CHAPTER XXV.
MR. STARR’S CRUSHING DEFEAT
The old man, his month wide open in astonishment and dismay, presented a ludicrous spectacle. At first he seemed to be incapable of speech, but he managed to ejaculate, feebly:
“ ‘Tain’t so – ’tain’t so!”
“You will find that it is so, Mr. Starr,” said Andy, firmly, “and that your wicked attempt to cheat my mother out of more than a hundred dollars has failed.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Joshua Starr, nervously; but his voice showed that he did believe it, nevertheless.
He had the best reason for knowing that such a receipt had been signed, but he had reckoned on its being lost or permanently mislaid.
The lawyer was not sure in his own mind whether Andy was not deceiving them, and determined to find out.
“These are bold words, boy,” he said. “We shall not believe in this receipt you talk about till you show it.”
“Mr. Starr believes in it,” retorted Andy, “for he knows very well he signed it; but he thought it was lost.”
“I demand to see the receipt,” said the lawyer.
“Very well; you shall see it,” assented Andy.
He drew a wallet from his pocket, and, taking out a folded piece of paper, handed it to the lawyer.
“Let me see it,” said Mr. Starr; but there was a cunning look in his eyes which made Andy distrustful.
“I object to his taking it,” interposed our hero.
“I don’t believe it’s genewine,” whined old Joshua. “It’s a base attempt to cheat me out of my money.”
“You’d better not talk about that, Mr. Starr,” said Andy.
“Lemme see it.”
“He has a right to see it,” said Mr. Ross; but he spoke in a quiet tone, for he saw that it would injure his professional reputation to involve himself in an evident attempt at swindling.
Joshua Starr took the paper in his hand, and gazed at it in a dazed way.
“The signatoor don’t look genewine,” he said, weakly.
Now it chanced that Mr. Starr’s signature was very peculiar – remarkable chiefly for its being a miserable scrawl.
“Doesn’t it look like your writing?” said Andy.
“Well, mebbe it is, a little; but I guess it’s a forgery. I dunno but you wrote it yourself, Andy.”
“Do you believe that, Mr. Ross?” asked Andy, plainly.
“No,” said the lawyer, with a glance of contempt at his client. “I believe it is Mr. Starr’s signature.”
Old Joshua’s lower jaw dropped.
“You ain’t a-goin’ to desert me, squire, are you?”
As he spoke, he cunningly let go the receipt, giving it an impulse toward the open fireplace, where a fire was burning.
Andy, however, was on the watch, and he sprang forward and rescued the valuable document.
“What are you trying to do, Mr. Starr?” he demanded, sternly.
“Nothing – it slipped,” answered the old man, crestfallen.
Though Mr. Ross was disappointed that he was unable to injure the Gordons by the agency of Mr. Starr, he felt that he could not afford to be implicated in the rascality which his client had attempted in his presence.
“Mrs. Gordon,” he said, rising from his chair, “you will do me the justice to believe that I had no knowledge of the existence of this receipt. I supposed Mr. Starr’s claim was a genuine one, or I would not have meddled with it. It is not my intention to aid and abet rascality.”
“You don’t mean me, do you, squire?” asked Joshua Starr, gazing in consternation at the lawyer.
“Yes, I do!” returned the lawyer, severely.
“There’s a mistake, squire. I’m almost sure that signatoor ain’t genewine.”
“And I am sure that it is,” said the lawyer, curtly. “You needn’t bring me any more of your business, Mr. Starr.”
He strode out of the cottage, with a look of utter disgust on his face.
“I don’t see what’s the matter with the squire,” said the old man. “He hadn’t ought to leave me that way.”
“Have you got any more business with us, Mr. Starr?” asked Andy.
“No – not as I know on. It’s pretty hard for me to lose all that money.”
“You can try to cheat somebody else out of it,” said Andy, coolly. “I wouldn’t advise you to try us again.”
“You’re a cur’us boy, Andy,” said the old man, as he slowly rose and hobbled off, disappointed.
When Mr. Ross reached home, he found his son Herbert waiting eagerly to interview him.
