CHAPTER XI.
ANDY IS ENGAGED FOR POLICE DUTY
“I wonder how it is,” said Andy to himself, as he walked home, “that I am always getting into a quarrel with Herbert Ross? I don’t think it’s my fault. I couldn’t stand by and see those two little boys imposed upon without interfering. I suppose Herbert is angrier with me than ever, and that he will report this to his father, and get him to proceed against us at once. No matter; we shall be prepared to see him.”
Andy was more than ever thankful that the all-important receipt was in his mother’s possession. Whatever the lawyer might say, he believed that he was intending to punish them in the interest of his son.
In one respect, however, Andy made a mistake. Herbert did not report this last difficulty at home.
He was aware that he had not figured to advantage in his treatment of the two little boys, and any investigation of the matter would reveal this fact.
It would not be long now before he would have the satisfaction of seeing Andy and his mother in serious trouble, and, though impatient, he decided to wait for that. Then the triumph would be his.
When Andy reached home, he found that his mother had callers.
In a lonely situation, about a quarter of a mile beyond the farmhouse of Mr. Joshua Starr, lived two maiden ladies – Susan and Sally Peabody – both over fifty years of age.
Their father had died thirty years before, leaving them a cottage, with an acre of land, and some twelve thousand dollars in stocks and bonds.
Living economically, this sum had materially increased, and they were considered in the village rich ladies, as, indeed, they were, since their income amounted to more than twice their expenditures, and they were laying up probably five hundred dollars annually.
They were very good and kind, simple-hearted old ladies, and very much respected in the village.
The elder of these ladies, Miss Sally Peabody, Andy found in his mother’s plain sitting-room.
As he entered, he heard Miss Peabody say:
“I should like to borrow your Andy to-night, Mrs. Gordon, if you have no objection.”
Mrs. Gordon supposed that her visitor had some work which she wished Andy to do, and as the latter was always glad of a job, she answered:
“I am sure, Miss Sally, that Andy will be glad to do anything that you require.”
“I don’t want him to do anything,” answered Miss Peabody. “I want him to sleep at our house to-night.”
Mrs. Gordon looked a little puzzled, but Miss Sally went on to explain.
“You see, Mrs. Gordon, we had a sum of five hundred dollars paid in unexpectedly this morning, and we can’t get it to the bank till Monday. Now, it makes my sister nervous to think of having such a sum of money in the house. I was reading in the papers of a burglar entering a house at night in Thebes – the next village – and it might happen to us. I don’t know what we should do, as we have no man in the house.”
“Andy isn’t a man,” said Mrs. Gordon, smiling.
“No, he isn’t a man, but he is a good stout boy, and we should feel safer if he were in the house.”
“What an uncommonly sensible old lady Miss Peabody is!” thought Andy.
He felt proud of his presence being supposed to be a safeguard against housebreakers.
“I’ll go, Miss Peabody,” he said, promptly.
“But, Andy,” said his mother, “you could do no good.”
“I don’t know about that, mother,” said Andy.
“You would be no match for a bold, bad man, and I don’t like to think of your being in danger.”
“Oh, you’re a woman, mother, and don’t understand!” answered Andy, good-humoredly. “I can scare a burglar away if he tries to get in.”
“I don’t suppose, really, that there is any danger of the house being entered,” said Miss Peabody; “but still we shall feel safer with Andy in the house.”
“Why don’t you engage a man, Miss Sally?” asked the widow.
“The very man we engaged might rob us of the money.”
“But you might engage some one whom you knew.”
“Five hundred dollars would be a great temptation to one who was generally honest. No, Mrs. Gordon, I would much rather have Andy. If you will let him stay at our house to-night and to-morrow night, I will pay him for his trouble.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t ask anything for it, Miss Peabody!” said Andy.
“But I should insist on paying you all the same, Andy. My sister and I make it a rule never to ask a service of any one without paying for it. With our income as large as it is, we should think ourselves mean if we acted otherwise.”
