The day after Bernard reached London he received at his old address a letter bearing the familiar postmark of Doncaster. It will be remembered that it was at Doncaster our story opened, and it was there that the boarding-school of Professor Ezekiel Snowdon was located. Bernard’s face lighted up with pleasure, for in the superscription he recognized the handwriting of his friend Nat Barclay.

He tore open the envelope and read the letter quickly. It ran thus:

“Dear Bernard:

“I write this with great anxiety, for I don’t know if you are living or dead. Yesterday I met Septimus Snowdon, who is the same disagreeable bully as ever, and he said, ‘Well, I have some news for you about your friend Bernard Brooks.’ I was rather surprised at this, for I didn’t suppose you would be very likely to write to him. Still I asked, ‘Have you heard from him?’ ‘No,’ he answered disdainfully. ‘I wouldn’t have any correspondence with a fellow like him. But he isn’t likely to write any more letters.’ ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘Because he’s dead, that’s why,’ snapped Septimus, and I saw that he seemed pleased. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I returned. ‘Where do you get your information?’ ‘You’ll have to believe it,’ he said. ‘Pa received a letter from his guardian, Mr. Cornelius McCracken, of New York, saying that his death had been reported to him by the gentleman in whose company he went to Europe. I believe he wrote that he had met with an accident in Marseilles.’ Now I had a good deal of doubt about the correctness of this statement, for I knew from your own letters that you parted with Professor Puffer in London, and were not likely to be in Marseilles with him. I asked Septimus some further questions, but he seemed to have no more information.

“‘Well,’ said Septimus sneeringly, ‘are you going to put on mourning for your great friend Bernard?’ ‘I might,’ I answered, ‘if I believed him to be dead, but I don’t believe it.’

“‘You’ll never see him again,’ said Septimus positively.

“Now, Bernard, though I don’t believe the story, I am anxious, and if you are alive I hope you will write me again and tell me. I won’t believe it till I have your own authority. That sounds like a bull, doesn’t it? But I’ll go on and write as if you were still alive. You may wish to know something about the school. To the best of my belief it is far from prosperous. There are very few scholars, and those don’t look as if their parents or guardians paid much for them. Then the professor himself is looking very shabby and seedy. I don’t believe he has had a new coat for over a year. Septimus looks better. There is a pupil in the school about his size, and I really believe that Septimus is wearing his clothes. I hear that old Snowdon gave the boy a dollar and a half for his best suit. The boy was glad to sell it in order to get a little pocket money. I know how he spent a part of it. He went to the baker’s in the village and bought a supply of cakes and doughnuts, of which he stood in need, for I hear that the seminary table, never very good, is now poorer than ever.

“When are you coming back to America? I long to see you. If you do come you must be sure to come out to Doncaster and see

“Your affectionate friend,

“Nat Barclay.”

Bernard showed his letter to Mr. Cunningham.

“Would you like to go to America, Bernard?” he asked.

“I don’t want to leave you, sir.”

“But suppose I should go, too?”

“Then I should be delighted to go.”

“I cannot go while my uncle’s life is in doubt, but when I am released from attendance upon him I shall have nothing to hinder me.”

That day week the uncle died. After the funeral Mr. Cunningham said, “Well, Bernard, I have not forgotten the promise I made you. We will go to the office of the Cunard steamers, and see whether we can engage passage by the Etruria, which is the first one to sail.”

It was found that one of the best staterooms on the palatial steamer was still disengaged. Walter Cunningham lost no time in securing it, and the two embarked on the following Saturday.

There is no occasion to dwell upon the voyage. The weather was good, and the Etruria made one of the quick passages for which she is famous.

When Bernard steamed into port, and saw the familiar roofs and spires of the great American city, his heart thrilled within him, and he felt that warm glow which the sight of home is apt to enkindle.

CHAPTER XXXV. PROFESSOR PUFFER’S DECLINE AND FALL

Bernard,” said Walter Cunningham, as they sat together in a handsome apartment at the Brevoort House, “I feel that I have not done as well by you as I should.”

