CHAPTER XXVI.

BERT SECURES BOARD IN HARRISBURG.

Bert arrived in Harrisburg about four o'clock in the afternoon. He had in his hand a gripsack purchased for him by Uncle Jacob, who also provided him with a fuller supply of shirts, socks, and underclothing than he had brought with him.

"You may be gone some time," he said.

Just as Bert got into the cars, Uncle Jacob handed him a wallet.

"This contains a sum of money for your immediate needs," he explained. "When you are out, send to me."

After the cars started, Bert opened the wallet, and to his surprise found that he had fifty dollars in his possession.

"Uncle Jacob's money won't last long at this rate," he said to himself. "I must be very careful and economical. I should like to take back to him a part of this sum."

Of course Bert enjoyed his trip. The sun shone brightly, the air was cool and invigorating, and the scenes through which he was rapidly speeding were new to him. In spite of the sense of responsibility which rested upon him, he felt cheerful and exhilarated.

"If I can only succeed in my mission!" he thought. "If I can only find Ralph Harding, and induce him to vindicate my father's reputation, I shall feel happy!"

It so happened that he had seated himself in the smoking car, the car behind, which he first entered, being full.

A tall, thin man, wearing a white hat, sat down beside him.

"Have a cigar, young man?" he asked, as he produced two of rather poor quality, one of which he lighted and proceeded to smoke.

"No, thank you, sir."

"Better accept a good offer," urged the stranger.

"Thank you, but I don't smoke."

"Indeed! How old are you?"

"I am sixteen," replied Bert.

"Then you are a rara avis—that means a rare bird. Most boys of your age smoke."

"They'd be better off without it."

"Perhaps so. I see you are a prudent young man. How far are you going?"

"To Harrisburg."

"So am I. Queer coincidence, isn't it?"

"I don't know," answered Bert, smiling. "I presume there are other passengers on board who are also bound for that city."

"Very possibly. Ever been there before?"

"No, sir."

"I have often, and the long ride is rather tedious. What do you say to a little game of cards to fill up the time?"

"Thank you, but I would rather look out of the window."

The stranger seemed disappointed, but a man in the seat just behind, leaning over, said: "If you want a game, I'm your man."

"All right!" said Bert's companion, brightening up. "What game do you play?"

"Anything."

"Poker?"

"All right."

The two took seats opposite, between which was a small table, and the game began. Bert looked over now and then, and saw that they were playing for money. He was startled, for he had been taught to regard gambling with horror. It seemed evident after awhile that his late seat-mate was losing. He became more and more excited and nervous, and his face was overspread with gloom. At length he came over to Bert, and said, eagerly: "My young friend, will you do me a favor?"

"What is it, sir?"

"Lend me five dollars."

This seemed to Bert an extraordinary request from a perfect stranger.

"You must excuse me, sir," he answered.

"Haven't you got as much about you? Say two dollars, then."

"The money I have with me is not my own," said Bert. "I cannot lend anything."

"But, let me assure you, I will give it back to you before the train reaches Harrisburg. I have had a streak of bad luck, and that man over there has won all my money. But I've got on to his game, and I will soon have it all back, if I get a start. You'll be doing me a great favor, and there will be no risk."

"He must take me for a fool," thought Bert.

"You had better apply to some one else," he said coldly. "I can't possibly help you."

"So young and so hard-hearted!" murmured the other, eying Bert reproachfully. "'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour. I was born under an unlucky star. Sir, I am afraid I must withdraw from our pleasant game unless you will kindly lend me a dollar to continue."

His late antagonist shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't see how that would benefit me," he said. "We'll wait till another time when you are in funds. Then I shall be happy to accommodate you."

"Did you lose much?" asked Bert, as his companion resumed a seat at his side.

"Fifteen dollars! 'Tis not much, but 'twas my all. If you would oblige me with a dollar, I can win it all back."

Bert shook his head.

"I have no money of my own," he said.

"Never mind! Twenty times I have been on the threshold of fortune, and failed to secure it by my funds giving out. Be it so! I will no longer resist, but float downward to oblivion over the rapids of disappointment."

"You are an actor, are you not?" said Bert.

"Yes; at least, so I sometimes flatter myself, though the critics do not all concede it. If you are going to remain in Harrisburg long enough, come and see me act."

He gave Bert his card, and then closing his eyes, passed the remainder of the journey in dozing.

Arrived in Harrisburg, Bert found himself besieged by hackmen, representing different hotels. But he did not think it right to waste Uncle Jacob's money in unnecessary expense. He picked out a bootblack, and showing him the address of Mrs. Stubbs, asked: "Is that near by?"

"'Bout quarter of a mile," answered the street boy.

"What'll you ask for showing me the way?"

"A dime."

"Go ahead, then!"

In five minutes Bert found himself standing in front of a rather shabby three-story house, in a decent, but not fashionable, street. The name Stubbs was on the door.

Bert rang the bell, and inquired for Mrs. Stubbs.

He was ushered into a small reception room on one side of the front door, furnished in cheap, boarding-house style, and took a seat on a stiff-backed cane chair.

Presently a thin lady, with cork-screw curls, and a pale, washed-out complexion, entered the room.

"Did you wish to see me, sir?" she said.

"Yes," answered Bert. "You answered an advertisement about Ralph Harding. I come from New York."