Herbert knew that his father had set out with Mr. Starr for Andy Gordon’s cottage, and he was anxious to hear just what passed, and whether Andy wasn’t mortified and distressed.
“You’ve got back, pa?” said Herbert, by way of opening the conversation.
“Yes, I’ve got back!” said Mr. Ross, gruffly.
“I suppose Andy wasn’t very glad to see you?” chuckled Herbert.
“It didn’t seem to trouble him much,” said the lawyer, curtly.
“He wasn’t ready to pay the note, was he?” asked Herbert, in alarm.
“No.”
Herbert felt relieved.
“I thought he couldn’t raise the money,” he said, triumphantly. “It was over a hundred dollars, wasn’t it?”
The lawyer had been so much annoyed that he enjoyed the disappointment in store for his son, on the principle that misery loves company.
“There was no need of his having any money ready,” he said.
“Mr. Starr hasn’t excused him from paying it, has he?” inquired Herbert, anxiously.
“Mr. Starr is an old scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Ross, impetuously.
Herbert was petrified with astonishment at hearing his father speak thus of his client.
“Do you really mean it?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yes, I mean it.”
“What has he done?”
“The note had been paid years ago, and he wanted to get it paid over again, and asked me to help him,” said the lawyer, with virtuous indignation.
“Then he can’t collect pay?” asked Herbert.
“Of course he can’t. How many times do you think a man is bound to pay a note?”
Herbert was not pleased with the way things had turned out, and he was puzzled at the remarkable change which had taken place in his father.
“Then I suppose,” he said, “you won’t get anything for what you have done in the matter?”
The lawyer’s eyes flashed. Here, at least, was a chance to get even with the old cheat, as he now denominated Mr. Starr. The next morning he sent a bill to Joshua Starr for professional services, setting the sum at fifteen dollars. This quickly brought the old man around to his office, in terrible dismay.
“You ain’t in earnest, squire?” he said.
“About what?”
“About this bill.”
“Mr. Starr, do you suppose I work for nothing?”
“But you didn’t collect any money for me, squire.”
“And whose fault was that, I’d like to know?” retorted the lawyer. “It appears that your claim was fraudulent – fraudulent, Mr. Starr!”
Mr. Joshua Starr cared very little about the damage to his reputation arising from detection in such a dirty trick, but he cared a great deal about the fifteen dollars.
“It ain’t right for you to ask it, squire. You didn’t do me a mite of good.”
“What business had you to obtain my help in such a scandalous fraud?”
“Suppose we call it even, squire. You ain’t succeeded, and – ”
“I shall succeed in this, Mr. Starr. That bill must be paid.”
“I won’t pay it!” said the old man, obdurately.
“You won’t, eh? Then I’ll attach your farm.”
Finally Joshua Starr had to pay the lawyer’s charge, and I think the verdict of my young readers will be: “Served him right.”
Two days afterward, to the astonishment of every one except his mother and Dr. Euclid, whom he took into his confidence, Andy Gordon left Hamilton, and was not seen in the village again for several weeks.
Where he went, and what he did, will be explained in succeeding chapters.
CHAPTER XXVI.
ANDY’S NEW NAME
Andy had to consider what name he would assume in place of his own.
His mother did not like the idea of his changing his name.
“It looks as if you had something to be ashamed of,” she said.
“But I haven’t, mother.”
“Generally, only criminals who are engaged in breaking the laws change their names,” persisted Mrs. Gordon.
“Do you think, mother,” laughed Andy, “that changing my name will make me a law-breaker?”
“No, Andy; but – ”
“But, mother, it seems to be necessary. That man Brackett knows that uncle Simon has relations, and it is likely that he knows our name. If I should appear as Andy Gordon he would know the name, and be suspicious of me, so that I could not help uncle at all.”
Mrs. Gordon had to admit that Andy was right.
“I suppose it must be, then,” she said. “What name have you thought of?”
“I have not thought of any yet, but it can’t be very hard to find one. Names are plenty enough.”
This was true. Still, after suggesting a dozen, Andy seemed no nearer a choice than he had been in the first place.
“I’ll tell you what, mother,” he said at last. “Haven’t you an old paper here, somewhere?”
One was found.