“You are very different from your neighbor, Mr. Starr,” said Mrs. Gordon.
“I am really afraid that Mr. Starr is too fond of money,” said Miss Sally, mildly. “I don’t want to be too severe upon him, but I am afraid he is a little too close.”
“A little too close!” replied Andy. “He is the meanest man I ever met.”
“Are you not a little too severe, Andy?” asked the spinster.
“Not a bit. He is trying to make mother pay a note over twice.”
“I can hardly believe such a thing.”
“Then I will tell you all about it,” said Andy, and he gave an account of the matter.
“And do you think you will have to pay it?” asked Miss Peabody, in a tone of sympathy.
Mrs. Gordon was about to explain why they would be spared the necessity, but a warning look from Andy prevented her.
Miss Peabody, with all her virtues, was fond of talking, and Andy’s plan of confounding his adversary would be spoiled.
“No, I don’t think we shall have to pay it,” Andy hastened to say. “We have a plan, but we don’t like to speak of it just yet, for fear Mr. Starr will hear of it.”
“If he really insists on his demand,” said Miss Sally, “perhaps sister Susan and I can help you. How large is the note?”
“With interest it would amount to over a hundred dollars – perhaps thirty dollars more.”
“We might advance the money, and you could give us a note.”
“You are very kind, Miss Sally,” said Mrs. Gordon, gratefully; and she paused and looked at Andy.
“We shall not pay it at all if we can help it, Miss Peabody,” said Andy, “for we don’t believe in rewarding Mr. Starr’s dishonesty; but, if we find ourselves obliged to do so, we shall remember your kind offer.”
“You are a true friend, Miss Sally,” said the widow. “We could give no security, except our furniture. We might give you a bill of sale of that.”
“As if I would take it, Mrs. Gordon! No, we have every confidence in your honesty, and even if you could not repay it, Andy would some day be able to.”
“And I would do it, too, Miss Peabody,” said Andy, stoutly. “But I don’t believe we shall need to ask you for the money.”
“It would be a pity to have to pay the note over again. I am really surprised at Mr. Starr,” said Miss Sally, who never used strong language in commenting upon the moral delinquencies of her neighbors.
“When do you want Andy to come over?” asked Mrs. Gordon.
“We should be glad to have him come to supper. It will seem pleasant to us to have company. Susan and I get tired sometimes of only seeing one another’s faces.”
“Very well, Miss Peabody, I will be on hand.”
“I suppose there is no fear of your having to fight burglars,” said Mrs. Gordon. “No burglary has been known here for years.”
“No, I suppose not,” answered Andy. “I shan’t have any chance to show off my bravery.”
He might have come to a different opinion if he had seen the villainous-looking tramp, who, skulking near the house, had heard, through the open window, the first and most important part of the conversation.
CHAPTER XII.
MIKE HOGAN
In the summer season not a few of the desperate characters who, at other times, lurk in the lanes and alleys in our cities, start out on vagabond tramps through the country districts.
Mike Hogan was a fit representative of this class. He was a low-browed ruffian, with unkempt hair and a beard of a week’s growth, with a look in his eyes that inspired distrust.
He was physically strong, and abundantly able to work, but preferred to dispense with labor, and live on the credulity or the fears of his fellow men.
Mike had served a term at Sing Sing, but punishment in no way altered his way of life. If anything, it confirmed him in his opposition to the law and his worthless habits.
He had been on the tramp now for two weeks, and accident had brought him to the neighborhood of Hamilton a couple of days before.
Mike had already made two calls, though he had only been an hour in the village. The first was to the house of Mr. Ross, the lawyer.
The master of the house was not at home, but Herbert was in the front yard. In fact, he was sitting on the doorstep, whittling.
Mike’s experience taught him that children are generally less suspicious, and more easily moved to compassion, than their elders.
He therefore addressed himself with some confidence to Herbert, of whose disposition he knew nothing, or he would not have expected any help from him or through his influence.
