Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
I prophesy that within a year we shall have an order to build another
boat to run on this line. Two boats would equip the line so that you
could give the service the public demands. Millville is bound to become
a thriving metropolis.”
CHAPTER VII.
THE NIGHT FIRE.
It was past midnight and the silence of the night was broken only by
the tread of some weary watchman on duty or the hurried step of some
belated traveler.
At this unusual time for boys to be abroad, Rodney Darringford and Tim
Downey met at the street corner designated by the former. The first
looked anxiously around him as if he expected to see an enemy suddenly
spring into his path. The second, more hardened in such nefarious work
as they had been doing, showed little, if any, trepidation, as he faced
his companion with the simple word:
“Well?”
“Where you going, Tim?”
“To a restaurant first to see if I cannot get a bite to eat, or mebbe a
lunch cart will answer us best.”
“All right; go ahead. I will pay the bill.”
“Guess I can afford it myself.”
“You got some money from father?”
“I stung him for two hundred,” was the cool reply.
“What’s for?”
“That’s telling.”
“Was it in regard to the new steamer?”
“Yep.”
“What about that?”
“Puff!” was the mysterious reply.
“Explain,” cried Rodney, catching him by the arm, while a feeling of
terror he could not exactly understand took possession of him.
“The _Spray_ goes up in smoke!”
The troubled look on Rodney’s countenance deepened.
“Did father want you to do that, Tim?”
“That’s what he paid me for.”
“That’s bad work.”
“What’s the odds? Needn’t trouble ye. ’Twill burn while ye sleep. Two
trusty fellers do the work. Who’s the wiser?”
Rodney shook his head, sorry that his father had fallen into the power
of such an unscrupulous person as his companion. He did not realize yet
how completely he was being drawn into the tangled web of crime.
“Let’s get our lunch as soon as we can. I have an appointment an hour
hence.”
“With the fellow who was to see Dean Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Half an hour later this same precious couple entered a miserable
basement saloon, where even at that unseemly hour the sound of coarse
revelry greeted their ears.
A man was waiting for them at the door--the same person who had met
Dean Mercer on the _Spray_ and obtained Judge Oglesby’s check in
payment for the steamer.
“Have you got it?” demanded Rodney, eagerly.
“You bet,” handing the other the strip of paper which meant so much.
“Here’s your two hundred.”
“It’s not enough,” muttered the man. “I want an extra hundred.”
“But that is all I agreed to pay you.”
“Don’t care. It was risky business. Pay me another hundred or I’ll
see----”
Rodney checked him by handing out a crisp hundred dollar bill.
It was fifteen minutes later when Rodney and Tim came out of the place,
and Rodney’s step was decidedly unsteady. Tim, more used to drinking,
walked off without showing the effects of his recent potations. Both
were elated over their success.
“See there!” exclaimed Tim, pointing excitedly down the street, where a
bright blaze illuminated the night sky.
“What is it?” asked Rodney.
“Where are yer eyes? They’ll hev to be sharper ’n they are now to find
the _Spray_ in the morning.”
The truth suddenly dawned upon the clouded mind of Rodney Darringford.
The men hired for the miserable work had set the new steamer on fire!
There would be no rival to his father’s old-time packet.
The excitement attending this discovery quite overcame the effects of
the liquor, and Rodney felt frightened.
“Let’s see what that check looks like,” said the cunning Tim. “I hain’t
more’n got a glimmer of it.”
Glad to have his mind diverted from the object which had so
disconcerted him, Rodney brought forth from his pocket the envelope
which had been handed him by his accomplice in crime. It was the same
one Judge Olgesby had given Dean before starting for Springfield.
“I ain’t so big a fool as to give three hundred dollars for nothing,”
declared Rodney, triumphantly, producing the check.
“Come under the electric light where we can see it,” requested Tim, and
the other did as he was asked, though not without some misgivings.
“What if a policeman should see us?”
“Reading a check ain’t ag’in the law,” retorted Tim, his eye running
over the narrow strip of paper as he spoke.
“Good for a cool eight thousand dollars,” declared Tim.
“But the check is payable to Dean Mercer. How am I to get it?”
“Easiest thing in the world. Just sign--turn it over.”
Rodney did as he requested.
“It’s signed by Dean Mercer,” said Tim, with a ring of exultation in
his voice.
“But they won’t recognize me,” said Rodney. “If they did, I would not
dare to put my name on it.”
“What bank is it payable at?”
“The Atlas.”
“And you are sure they do not know you there?”
“Yes.”
“If they don’t know ye, it’s as easy as sliding down a greased pole. Ye
are Dean Mercer, see?”
Rodney either dared not or could not understand his companion.
“There’s something else in the envelope. Let me see.”
Tim quickly drew forth a sheet carefully folded. It was the letter
Judge Olgesby had written for Dean, and Tim asked his companion to read
it. Rodney then read in a low tone:
“MR. JAMES RAWLINSON, Cashier Atlas Bank, Springfield.
“Dear Sir--Allow me to introduce to you the bearer, Mr. Dean Mercer,
my business manager in a new venture I am about to undertake upon the
lake. As he will doubtless call often to your bank with checks, I have
O. K’d. his signature at the end of this letter so you will know it.”
Under the letter was the name of Dean Mercer in his own handwriting,
verified as genuine by the judge’s signature below.
“Don’t you see, everything is as clear as ice,” said Tim. “You go to
the bank in the morning as soon as it is opened, pretending you are
Dean Mercer; get the money, and we will divide the haul.”