“I am going to find a name somewhere in this paper,” said Andy, and forthwith he began to examine critically the crowded columns.
He paused at a paragraph, recording the bravery of a boy named Henry Miller, who had saved a younger boy from drowning, somewhere in Massachusetts. This struck Andy favorably.
“Mother,” he said, “let me introduce myself to you as Henry Miller.”
“Do you like the name?” asked his mother, doubtfully.
“Not particularly, but it is the name of a brave boy, and so is an honorable name. I shouldn’t like a bad name, like Benedict Arnold, for instance.”
“What did Henry Miller do?”
“He saved a boy from drowning.”
So it was decided that Andy, as soon as he left Hamilton, should be known as Henry Miller.
He had, as we know, intended to buy a new suit of clothes, but as he was about to assume the character of a poor boy, wandering about the country in search of employment, that would hardly be worth while.
He decided to wear his everyday clothes, and carry his best in a bundle, with some necessary underclothing.
Andy found on inquiry that the town of Cato, where his great-uncle lived, was nearly four hundred miles distant.
Of course, there would be no occasion to assume his character till he got nearly there.
From a railroad guide he ascertained the name of a place about fifteen miles from Cato, and bought a ticket to that place.
We will call this place Seneca, though that was not the name.
Before leaving Hamilton it was not only proper but incumbent on Andy to call on Dr. Euclid, and resign his post as janitor.
“Going to leave us, Andrew?” said the doctor, in a tone of regret. “I am sorry to hear it. Can’t you stay till the end of the term?”
“No, sir; I shall have to go at once,” answered Andy.
“If it is any money embarrassment,” said the doctor, kindly, “don’t let that influence you. I shall be very glad to assist you, if you will allow me.”
Dr. Euclid spoke in a tone of kindness and delicate sympathy which could hardly have been expected of the stern master at whose frown so many boys trembled.
Andy was exceedingly grateful, and felt that he ought to say so.
“Thank you for your great kindness, Dr. Euclid,” said Andy; “but it isn’t that – though it does relate to money. Though it is a secret, I have a great mind to tell you.”
“Do as you please, Andrew. I shall, of course, respect your confidence, and perhaps I may be able to advise you for your benefit.”
Upon this, Andy told the doctor the whole story, reading him his uncle’s letter, which he happened to have in his pocket.
“It is a serious undertaking, my boy,” said the doctor. “Do you think you are equal to it?”
“I may be self-conceited, Dr. Euclid, but I think I am,” answered Andy.
“I would not call it self-conceit,” said the doctor, slowly, “but a spirit of confidence which may be justified by events. Have you any plan of proceedings?”
“No, sir; except to follow uncle Simon’s instructions, and try to get a place in Mr. Brackett’s employ, where I can be ready to be of service.”
“I suspect you won’t find the place an easy one. Probably this Mr. Brackett will make you work hard.”
“I am afraid so,” laughed Andy; “but I will remember that I am working for a higher reward than the fifty cents a week which uncle writes that I may be paid.”
“On the whole,” said the doctor, “I think you are acting right. You have a good end in view, and, what is very important, you are leaving home with your mother’s knowledge and with her permission. Were it otherwise, I should think you were acting decidedly wrong.”
“I should not think of leaving home without mother’s permission,” said Andy, promptly.
“Quite right, my boy,” said the doctor, kindly. “I am sorry to say that in these days of juvenile independence not all boys are so considerate. Well, Andrew, you have my best wishes for your success. I hope we may soon see you home again, and your uncle with you.”
“That is what I shall try for,” answered Andy. “I would like to get him out of the clutches of that man Brackett.”
On his way home, Andy did not take the most direct route, but, crossing the fields, walked along the shores of Brewster’s Pond – a sheet of water only half a mile across, but quite deep in parts.
As he reached the shore of the pond, he heard a scream, and, quickly looking round, saw a boat, bottom up, and a boy clinging desperately to it. The boat was only a hundred and fifty feet away.
Andy was an expert swimmer, and he did not hesitate a moment. Throwing off his coat, he plunged into the water and swam out to the boat with a strong and sturdy stroke.