“Young gentleman,” he said, in a whining voice, as he rested his elbows on the top of the front gate, “I am a poor man – ”
Herbert looked up, and surveyed the uncouth visitor with profound disdain. He always despised the poor, and made little discrimination between the deserving and the undeserving.
“You don’t look very rich,” he said, after a pause.
His tone was not particularly compassionate, but Mike did not detect the nature of his feelings.
“Indeed, young sir,” he continued, in the same whining tone, “I have been very unfortunate.”
“You have seen better days, I suppose,” said Herbert, who had not the slightest idea of giving Hogan anything, but meant to play with him as a cat does with a mouse before sending him away.
“Yes, I have,” said Hogan. “Once I was prosperous, but ill health and misfortune came, and swept away all my money, and now I have to travel around and ask a few pennies of kind strangers.”
“Why don’t you go to work? You look strong enough,” said Herbert.
And in this he was perfectly right.
“Why don’t I work? I ain’t able,” answered the tramp.
“You look strong enough.”
“You shouldn’t judge by looks, young gentleman. I have fever ’n’ ager awful, and the rheumatism is in all my joints. You look rich and generous. Can’t you spare a few pennies for a poor man?”
“You mustn’t judge by looks,” said Herbert, laughing at his own repartee. “My father’s rich, but he don’t give anything to tramps.”
Now the professional tramp, although quite aware of his own character, objects to being called a tramp. He does not care to see himself as others see him.
Mike Hogan answered shortly, and without his customary whine:
“I am not a tramp. I’m an honest, poor man.”
“Honest!” repeated Herbert. “I shouldn’t wonder if you had just come out of State’s prison.”
This remark Mike Hogan considered altogether too personal. The fact that it was true made it still more offensive. His tone completely changed now, and, instead of a whine, it became a growl, as he retorted:
“You’d better keep your tongue between your teeth, young whipper-snapper! You can’t insult me because I am a poor man.”
“You’d better look out,” said Herbert, angrily. “My father’s a lawyer, and a justice of the peace, and he’ll have you put in the lockup.”
“Come out here, and I’ll wring your neck, you young villain!” said Mike Hogan, whose evil temper was now fully aroused.
“I wish father was here,” said Herbert, indignantly.
“I’d lick you both, and make nothing of it!” exclaimed the tramp.
“I thought you were not strong enough to work,” sneered Herbert.
“I am strong enough to give you a beating,” growled Hogan.
“Go away from here! You have no business to lean on our gate!”
“I shall lean on it as long as I please!” said the tramp, defiantly. “Are you coming out here?”
If Mike Hogan had been a small boy, Herbert would not have been slow in accepting this invitation, but there was something in the sinister look and the strong, vigorous frame of Mike Hogan which taught him a lesson of prudence.
Herbert had never before wished so earnestly that he were strong and muscular. It would have done him good to seize the intruder, and make him bellow for mercy, but his wish was fruitless, and Mike remained master of the situation.
At this moment, however, he was re-enforced by his dog, Prince, who came round from behind the house.
“Bite him, Prince!” exclaimed Herbert, triumphantly.
Prince needed no second invitation. Like the majority of dogs of respectable connections, he had a deep distrust and hatred of any person looking like a beggar or a tramp, and he sprang for the rough-looking visitor, barking furiously.
If Herbert expected the tramp to take flight it was because he did not know the courage and ferocity of Mike Hogan. Some dogs, doubtless, would have made him quail, but Prince was a small-sized dog, weighing not over fifty pounds, and, as the animal rushed to attack him, Mike gave a derisive laugh.
“Why don’t you send a rat or a kitten?” he exclaimed, scornfully.
Prince was so accustomed to inspire fear that he did not stop to take the measure of his human adversary, but sprang over the fence and made for the tramp, intending to fasten his teeth in the leg of the latter.
But Mike Hogan was on the alert. He bent over, and, as the dog approached, dexterously seized him, threw him over on his back, and then commenced powerfully compressing his throat and choking him.