“I--I think so,” replied Rodney, who had not reached the condition of
mind which his companion had gained.
“That’s easy enough, Rod. Now let’s look up a stopping place, and once
there, we will divide the money got from the kid.”
“You mean Marcus Ellison? You have that money?”
“Every cent--and the papers.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Where he won’t trouble you and me any more.”
“Won’t he be missed?”
“Oh, mebbe. What if he is?”
“They will search for him.”
“But they won’t find him. I do nothing by the halves, Rod. It was
really another blow at Dean Mercer. He’d no business to be his friend.
Then, there was the money.”
“What have you done with him?” asked Rodney for the second time.
“Sometimes it’s better not to know too much,” replied Tim. “Jess as it
is ’bout that burning boat. He’s gone, and thet settles it. I’ve got
the wallet and all there is in it.”
“There were papers concerning his father’s trial?”
“They were not intrusted to me. It is not my lookout what his old man
does or gets done to him. Come; going to the Raven with me?”
Five minutes the couple were safely in their room at the hotel.
“I do not see any signs of the fire,” commented Tim, as he prepared to
retire for the few hours of the night left. “But it is safe to say the
_Spray_ will not make that trip to Millville to-morrow. I mean to-day.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MORNING NEWS.
The downward course of crime is a rapid descent, and becomes facile and
familiar to the victim of evil, once he is started on the steep grade.
At least so Rodney Darringford found it. When he awoke the morning
after the events depicted in the last chapter, it was in a room at a
hotel, and with him was his companion of the night previous--Tim Downey.
Rodney had a splitting headache, as he expressed it. There was a sense
of confusing, a frightened, all-gone feeling; a weight that caused him
to close his eyes and try to imagine what had really occurred to be a
dream.
Wine! liquor! that he now discerned was the cause of all his boldness.
He had descended to the level of a common criminal. He had been a party
to the guilt of Tim Downey and his confederates.
How far had that guilt carried them?
“The new steamer--they set it on fire,” gasped Rodney, and then the
terror of the law and the enormity of the crime flashed over his mind
with crushing force and drove him from the bed with a groan.
“I’ll get away from Tim--I’ll hurry to the boat!” muttered Rodney.
“What a fool I was ever to be led by him into trouble--when he’d have
done it alone!”
Yes, that was it--not regret or remorse, but dread. Rodney Darringford
recked little that Judge Oglesby’s property had been destroyed. He
simply did not wish to be mixed up in it himself.
“Hallo! you awake?”
Tim was out of bed and dressing himself. He grinned coolly at Rodney,
and his hardened face expressed none of the pallor or worry that
Rodney’s features bore.
“Yes, I’m awake.”
“Don’t be in a hurry.”
“I want to get back to the boat.”
“The _Warrior_?”
“Yes.”
“It don’t sail until ten o’clock.”
“Well----”
“Well, you want to get away from me!” jeered Tim. “That don’t suit me.
Here, you’re trembling like a leaf. Take a swig. It will brace up your
nerves.”
Rodney shuddered with nausea as he bolted a drink from the flask of
fiery liquor that Tim handed him.
“Feel better?”
“Warmed up, yes.”
“That’s right. See here, Rod, don’t get so squeamish.”
“Tim, I’m scared,” confessed Rodney candidly.
Tim laughed derisively.
“What at?” he demanded.
“At getting caught.”
“Who by?”
“The--the police.”
“What for?”
“For--for burning the boat.”
“Did you burn it?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone burn it?”
“No.”
“Then, don’t worry. All you have to do is to keep your mouth shut. My
pals won’t squeal--never fear. The job is done. Just exactly all you
have to do about it is to be friendly to me. Your father hired me to
burn the _Spray_.”
Rodney felt a thrill of horror and dread.
He and his father were both in this unscrupulous boy’s power completely.
“There’s no use to squeal now. The job was done mighty cheap. Yer
father’s got no rival now. And I’ve got rid of the meanest enemy a boy
ever had.”
Tim’s manner seemed to express more than his words, so that Rodney
hastened to ask for an explanation.
“I don’t mind telling ye, seeing ye and yer dad are ’s deep in the mud
’s I am in the mire. I hain’t afreed ye’ll blow on me, ’cos if yer do,
I’ll drag yer into the muddle. When the _Spray_ went up in smoke last
night, it carried Dean Mercer with it!”
Rodney was truly frightened by this statement, made in the coolest tone
imaginable.
“Yes,” Tim went on; “my men were not only to go aboard the boat and
leave some cotton saturated with oil to be ignited at the proper time,
but they were to chloroform Dean Mercer and leave him helpless. The
fire would be set in his cabin, so there would be no chance to get him
out. Oh, I’m a deep one. ’Twas a big job at a mighty cheap price--two
hundred dollars.”
Again Rodney Darringford shivered. Then a new thought came into his
muddled brain.
“What if it is known that Dean Mercer was killed in that fire? How can
I get that check cashed?”
For the first time Tim Downey showed fear.
“They will not know it--so soon. How can they? The bank opens at nine.
It is now almost that. You must hurry. To fail in this part will be
worse than ’s if we had not undertaken it at all. Hurry, Rod, or you
will be too late.”
Liquor had overcome the conscientious scruples of Colonel Darringford
sufficiently to induce him to pay Tim Downey to burn the new lake
steamer, the _Spray_.
Liquor also brought the courage of his unworthy son to a point where he
finally agreed to personate Dean Mercer at the bank.