He reached the boy just in time, for he was about to let go his hold, his strength having been overtaxed.
Then, for the first time, Andy saw that the boy whom he was attempting to rescue was Herbert Ross.
“Rest your hand on my shoulder, Herbert,” he said, “but don’t grasp me so that I can’t swim.”
Herbert gladly obeyed instructions, and, with some difficulty, Andy helped him to land.
“Now, Herbert, go home at once, or you will catch your death of cold,” said Andy.
“I’m much obliged to you,” replied Herbert, shivering. “Here, take that.”
Andy could hardly believe his eyes when the boy, whose life he had saved, offered him a twenty-five cent piece.
“No, thank you!” he said, smiling. “I don’t need any reward.”
“I would rather you would take it.”
“It is quite impossible,” said Andy, shortly. “I advise you to go home as fast as you can.”
“What a mean boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Gordon, when Andy, who came home wet through, told her of the munificent sum offered him.
“I don’t know,” said Andy, smiling. “Herbert understands best the value of his own life. But, mother, now that this has happened, I shall feel quite justified in taking the name of Henry Miller, for I, too, have saved a boy from drowning.”
The next day he started on his journey.
CHAPTER XXVII.
ANDY MEETS HIS PREDECESSOR
It was a bright, pleasant morning when Andy left Seneca for the town of Cato, where his great-uncle lived. He had arrived in Seneca the evening previous, and passed the night at the village inn, where he had obtained two meals and lodging for seventy-five cents.
“Where be you going?” asked the landlord – a stout and good-natured looking man.
“I guess I’ll travel a little further,” said Andy, smiling.
For obvious reasons he did not like to say he was going to Cato, as the inquisitive landlord would undoubtedly ask him why.
“Ain’t you got no folks?”
“I have no wife and family,” said Andy, laughing.
“Sho, that isn’t what I mean! Isn’t your father or mother living?”
“Yes; I have a mother.”
“Where does she live?”
“Down East.”
“I s’pose you’re seeking your fortune, ain’t you?”
“A little of that,” said Andy; “but, you see, I like to travel.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You seem a spry, active boy. If you’ll stay here and make yourself useful about the house and stable, I’ll give you all you can eat and five dollars a month. Now, what do you say?”
“I wouldn’t mind working for you,” said Andy, “only I want to travel a little further.”
“ ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ as the schoolmaster says.”
“That is true. But, you see, I am not ready to settle down yet. I’m much obliged to you for you kind offer!”
“You talk as if you’d got money. A boy like you wouldn’t give up a good place if he didn’t see his way clear enough to eat.”
“I’m not very rich, Mr. Jenkins, but I am not afraid of starving. Perhaps I will stop on my way back.”
“That’s right; but you’d better stay now.”
“On the whole,” thought Andy, “I think I could get something to do if I needed it. I have no doubt I should find the good-natured landlord a pleasanter man to work for than Mr. Brackett; but I must not forget my errand.”
So Andy began to trudge along the road toward Cato. It was rather a lonely road, with only here and there a house, but there were signboards, so that there was no danger of losing the way. Andy took it easy, now and then throwing himself down by the side of the road to rest.
“I’ve got all day before me,” he reflected. “There’s no need to hurry and use myself up.”
So it happened that it took him four hours to accomplish ten miles. By this time he was quite hungry, and would have been glad to come across a hotel. There was none, however, short of Cato, and Andy didn’t think he could wait till then before satisfying his hunger.
It was at this point that he saw approaching him a boy, apparently about his own age, with a shock of bright red hair, a freckled face, and a suit of clothes of unknown antiquity. He, too, had a small bundle, put up in a red cotton handkerchief.
“Must be my twin brother!” thought Andy. “I’ll speak to him.”
The newcomer stared at Andy, but whether he would have spoken is not quite certain, if our hero had not taken the initiative.
“Good-morning, Johnny!” said Andy.
“My name ain’t Johnny; it’s Peter. Who be you?” returned the other.
“I’m a traveler, just at present,” answered Andy.
“They calls ’em tramps round our way,” said Peter.
“Then I suppose you’re a tramp,” said Andy.