Poor Prince seemed utterly powerless in his vigorous grasp. His tongue protruded from his mouth, his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and death by strangulation seemed imminent.
Herbert Ross surveyed this unexpected sight with mingled surprise and dismay.
“Let him go! Don’t kill him!” he screamed.
“What made you set him on me?” demanded the tramp, savagely.
“Let him go, and he shan’t bite you!” said Herbert.
“I will take care of that myself,” said Hogan. “When I get through with him, you’ll have to bury him.”
“Let him go, and I’ll give you a quarter,” said Herbert, in the extremity of his alarm.
“That sounds better,” said Mike Hogan, moderating his grip. “Where’s the quarter?”
Herbert hurried to the fence and handed over the coin.
Mike took it, and, with a laugh, tossed the almost senseless dog into the yard, where he lay gasping for breath.
“If you’ve got any more dogs, bring ’em on,” he said, with a laugh. “Next time, you’ll know how to treat a gentleman.”
Herbert had a retort on the end of his tongue, but did not dare to utter it. He had been too much impressed and terrified by the tramp’s extraordinary display of strength to venture to provoke him further.
“Well,” thought Hogan, chuckling, “I made the boy come down with something, after all. I paid him well for his impudence.”
Continuing on his way he stopped at a house where he was offered some cold meat, but no money. Being hungry, he accepted, and again continued his march.
In passing Mrs. Gordon’s house his attention was attracted by the sound of voices. Thinking it possible that he might hear something which he could turn to advantage, he placed himself in a position where he could overhear what was said.
His eyes sparkled when he heard Miss Sally speak of the large sum of money she had in the house.
“Ho, ho!” said he, to himself, “I’m in luck. You won’t need to carry that money to the bank, my lady. I’ll take care of it for you. As for this boy who is to guard it, I’ll scare him out of his wits!”
When Sally Peabody left the cottage of Mrs. Gordon she was not aware that her steps were tracked by one of the most reckless and desperate criminals in the State.
He followed her far enough to learn where she lived and then concealed himself in the woods until the time should come for active operations.
CHAPTER XIII.
ANDY ON GUARD
The Peabody girls, as people in Hamilton were accustomed to call them, though they were over fifty years of age, lived in an old-fashioned house, consisting of a main part and an L.
It was a prim-looking house, and everything about it looked prim; but nothing could be more neat and orderly. The front yard was in perfect order. Not a stick or a stone was out of place.
In the fall, when the leaves fell from the trees, they were carefully gathered every morning and carried away, for even nature was not allowed to make a litter on the old maids’ premises.
A brass knocker projected from the outer door. The Misses Peabody had not yet adopted the modern innovation of bells. On either side of the front door was a square room – one serving as a parlor, the other as a sitting-room. In the rear of the latter was a kitchen, and in the rear of that was a woodshed. The last two rooms were in the L part. This L part consisted of a single story, surmounted by a gently-sloping roof. From the chamber over the sitting-room one could look out upon the roof of the L part.
This the reader will please to remember.
When Andy knocked at the door at five o’clock, it was opened by Miss Sally Peabody in person.
“I am so glad you have come, Andy,” she said, “and so is sister Susan. I never said anything to her about inviting you, but she thought it a capital idea. We shall feel ever so much safer.”
Of course Andy felt flattered by the importance assigned to his presence. What boy of his age would not?
“I don’t know whether I can do any good, Miss Sally,” he said, “but I am very glad to come.”
“You shan’t be sorry for it,” assured Miss Susan, nodding significantly.
Probably this referred to her promise to pay Andy for his trouble. Our hero would never have asked anything for his service. Still, as the Peabodys were rich – that is, for a country village – he had no objection to receive anything which they might voluntarily offer.
“Come right in, Andy,” said Miss Sally.
She preceded our hero into the sitting-room, where her sister Susan was setting the table for tea.
“Here he is, Susan – here is Andy,” said Sally.
Andy received a cordial welcome from the elder of the two sisters.
“And how is your mother, Andy?” she asked.