“You have been a kind friend to me, Mr. Cunningham. I have lacked for nothing since I have been with you. I think you do yourself injustice.”

“That is true, but suppose anything should happen to me, how would you fare?”

“We won’t think of that, Walter. You are a young man. You are likely to live for many years.”

“So I hope,” said the young Englishman, smiling. “Life is sweet to me, and I have something to live for, especially now that I have you. But I feel that I ought to make a provision for you, to place your future beyond a contingency.”

Bernard did not reply. He waited for Mr. Cunningham to finish what he had to say.

“I shall therefore go to my banker’s this morning, and turn over to you the sum of fifteen thousand dollars. It is not all I intend to do for you, but it will prevent your experiencing inconvenience in the event of any sudden accident to me.”

“Fifteen thousand dollars!” repeated Bernard, in astonishment. “Why, that will make me rich. How can I thank you for your great kindness?”

“I look upon you as a brother, Bernard. With the affection I feel for you I could not allow you to run the risk of poverty and destitution. To be sure, you are young and a boy of capacity, but for a time you might be in trouble.”

That very morning Mr. Cunningham took Bernard to the office of his banker in Wall Street, and transferred the sum he had mentioned to Bernard’s account.

“I advise you to keep your money for the present in the hands of my good friends here, unless you should prefer to deposit it with your old guardian, Mr. McCracken.”

“I would not trust Mr. McCracken,” said Bernard, “but I should like before I leave the city to pay him a visit.”

Walking down Broadway in the afternoon Bernard was treated to a surprise. Marching in front of him with a slow and weary step was a thick-set man of over fifty, sandwiched between two advertising boards, bearing in large capitals these words:

USE SWEETLAND’S PILLS

There was something familiar in the figure, but from a rear view Bernard could not immediately place it. However, the man presently turned partly round, showing his side face, and Bernard was startled by a sudden recognition.

It was Professor Puffer!

Yes, the celebrated professor, author (by his own account) of several large and elaborate works on the antiquities of the old world, had actually sunk so low as to become a sandwich man, earning the miserable pittance of fifty cents a day.

Bernard at once in some excitement imparted his astonishing discovery to his companion.

“What! Is that your Professor Puffer?” asked Cunningham in wonder. “How have the mighty fallen!”

“He was never so mighty as I supposed,” said Bernard. “I feel quite sure that he was a humbug and no professor at all.”

“I am inclined to agree with you. I don’t think any real professor would ever be reduced to such shifts as this. What are you going to do? Shall you make yourself known to your old companion?”

“I think I would like to do so,” said Bernard thoughtfully. “He may be able to give me some information, concerning my guardian, for instance that may be of service to me.”

“Perhaps you are right. At any rate, it will do no harm, unless you are afraid that the professor will try to get you into his power again.”

Bernard smiled as he regarded with complacency his own well knit figure – he was three inches taller than when he had been a fellow passenger of the professor on the ship Vesta.

“If he should try to get me into his power, will you stand by me, Mr. Cunningham?” he said.

“Yes; but I fancy that you are quite able to fight your own battles.”

Bernard stepped forward until he was in a line with Professor Puffer. Then in a clear, distinct voice, he said, “Professor Puffer!”

The sandwich man turned quickly, and regarded Bernard with surprise. The latter had not only grown, but he was much better dressed than when the professor parted with him.

“Who are you?” he demanded, looking bewildered.

“Don’t you remember your old companion on the Vesta?”

“Bernard Brooks!” ejaculated Professor Puffer in deep amazement.

CHAPTER XXXVI. PROFESSOR PUFFER BECOMES AN ALLY

Professor Puffer let his eye glide slowly over Bernard’s figure. He noted not only his increase in size, but his neat dress, and bright and handsome face.

“How long have you been in America?” he asked abruptly.

“I arrived yesterday by the Etruria.”

“You seem well and prosperous,” went on Puffer, with an envious sigh.

“Yes; I have been fortunate.”

“It is wonderful. You are elegantly dressed. Yet I left you destitute, or rather you left me, without a penny to fall back upon.”

“That is true, Professor Puffer.”

“It was a reckless step to take.”