“That’s so, and I’m blest if I like it!”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Cato.”
“Just what I wanted,” thought Andy. “He can give me some information. Won’t you sit down and rest a little while with me?”
“I dunno but I will. Where are you goin’?” asked Peter, his face expressing curiosity.
“What is the nearest place?”
“Cato.”
“Then I guess I’ll go there.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Don’t you like the place?”
“The place is good enough; but I worked for an awful mean man.”
“Who was it?” asked Andy, with a presentiment of what the answer might be.
“His name is Brackett. Ain’t he mean, though? But his wife’s jest as bad. Jaw, jaw, jaw, all the time! I couldn’t stand it, so I left.”
“That’s encouraging,” thought Andy. “Was there any one else in the family?”
“There was four children – reg’lar terrors! I’d like to choke ’em.”
“Come, Peter, you’re not in earnest?”
“Ain’t I, though! They’re the wust behaved youngsters I ever come across.”
“I suppose there was no one else in the family?”
“Yes, there was an old gentleman – a nice old man, he was! I wouldn’t have minded workin’ for him. He always had a good word for me, but old Brackett and his wife was scoldin’ all the time.”
“What was the name of the old man?”
“Mr. Dodge. I guess it’s he that owns the property; but Lor’! he don’t have anything to say about it. Brackett and his wife have things all their own way.”
“How long were you working for Mr. Brackett?”
“About six weeks.”
“I suppose he paid you well?”
“Paid me well!” repeated Peter, scornfully. “How much do you calc’late he paid me?”
“About two dollars a week,” said Andy, demurely.
Peter burst into a scornful laugh.
“Much you know old Brackett, if you think he’d pay that figger,” he said. “He paid me seventy-five cents a week, and kept groanin’ over the big wages he was a-payin’! He wanted to get me for fifty cents!”
“He is certainly not a very generous man, Peter.”
“No; I guess not.”
“Did you save enough to retire on a fortune?” asked Andy, laughing.
Poor Peter looked sad.
“Blest if I’ve got more’n twenty-five cents in the world!” he said; “and I’m awful hungry.”
“So am I, Peter. But I don’t see any chance to get dinner, even if we had ever so much money.”
“We could git some over yonder,” said Peter, pointing to a farmhouse some way back from the road. “Only we might have to pay for it.”
“Then come along,” said Andy. “Let’s go there.”
Peter hung back.
“You see, I don’t want to spend all my money,” he said. “I ain’t got but twenty-five cents.”
“It shan’t cost you a cent. I will pay for both our dinners.”
“You will?” exclaimed Peter, gladly. “Have you got money enough?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve got enough for that.”
“Then, come along!”
Five minutes later they were knocking at the door of the farmhouse.
A woman, who had evidently been busy getting dinner, her face being flushed with the heat of the kitchen stove, came to the door and surveyed the boys with suspicion.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Madam,” said Andy, pulling off his hat politely, “my friend and I are hungry, and – ”
“We ain’t got anything for tramps,” said the woman, sourly.
“But,” said Andy, in unfailing good humor, “we are not what you suppose.”
“You mean to say you ain’t tramps? I’ll bet a ninepence that you’d steal the spoons, jest as soon as my back was turned.”
Peter was about to return an angry answer, but Andy checked him.
“We don’t want you to give us a dinner,” he said; “but to sell us one. I have money and will pay you in advance if you like.”
The woman – by the way, she was a close-fisted widow, who was always ready to turn a penny, but not to give even a penny’s worth away – was surprised and incredulous.
“Have you any money?” she asked.
“To be sure! How much shall I pay you?” and Andy brought out his pocket-book.
“A quarter apiece, I reckon. I’ve only got sassidges and pie for dinner, but it ought to be wuth that.”
Andy was not over fond of sausages, but the smell of them frying was particularly appetizing just then, and he very readily produced half a dollar and put it into the hands of the Widow Simpson.
“Step right in,” said the widow, with sudden civility. “Dinner will be ready in a jiffy. Here, you Mary Ann, dish up them sassidges, and fry some more. There’s two young gentlemen goin’ to dine with us.”
“We were tramps a minute ago,” thought Andy, amused.