Fighting for fortune or, Making a place for himself
“There’s no risk,” affirmed Tim Downey. “I’d go myself, only I look so
ragged and rough. See here, Rod, no one knows of the burning of the
_Spray_, or the disappearance of Dean Mercer at Millville yet. Get the
money quick. Leave the rest to me.”
“But search will be made for him?”
“As a thief, yes.”
Rodney started.
“Oh! that’s it,” he cried, a new light breaking on his mind.
“Yes. He disappears. They will probably say that he burned the boat. He
got the check from the judge cashed and sloped with that, too. See?”
Yes, Rodney did see. It was a glorious scheme, a splendid revenge. His
rival and enemy, Dean Mercer, would be disgraced--he would roll in
riches!
It would be believed that Dean himself had drawn the money at the bank.
He, Rodney, was not known there. Still, he determined to act cautiously.
When, an hour later, he started for the bank, he had got Dean Mercer’s
signature down to perfection, and he had bought a pair of spectacles
and tried to throw into his face as much of false expression as was
possible, so as to make his features vague to the cashier, in view of a
later identification.
The bank was a large and a busy one. The cashier accepted the check and
Judge Oglesby’s letter carelessly, glanced at them and said:
“Glad to know you, Mr. Mercer. How will you have the money?”
Then, as the false Dean Mercer, in a smothered tone of voice, stated
that he would take it in bills of a large denomination, the cashier
waved him to the paying teller, and passed on to the next customer of
the bank as carelessly as if the payment of eight thousand dollars was
a mere bagatelle in the immense affairs of the great Atlas Bank.
Rodney’s heart beat like a trip hammer as he thrust the big pile of
bills into his pocket and turned away to leave the bank.
He realized that he was a thief, a forger, as wicked as Tim Downey.
Yes, worse, for he knew better. Tim had been brought up in the midst of
sin.
“Mr. Mercer,” called out one of the bank officials, coming forward to
the cashier’s window, “that’s a fine steamer you have had built.”
“Yes, sir,” faltered Rodney.
“I have been down to see her this morning, and I assure you there was
never her equal on Lake Seneca. Colonel Darringford’s old tub will be
nowhere now. Well, it is time some one woke up to the situation.”
Rodney’s heart was in his mouth, and fairly gasping for breath, he did
not dare to make a reply, but he hurried out into the open air with
quickened steps.
Chancing to glance down the street he received another shock greater
than the first.
Crossing the main street he saw Dean Mercer!
CHAPTER IX.
TIM DEMANDS HIS DUES.
Rodney Darringford was never so frightened in his life. He was puzzled,
too.
Was it possible the _Spray_ had not been burned after what Tim had said?
The man in the bank had certainly spoken honestly, and he said he had
been on board that morning.
If further proof was needed, the fact that Dean Mercer was alive
furnished it.
Rodney hastened in the direction of the hotel, not daring to look
to the right or left. His hand in his pocket, he held fast to his
ill-gotten gains, wishing he had never seen it, and yet determined to
hold on to it.
Tim was waiting for him expectantly at the room at the hotel.
“Got it?” he demanded breathlessly.
“Yes,” gasped Rodney, pale and unnerved.
“All of it?”
“Every dollar.”
“Glory! We’re, we’re millionaires! You and I will divide even. What’s
the trouble with ye?”
In a few words Rodney told what he had heard and seen.
Tim was scarcely less excited than Rodney, as soon as he had become
familiar with the situation.
“It can’t be that Daley and Spofford hev played me a trick.”
“What if Dean Mercer goes to the bank? They will be after me!”
“Reckon it won’t be any easy matter for ’em to prove anything,”
muttered Tim. “Fust thing I’m going to know is if that boat is burned
or not. It must hev burnt and somehow Dean Mercer slipped through those
crazy Rube’s fingers.”
“Yes,” assented Rodney. “It will be best to find out if the _Spray_ has
been burned or not.”
“I’ll find out in a jiffy. Ye jess stay right here till I come back.”
“You will have to hurry, Tim, if we go back on the _Warrior_.”
“Don’t b’lieve I shall go back,” replied Tim.
The speech pleased Rodney, who felt that he would gladly get rid of his
associate.
“Will you stay here?”
“Not if I know myself. Too tame. I’ll go somewhere else, and with my
money I’ll start in business.”
“Well, come back and tell me what you learn of the _Spray_.”
“Reckon I shall come back as long as you hev my money. Let’s divide
now.”
“Wait till you get back. Come! hurry and find out all you can. Also
when the _Warrior_ will start back to Millville.”
Tim did not offer any reply to this, but immediately left the hotel.
It seemed like a long time to Rodney, as he waited impatiently and
anxiously to learn the truth, before Tim Downey returned.
The latter’s countenance told before he had spoken a word the result of
his trip.
“The _Spray_ hain’t burnt!” he muttered, as he sank into the nearest
chair. “Daley and Spofford that I paid to do the job got blooming drunk
on the money and are now in the lockup. That blaze we saw was only an
old shed.”
“Pretty mess you have made of it,” declared Rodney.
“Give me my share of the money--quick!”
“Are the officers coming?” asked Rodney in alarm.
“Dunno ’bout enny officers. I hain’t ennything to do with ’em. I’m jess
going to get out’n Springfield without enny longer stay. Don’t like the
blamed ol’ town.”
Rodney began to count out the money that he had received from the bank.
“There’s your half of the check. I ought to have more than half seeing
I did the work, and mighty risky----”
“Now, the half of the other,” broke in Tim, almost savagely. “Ye move
awful slow, and the _Warrior_, I forgot to tell ye, starts in ten
minutes.”