“It may have been, but you must admit that I had good reasons for taking the step,” said Bernard significantly.

“What are you doing? Are you employed?” asked the professor, without comment.

“I am, and I am not. I am nominally private secretary to my kind friend, Mr. Walter Cunningham,” said Bernard, with a look at that gentleman.

“The gentleman who advertised in London for a traveling companion?”

“The same.”

“I sought the position. I should have been much better qualified than you,” said the professor peevishly.

“You don’t appear to have prospered,” rejoined Bernard.

“No. Is it not disgraceful that a man of my attainments should fill this ignoble position?” said Professor Puffer bitterly.

“Couldn’t you get anything better to do?”

“If I could you would not have found me traveling through the streets as a sandwich man. Up and down I walk through the livelong day, and how much do you think I receive for my degrading labors?”

“I suppose it is not much.”

“Fifty cents a day,” answered the professor bitterly.

“And you live on that?”

“Don’t live on it I starve.”

“But I don’t see how you became so reduced. Was not Cornelius McCracken, my old guardian, a friend of yours?”

“McCracken! The selfish beast! Don’t name him to me. I can’t bear to hear his name spoken.”

“Has he treated you badly?” asked Bernard.

“Has he not? I was his confidential agent. He selected me to do his dirty work. He placed you under my care, having certain interests of his own to serve.”

“I have always wondered what his object could have been?”

As Bernard spoke he fixed his eyes eagerly upon the face of his old companion. He felt persuaded that Professor Puffer could tell him what he was very anxious to know. He meant before the interview was over to obtain from him light as to his relations with Mr. McCracken.

“Have you see him lately? Won’t he do anything for you?” he continued.

“Listen! When I returned from Europe, two months since, I called upon him. I had previously communicated with him by letter. He asked after you. I told him that you were dead.”

“Why did you tell him that?”

“Because it was what he wished to know.”

“Did he wish me to die?” asked Bernard, startled, but not wholly surprised.

“He did. In sending you to Europe with me, he wished to get rid of you, and I had instructions to that effect.”

“That accounts for your trying to throw me overboard that night on the Vesta.”

“Yes. I was endeavoring to carry out my instructions.”

“Were the instructions oral or written?”

“Written. I had a letter in McCracken’s own handwriting.”

“Don’t that give you a hold upon him?”

“It would if I had kept it, but unfortunately I lost it on the steamer, I think.”

Bernard had the letter in his trunk at the hotel. He had always preserved it, thinking that some time he might find a use for it. Of course the professor didn’t know this.

“I reported your death,” continued Puffer. “I said you had been run over and fatally injured in Marseilles. I could see how much satisfaction this news afforded Mr. McCracken. He ascertained by cunning questions that I didn’t have his letter in my possession, and then he became cool and indifferent. ‘I am sorry for the boy’s death,’ he said. ‘He was young to die. I think you must have been careless.’ ‘I was only carrying out your instructions,’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’ he retorted. ‘I committed him to your charge. If I gave you any instructions, produce them.’

“This I couldn’t do, and he knew it.

“I represented to him that I was very poor, and needed help.

“‘Really,’ he said, ‘that is nothing to me.’

“‘Can’t you give me employment?’ I asked.

“‘I have no places vacant,’ he answered coldly.

“‘What am I to do?’ I asked. ‘I have no money.’

“‘Surely you don’t expect me to support you,’ he said impatiently. ‘You have no claim upon me.’

“Then I bethought myself of a clever scheme.

“‘Surely,’ I said, ‘you will repay me the sum I paid out for the boy’s funeral.’

“He reflected a moment, and then answered in the affirmative.

“‘Yes,’ he said, ‘if you will give me a receipt in due form.’

“I went out of the office with one hundred dollars in my pocket.”

“It was certainly a lucky thought,” said Bernard, smiling; “considering that my funeral expenses are paid, I feel unusually full of life. However, I am glad you got the money.”

“It is all gone now!” went on Puffer mournfully. “I lived perhaps too freely while it lasted. When it was gone I called once more at Mr. McCracken’s office, and was literally kicked out. What do you think of that?”

