Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
“All right, I know him!”
“Tell him that Tim Downey wants to see him, and bring him here.”
“All right. Gimme the nickel.”
“There it is.”
The urchin scampered off. Tim sat down and waited patiently for the
result of his experiment.
The place was secluded from the sight of people on the pier, the only
persons in sight being some children down the beach, playing with an
old box that had floated ashore.
It was, perhaps, ten minutes later when a shadow fell across the sand
in front of the waiting Tim. The latter looked up; a boy about his own
age stood before him.
He was better dressed than Tim; in fact, his garments were of the
latest style; but fine clothes did not conceal a face that bore fully
as much of craftiness and evil as that of his companion.
It was Rodney Darringford, the son of the wealthy colonel, and clerk of
the steamer _Warrior_.
Rodney Darringford had of late been given employment by his father as
clerk of the _Warrior_, and Dean, knowing this, was not at all in love
with the idea of a sail down the lake in his company.
He was a vicious and ill-tempered boy, a dandy in dress, prided himself
as being a full-fledged “dasher” in matters of juvenile dissipation,
and had sneered at Dean whenever he met him.
An actual fisticuff row had resulted about a week previously, in which
Rodney was worsted, and several Millville boys had informed Dean that
Rodney “had it in for him!”
Rodney’s brow was drawn in a deep furrow, and he looked angry enough to
fight Tim then and there.
“Well!” he ejaculated coarsely, “Tim Downey?”
“Yes, Tim Downey!” chuckled Tim, a little aggressively and defiantly,
at Rodney’s contemptuous words and manner.
“You haven’t got any check, have you!”
“Oh! enough to carry me through, I guess!” replied Tim carelessly.
“What did you send for me for?”
“Business!”
“I have none with you!”
“Oh! yes, you have. See here, Mr. Rodney Darrington! no airs with me,
because I won’t stand it. I sent for you because I wanted to see you,
and I want to see you because I want money.”
“Well, get it.”
“I intend to, and because I wanted to go to Springfield.”
“Well, go!”
“I intend to--on the _Warrior_. I want ten dollars and a free ride to
Springfield, and I want ’em from you, and no back talk about it!”
Tim Downey’s face grew sullen as he noticed the deepening scowl on
Rodney’s face.
“See here!” cried the latter angrily.
“No, see here!” interrupted Tim savagely. “You just do as I say, and no
jaw about it, or I’ll peach on you. You’ve been stealing! you have, and
I know all about it. You and Jem Vance, that drunken engineer of yours,
robbed a passenger, and stole two hundred dollars of your father’s
money.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” gasped Rodney, with an alarmed glance about them.
“No, I won’t shut up. I know all about it. I’ll shout it out to all
Millville, if you don’t do as I say.”
Rodney Darringford stood pale and trembling with fear and rage, silent
for some moments.
He knew that Tim Downey spoke the truth. Tim shared the secret of the
crimes he had committed to secure money to play billiards and “cut a
dash” generally in Millville.
Secretly he chafed like a caged lion. He could scarcely speak for
anger, but he said finally:
“All right, Tim Downey. You have got me in your power, and I suppose
you intend to keep me there; but look out--you may go too far some
day. Come aboard when the boat starts, and I’ll pass you. Mind you,
though, don’t you come sneaking around me as if you knew me.”
“All right--and the money?”
“I’ll slip it to you during the trip. I hope you’re going to
Springfield to stay.”
“Well, I ain’t,” grinned Tim maliciously.
“Ain’t what?”
“Going to Springfield to stay.”
“What are you going for, then?”
“To get work.”
“You work!” sneered Rodney contemptuously.
“Yes; me work!”
“At what?”
“Steamboating.”
Rodney Darringford regarded Tim contemptuously.
“Who’ll hire you?”
“The new steamboat company.”
“Oh, at Springfield--down the river?”
“No; at Millville,” mimicked Tim, with the keenest satisfaction at
tormenting Rodney--“up the lake.”
“What!” ejaculated Rodney.
“Yes; up the lake.”
“The new steamboat company?”
“Precisely.”
“There ain’t any.”
“Ain’t there?”
“Not that I heard of.”
“You ain’t in the secret.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“A new company?”
“With new boats. Judge Oglesby owns it, and your dearest friend, Dean
Mercer, is to be captain of the first steamer, the _Spray_.”
Rodney Darringford stared at Tim Downey as if he found it impossible to
credit his amazing story.
He listened with an excited face as Tim proceeded to tell how he had
overheard the talk of the judge and Dean and Carboy.
“It ruins your business,” he said.
“Ruins it? Say, Tim, are you sure there’s no mistake? A new line of
steamers. I must see my father. Come aboard later,” and in a wild
flutter of excitement, Rodney darted away from the spot.
Tim Downey chuckled. He enjoyed witnessing the downfall of those above
him.
“You young scoundrel. Is it you that my boy came to see?”
Tim Downey, about to stroll toward the steamer at the pier, became
suddenly conscious of the intrusion of a portly form from behind the
pile of lumber.
At the same moment that the harsh tones sounded on his hearing, a rough
hand grasped his arm.
Tim looked up, somewhat startled. Colonel Ebenezer Darringford,
pompous, red-faced, and unmistakably intoxicated, glared down at him.
“Hello, colonel!” muttered Tim.
“Hello, colonel!” bellowed the wealthy shipowner. “You young thief,
I’ll cane you for your insolent familiarity. See here, I saw my boy
come here. He’s been getting into bad company lately, and I’ve been
watching him. Did he come here to see you?”
“He did, colonel.”
“What about?”