“Seems to me you are all-fired uppish, seeing I’m the one who has done
all that has been done. Here’s your divvy on the Ellison haul.”
Tim Downey did not have much education, but his natural wit was sharp,
and he saw that the other had not given him an equal division of the
money obtained from Marcus Ellison.
“Ye hevn’t gin me a square deal, Rod,” he declared.
Rodney Darringford turned pale, exclaiming:
“I have, Tim. That is,” he added, “there’s all that belongs to you.
As long as you didn’t burn the _Spray_, I have just kept back the two
hundred dad paid you. I will hand that to him.”
Tim Downey’s face was black with rage.
“Ye will, will ye?” he gritted fiercely. “Ye hev nothing to do with the
business ’tween yer dad and me. Hand over that two hundred!”
Rodney Darringford hesitated, though trembling with fear. With a single
bound Tim Downey was beside him and his big, dirty hand was about his
neck.
“Hand it over, Rod Darringford, or I’ll choke the life out’n ye!”
“Yes, yes!” stammered Rodney.
“I want my half of thet divvy, and I’ll hev it, too.”
He got it.
But Tim noticed that his companion still held upon the papers the
lawyer had sent. They might not have any value to him, but the very
fact that Rodney was not disposed to let them go made him suspicious.
A little later, when their preparations were about completed for each
to go his way, Tim improved an opportunity when Rodney’s back was
turned to slip the parcel of papers into his own pocket.
Tim next produced a bottle and offered it to Rodney, who did not
hesitate to accept, and no sooner had he drunk the liquor than his
attitude towards his associate mellowed. He realized that he had money
enough in his pocket to pay off his most pressing obligations.
A vision of magnificent extravagance overcame him. He forgot the low
estate of his companion in crime.
“Tim!” he said exuberantly, “what are you going to do with your money?”
“Spend it.”
“Where?”
“In Columbus. Do you suppose I’d stay in this dead town?”
“No.”
“No; too risky for me.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Bully!”
“I’m sick of work on the steamer. Besides, I’m afraid we might be
suspected if we were seen with all this money.”
“Right you are!”
“So I’ll go with you.”
“When?”
“When you say.”
“To-night?”
“Can’t you wait until to-morrow?”
“What for?”
“I want to see my folks and make some kind of an excuse for leaving
Millville.”
“All right. I’ll meet you here to-morrow noon, and we’ll go to Columbus
together. I’ll show you what life is, my boy.”
So they separated, Rodney to go on board the _Warrior_, and Tim to
visit one of the saloons of the city.
CHAPTER X.
A TELEPHONE MESSAGE.
Dean Mercer had arisen from his berth early on that eventful morning,
the proudest in his life. As he went upon the deck of the _Spray_,
realizing that he was its commander, he felt as if his life work had
truly begun.
Without dreaming of the work of his enemies, he was extremely happy.
At his first turn he was greeted by Jack Carboy with his characteristic
salute, and the cheery voice of the old sailor bidding him a cordial:
“Fine seas to ye, admiral.”
“A return of the compliment, Mr. Carboy,” replied Dean, gravely,
purposely imitating the manner of address of the other.
“Reef yer sails!” fairly roared Jack. “Ship yer picter, ain’t I tol’
yer never to _mister_ ol’ Jack Carboy?”
“Haven’t I told you not to _admiral_ me?”
“Shiver my toplights, Dean,” cried the old tar, extending his hand. “My
boy, ye air honest and true. I’ll stand by ye till the seas run dry.”
“I know it, Jack,” replied Dean, as he grasped the sailor’s hand. “You
and I will get along famously together.
“I suppose we are to start at ten o’clock. Now, that I have fixed up
the matter with the builders of the _Spray_, that will not have to be
attended to. There are a few things to look after on shore. I will be
back by nine sharp.”
“Aye, aye, lad, sharp.”
Dean felt anxious over the fortunes of Marcus Ellison, and he
resolved to visit him as soon as he had eaten breakfast at one of the
restaurants.
He had no trouble in finding the humble home of his friend, and he was
met at the door by a sweet-faced woman whom he quickly learned was
Marcus’ mother.
She greeted him with extreme kindness as soon as she had found that he
was her son’s friend, but to Dean’s dismay he was told that Marcus had
not come home.
Mrs. Ellison had not been worried over his non-appearance, as she would
have been had she known the truth. Attributing his prolonged absence to
some cause connected with his errand to Millville, she had not felt
any great uneasiness. But now she suddenly became alarmed.
“Something has happened to him--my boy! He would have come directly to
me if he had been able,” she declared, and Dean did not doubt the truth
of the assertion.
“Let us hope he is safe. Perhaps he has gone to see his father with the
good news.”
“He would have come to me first. Oh, my boy! my boy!”
“Can you think of any place where he would be likely to call? You know
we did not get into the city until nearly midnight.”
“I can think of no place where he would go before coming to me,”
replied the distracted mother. “Oh, when will our troubles end? We were
so happy a few years ago, and now----”
Dean soon started out to see if he could not get some trace of the
missing boy, but at half-past nine he had not got an inkling of his
whereabouts. No one had seen him after he had left the _Warrior_, and
his disappearance was shrouded in mystery.
So Dean Mercer went on board the _Spray_ with a heavy heart. In the
short time he had known Marcus Ellison, he had come to regard him as a
friend, and the other’s sad story had awakened his pity.
News of the new steamer _Spray_ had been heralded about Springfield and