Hitherto Walter Cunningham had stood by in silence, listening to the conversation between Bernard and his quondam guardian. Now he came forward with a question.

“Can you tell me, Professor Puffer,” he asked, “why Mr. McCracken wishes to get rid of Bernard?”

“The answer is an easy one. He has in his possession ten thousand dollars intrusted to him by Bernard’s father. It must amount to a good deal more now from the interest that has accrued.”

“What proof can you give of this? Did he ever write to you to that effect?”

“No; but he admitted it to me in conversation.”

“I am disposed to get this back from him. Are you willing to help me?”

“I wish I could,” said Puffer earnestly. “I owe him a grudge. That would be a welcome revenge. But I am afraid there is no chance. If only I had that letter of instructions I could prove at any rate that he wanted me to get rid of him.”

“That would give us a hold on him, and with the help of it I think we could bring him to terms.”

“But unfortunately I have lost the letter,” continued the professor regretfully.

“Professor Puffer,” said Bernard, “that letter is still in existence.”

“Is it?” asked Puffer eagerly. “Where is it?”

“I have it in my trunk. I found it on the floor of your stateroom on the Vesta. It is not quite complete, but there is enough in it with your help to fasten a very serious charge upon Mr. McCracken.”

“Good! good! I am thankful,” said the professor. “I will go with you, and beard him in his den. He shall repent the way in which he has treated me. But you will have to wait till evening. I shall not be through with my work till six o’clock.”

“You can leave it now,” said Cunningham. “I am not at all sure that you are entitled to the title of professor, but at all events you are fit for something better than a sandwich man. I will see that you are no longer reduced to such humble work.”

“I shall be thankful,” said Ezra Puffer, “deeply thankful if you will find me a better position. Sometimes I meet a man whom I knew in better days, and then I am inexpressibly mortified to be seen in such a position.”

“I think I can promise you some more congenial employment. Do you know where the Brevoort House is?”

“Yes.”

“Come round there at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, and call for me. You remember my name?”

“Yes; you are Mr. Cunningham.”

“Do you think,” asked Puffer, “that you could spare me half a dollar now? I feel quite hungry, and I should like to make a good meal.”

“Certainly. Here are five dollars. Now, be sure to call at the Brevoort House to-morrow morning.”

“Most certainly I will,” said the professor, eying the bank note he had just received with a joyful glance. “I should be a fool if I didn’t. Through you and Bernard, I hope to have another chance of living respectably. Now I must go and surrender this badge of my servitude,” and he glanced disdainfully at the two placards which he had already removed from their position behind and in front. “I hope, Bernard, you will never be subjected to such humiliation.”

“I hardly think it likely,” said Walter Cunningham, “especially if through you he obtains possession of his father’s money.”

“I will do my best, sir. I think, Cornelius McCracken,” he continued, snapping his fingers at an imaginary form, “that we shall be too much for you at last. You will be sorry that you did not treat me better.”

Professor Puffer disappeared rapidly round the corner of Houston Street, and Bernard and Walter Cunningham walked up town to their hotel.

“Things seem to be turning in your favor, Bernard,” said his companion. “The money left by your father will not be of so much consequence to you now, but it will be a satisfaction to wrest it from the hands of your faithless guardian. Professor Puffer will prove to be a good friend to you after all.”

CHAPTER XXXVII. A BAD DAY FOR MR. MCCRACKEN

Cornelius McCracken sat in his office in a complacent mood. He had just closed a successful speculation in Wall Street, by which he had cleared a few hundred dollars. He was not a rich man for the city, and this was of some consequence to him.

Then his mind could not help reverting to Bernard and the accident which had removed him from his path and averted all danger of restitution of the boy’s fortune. Truly all seemed favorable.

He heard a slight noise at the door, and lifting his eyes recognized with a scowl his old ally and confederate, Professor Puffer.

“What do you want here?” he demanded roughly. “I have no time for such as you.”

Professor Puffer entered the room, nevertheless, and sank into a chair.