Tim drew a breath of relief. The colonel, then, had not overheard their
conversation.
“About--well, you see, I’m only a poor boy!” whined Tim hypocritically.
“A thief and vagabond, you mean.”
“Yes, sir,” murmured Tim humbly, dropping the vernacular in which he
usually spoke. “Rodney has got a kind heart in him, and he offered to
take me free to Springfield to get work.”
“Hum! You work! What else? Out with it, you reprobate. I can see by
your eye that you are lying to me.”
“Well, sir, I told him about the new line of steamers,” and in voluble
words, Tim Downey revealed Judge Oglesby’s scheme entire.
His crafty eye twinkled covertly as he did it. A deep plotter was Tim
Downey, and he watched his victims as he played his cards.
If the son had been amazed, the father was fairly petrified. He gasped,
roared and raved.
“A new line of steamers--Judge Oglesby--the interloper, the scoundrel!”
yelled the colonel, the liquor he had drunk making a madman of him.
He became quieted at last. Then he questioned Tim closely.
About to go, Tim approached him with an air of mystery. He decided to
make a bold move.
“Colonel,” he said, “if the new steamers run on the lake, it’s bad for
you, ain’t it?”
“Bad? it’s ruin!” groaned the colonel.
“All right, sir. You know your business. I know mine. You give me two
hundred dollars afore we reach Springfield, and the _Spray_ don’t sail
to-morrow, nor next day, nor never.”
The colonel started violently and stared at the presumptuous boy who
had dared to add to the torture of dread of rivalry, a hint of dishonor
and scheming.
He uttered a cry of choleric rage, struck Tim a sounding blow with his
cane, and then in a passion, he stalked away toward the pier.
“So--ho!” exclaimed Tim, looking after the retreating figure of the
colonel with a wicked twinkle in has eye. “I’ll fetch ye yet, ol’
‘boozer,’” and with this thought in his mind he followed the colonel on
board the packet.
Fuming over what he had heard from Tim Downey, no sooner had Colonel
Darringford gained the boat than he ordered that the _Warrior_ start
without longer delay.
In vain did the captain ask for more time to complete the repairs he
felt were necessary. The owner would not brook the loss of any more
time.
This was how the boat left her pier before Dean Mercer had expected her
to start.
CHAPTER IV.
“MAN OVERBOARD!”
Unmindful of the jeers and jibes hurled at their heads, Dean Mercer and
Jack Carboy stopped abruptly, as they saw that their efforts were in
vain.
The _Warrior_ was already moving steadily down the lake and beyond
their recall.
“Shiver my timbers!” yelled Jack, “ye hev shipped without your crew, ye
blasted shell o’ a land-locked sea.”
While Jack was greatly disturbed over the disappointment of losing
passage on the _Warrior_, Dean felt his defeat more keenly.
Besides the mortification of having been left behind by what looked
like his own negligence, he realized that for two or three reasons it
was necessary for them to get to Springfield that evening.
They were expected to bring up the new boat, and to fail at the outset
portended failure rather than success in their undertaking.
But of even more importance to Dean was the discharge of the errand
intrusted to him by Mr. Montague. In this case a human life was at
stake. If he should fail to reach Springfield in season to deliver the
papers in his care as they should be, it was possible that an innocent
person would suffer for his neglect.
The successful man is he who can act quickly in an emergency. That is
the one great secret of success.
Fortunately Dean Mercer was prompt in his decisions. While his
companion stormed like a September gale over their disappointment as
he watched the old steamer fast disappearing from his sight, Dean
recollected that the stage for the lower towns started about the same
time as the boat.
“There is another chance for us, Jack!” he cried enthusiastically. “I
think we shall be in season to take the stage to Landlock, where we can
take the packet to Springfield, providing we can get there before the
boat.”
“Avast there, younker--I mean high admiral!” and Jack, instead of
completing his sentence, executed a salute in token of his blunder.
Hurried, impatient, excited, Dean Mercer, knowing he had no time to
waste if he would accomplish his purpose, darted swiftly along the
street, Jack following as best he could.
But the latter soon found himself unequal to the gait set him by his
young companion, and, stopping short in his laborious advance, he
bellowed at the top of his lungs:
“Ship ahoy! reef yer topsails or this ol’ craft’ll ground!”
Dean Mercer, awakened to what he was doing, quickly came to a
standstill, turning an inquiring gaze upon his companion, who was
puffing and blowing like a porpoise.
“Shiver (puff) my (puff) toplights (puff), admiral (puff-uff-ff). Ye’ve
left (puff) crew, coxswain and man at the wheel (puff) in the weather
eye.”
“Pardon me, Jack,” said Dean. “I was so anxious I forgot you could not
keep pace with me in this race. The fact is, we have got to hurry or we
shall miss the stage.”
“Then let her kite in the wind’s eye, and leave this ol’ craft ahind.
Blast my picter, lad--I mean, admiral, axin’ yeh pardin, didn’t I tell
ye to h’ist yer jib and kiter? Ol’ Jack’ll foller as soon as he gits
his bearings and his ballast in this land-lubbered v’yage.”
“Hello, Dean!” called out a familiar voice at Dean’s elbow, before he
could reply. “We’re in luck. But what’s up?”
It was Mr. Montague speaking, and as soon as he could recover his
self-composure, Dean saw the boy he had saved from the vengeance of Tim
Downey beside the latter.
“Excuse me, Mr. Montague. We have missed the _Warrior_, and we are on
our way to catch the stage for Landlock.”
“Missed the _Warrior_?” asked the lawyer incredulously. “That’s a
pretty go.”
“It is, Mr. Montague. You see, she started before we expected. But I