“Pretty well, thank you, Miss Susan,” answered Andy, surveying with interest the nice plate of hot biscuit which Miss Susan was placing on the tea table.
He was a healthy boy, and was growing fast, so that he may be pardoned for appreciating a good table.
“We don’t always have hot biscuits, Andy,” said the simple-minded old maid, “but we thought you would like them, and so I told sister Sally that I would make some.”
“I hope you haven’t put yourself out any on my account, Miss Susan,” Andy said.
“It isn’t often we have company,” said Susan, with a smile, “and we ought to have something a little better than common.”
“I am not used to luxurious living, you know,” said Andy.
“How is your mother getting along?” inquired his hostess, sympathetically.
“Very well, thank you!”
“My sister told me Mr. Starr was giving her some trouble.”
“That is true; but I guess it’ll turn out all right.”
“If it doesn’t,” said Sally, “remember what I told your mother. My sister quite agrees with me that we will advance the money to pay the note, if necessary.”
“You are very kind, Miss Sally, but you might never get it back.”
“We will trust your mother – and you, Andy,” said Sally Peabody, kindly. “It wouldn’t ruin us if we did lose the money – would it, Sister Susan?”
“No, indeed!” said Susan. “We shouldn’t borrow any trouble on that account. But supper is ready. I hope you have an appetite, Andy?”
“I generally have,” answered Andy, as he seated himself at the neat supper-table.
Our hero, whether he was in danger from burglars or not, was in danger of being made sick by the overflowing hospitality of the sisters. They so plied him with hot biscuits, cake, preserves and pie that our hero felt uncomfortable when he rose from the table. Even then his hospitable entertainers did not seem to think he had eaten enough.
“Why, you haven’t made a supper, Andy,” said Miss Sally.
“I don’t think I ever ate so much in my life before at a single meal,” answered Andy. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go out and walk a little.”
“Certainly, Andy, if you wish.”
Andy went out and walked about the place.
“How lucky the Peabodys are!” he said to himself. “They have plenty to live upon, and don’t have to earn a cent. I wonder how it would seem if mother and I were as well off? But they’re very kind ladies, and I don’t grudge them their good fortune, even if I am poor myself.”
In one respect Andy was mistaken. It is by no means a piece of good luck to be able to live without work? It takes away, in many cases, the healthy stimulus to action, and leaves life wearisome and monotonous.
More than one young man has been ruined by what the world called his good fortune.
In the corner of a small stable, Andy found a musket. Like most boys, he was attracted by a gun.
“I wonder whether it’s loaded?” he said to himself.
He raised it to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
Instantly there was a deafening report, and the two old maids ran to the door in dire dismay.
“What’s the matter?” they cried, simultaneously, peeping through a crack of the door.
“I was trying this gun,” said Andy, a little ashamed.
“A gun! Where did it come from?”
“Isn’t it yours?”
“No; we wouldn’t dare to keep a gun about. Why, where did you find it?”
Andy told them, and they concluded it had been left by a neighbor, who had recently done a little work around the place.
Andy was struck by an idea.
“May I take it into the house,” he asked, “and keep it in the chamber where I am to sleep?”
“I shouldn’t dare to have a gun in the house,” said Susan.
“But it isn’t loaded.”
“I think there is no objection,” said Sally, who was not quite so timid as her sister. “We are going to put you into the chamber over the sitting-room,” she added.
“All right!” said Andy.
“The money is in a little trunk under your bed. You won’t be afraid to have it there, will you?”
“I am never afraid of money,” said Andy, smiling.
Andy went to bed at an early hour – at about quarter after nine. It was the custom of the sisters to go to bed early, and he did not wish to interfere with their household arrangements.
The gun he placed in the corner of the room, close to his bed.
He did not know how long he had been asleep, when, all at once, he awoke suddenly. The moonlight was streaming into the room, and by the help of it he saw a villainous-looking face jammed against the pane of the window overlooking the shed.
“A burglar!” thought he, and sprang from the bed.