“Mr. McCracken,” he said, “I am very unfortunate. I am reduced to the position of a sandwich man. I who have occupied the position of a gentleman.”

“What is that to me? It is an honest way of earning your living. You are lucky to find work at all.”

“I have given it up. I can’t stand it. Besides, I met yesterday afternoon a person whom I had known in happier and more prosperous days. I felt as if I should sink through the sidewalk.”

“I see – you are poor and proud,” sneered McCracken. “It is out of place in a man like you.”

“Mr. McCracken, can’t you help me? I have served you faithfully in a matter you know of.”

“And you have been paid.”

“But think how you have benefited. By the boy’s death you have fallen heir to his fortune, and – ”

“Who told you he had a fortune?”

“You admitted it yourself in a conversation.”

“Well, it was very small – a few hundred dollars.”

“On that point I will not speak. Even admitting it to be only that, can’t you spare me a few dollars?”

“No, I can’t. Get out of my office!”

“Mr. McCracken,” said Puffer, changing his tone, “you have thrown me over because you think you don’t need me any more. Suppose now – only suppose – that a mistake had been made – that Bernard was not dead after all.”

“What do you mean?” demanded the merchant nervously. “You told me he was dead.”

“Suppose I was mistaken.”

“Then you deceived me basely. But you are only trying to play a trick on me. You have mistaken your man. Again I order you to leave my office.”

“I will do so, but I shall return.”

“If you do, you will be kicked out.”

Professor Puffer did not seem alarmed. He went out, closing the door behind him, and immediately afterwards Bernard opened it and went in.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come back?” exclaimed McCracken angrily.

“No,” answered a young, fresh voice.

Mr. McCracken turned quickly and there stood Bernard Brooks. He had grown considerably; he was much improved in dress; but Mr. McCracken recognized him.

“I see you know me,” said Bernard.

“No, I don’t.”

“I think you do. I am Bernard Brooks.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“It was a mistake.”

“I am not prepared to admit your identity. You don’t look like Bernard Brooks.”

“I shall have no difficulty in proving myself to be your former ward.”.

“Well, what do you want? Do you wish to put yourself under my charge? In that case I will send you to Professor Snowdon.”

“No, thank you. I can take care of myself.”

“I am willing. In that case I will bid you good morning. I am busy,” and Mr. McCracken made a motion to return to his writing.

“You asked me if I had any business with you. I have,” continued Bernard. “I wish you to give up the fortune my father left in your charge for me.”

“You lie! There was no such fortune. Some one has been deceiving you. Perhaps it is that arrant liar, Ezra Puffer.”

“Whom you hired to put me out of the way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. McCracken hoarsely,

“I have in my possession a letter which you wrote to him, from which it will be easy to prove your attempted crime and the motive.”

“There is no such letter. I never wrote one of that tenor.”

“It is in your handwriting.”

“Show it to me, then.”

“I can’t. It is in the hands of my lawyer.”

“You have dared to put it into the hands of a lawyer?”

“I felt that it was my best course.”

Cornelius McCracken’s countenance worked convulsively. He was beginning to be afraid of his ward.

“There was a matter of five hundred dollars,” he admitted reluctantly, “left over after my disbursements for you. I will at my leisure look over my accounts, and if there is any money due you, you shall have it.”

“I have made the acquaintance of Mr. Oliver Franklin, an old friend of my father. He tells a very different story. He says my father left at least ten thousand dollars.”

“Stuff and nonsense! You must be crazy.”

“I won’t discuss the question with you, Mr. McCracken. I have put the matter into the hands of a lawyer, who will see you about the matter. I only wished to give you notice what I intended doing. Good morning.”

Bernard left the office, leaving his guardian in no enviable state of mind. Without dwelling on the legal steps taken, it is enough to say that Mr. McCracken was ultimately compelled to disgorge twelve thousand dollars to his former ward.

Bernard and his English friend succeeded in obtaining for Professor Puffer a position as doorkeeper, in an art museum, which, on the whole, he preferred to being a sandwich man.

Before this law matter was terminated Bernard made up his mind to visit Doncaster and see his old friend and teacher, Professor Ezekiel Snowdon.