine residence of his wealthy friend.
The owner must have been watching for him, as he met him at the door
and ushered him into his spacious library without delay.