"Have you brought my money?" asked Mrs. Stubbs, with animation.

"What money do you refer to?"

"Mr. Harding's board bill. I sent it in the letter."

"We don't feel called upon to pay Mr. Harding's debts," returned Bert, who had been instructed by Uncle Jacob to say this.

"Must I lose thirty-two dollars, then?" said the lady tragically. "It's a shame."

"No doubt it is, but we don't even know Mr. Harding."

"Then why did you advertise for him?"

"Because we want his testimony in a law case."

"The advertisement said that it would be for Mr. Harding's advantage to report to you."

"So it will, if we can find him. He will receive money enough to settle your bill, and more, too. We will see that he does, if you help us find him."

"I am sure I am willing to do all I can," said Mrs. Stubbs, considerably mollified.

"Have you got a small room vacant?" asked Bert. "I may be detained in Harrisburg for a while."

"Yes; you can have the one Mr. Harding used to occupy. If you occupy it alone, it will be five dollars a week with board."

"I will take it," said Bert promptly. "Can I have possession at once?"

"Yes. Let me show you the way."

The room was on the third floor. It was a small one, but would answer the purpose. Bert took out his clothes, and laid them away in the pine bureau near the window.

"Well," he said, as he waited for the bell to summon him to supper, "I have taken the first step toward finding Ralph Harding. I am occupying the room which was once his. What shall be the next step?"

He little anticipated the singular experience that same evening had in store for him.



CHAPTER XXVII.

A BOARDING-HOUSE IN HARRISBURG.

At the supper table Bert made acquaintance with his fellow-boarders. There were eight in all. Three of them worked in the shoe factory where Ralph Harding had been employed, two young ladies were saleswomen in a dry-goods store, Professor Silvio and wife taught a dancing school, and the eighth was the landlady's daughter, a young woman of twenty-five, who resembled Mrs. Stubbs closely. Bert learned afterward that she was employed in a millinery store.

"Gentlemen and ladies," said Mrs. Stubbs, as Bert took the vacant chair that had been assigned to him, "let me introduce a new boarder, Mr. Barton."

Eight pairs of curious eyes were fixed upon Bert, and he blushed a little, not being accustomed to the scrutiny of strangers.

"He is a friend of a former boarder, Mr. Harding, whom some of you will remember."

"Have you heard from Mr. Harding lately, Mr. Barton?" asked Angelica Stubbs, who sat next to our hero.

"No," answered Bert.

"He left quite suddenly, owing me eight weeks' board."

"So I heard."

"Do you think he will ever pay it up?"

"If I succeed in finding him I think there is some chance of it."

"Mr. Harding and I were very good friends," continued Miss Stubbs. "He—in fact—showed quite a fondness for my society," she added, casting down her eyes modestly.

"No wonder!" said Bert, smiling.

"Oh, you sad flatterer!" said Miss Angelica, appearing pleased at what she regarded as a compliment.

"Didn't he tell you where he was going?" asked Bert.

"No; I think he was called away by bad news."

"What sort of a looking man was he?" Bert inquired.

"You ask me that?" said Angelica, in surprise. "I thought you were a friend of his."

"I never saw him in my life."

"That's funny. Why then did ma introduce you as a friend of his?"

"She thought me so. I am interested in finding him, that is all."

"You are not a horrid detective, I hope? Has poor Mr. Harding committed a crime? Oh, tell me quick. You actually make me creep all over."

"I don't mean any harm, but his testimony is wanted in a law case. You haven't told me about his appearance yet."

"I've got his photograph, and will show it to you after supper."

"Oh, thank you!" said Bert, much pleased.

"That is, if you are sure it won't do him any harm. He used to talk to me very confidentially, and I can't help liking him, even if he did get in debt to ma."

"Perhaps he was unfortunate and couldn't pay."

"That's what I tell ma, but ma's rather severe on boarders that go away without paying her."

"Did he take all his baggage with him, Miss Stubbs?"

"He left behind a box of books and papers. They weren't of much account—some old letters and such."

"Did your mother preserve them?" asked Bert eagerly.

"Yes, I believe so; but she would have preferred to have him leave his trunk. That might have been sold for a part of his board bill."

"Do you think I could look over the books and papers?" asked Bert.

"What for?" inquired Angelica, her face expressing curiosity.

"You know I want to find him, and some of the papers might throw light on his movements."

"I don't know but you could," answered Angelica indifferently.

"I'll be willing to pay your mother one week's board for the box and its contents."

"Then I am sure she will let you have them. They are worth nothing to her. I only wonder she hasn't used them to kindle the fire with before now."

"I hope she hasn't," returned Bert anxiously.

"No; I know she hasn't, for I saw them in the attic only last week. I'll look them up for you some day when I am at leisure."

"Thank you."

"I wonder Mr. Harding hasn't written to you," he said, a little later.

"Oh, go along! You don't suppose there was anything between me and him?" said Angelica, who liked nothing better than to be teased about the attentions of members of the other sex. Bert was sharp enough to see this, and thought he might make it available in promoting the object he had in view.

"I thought, perhaps, he had gone away because you didn't smile upon his suit."

Miss Angelica laughed and tossed her head in great delight.

"As if I would tell you," she said.

"I only hope he hasn't committed suicide."

"Oh, Mr. Barton, how can you? Really, I shall have to complain to ma."

All this was very amusing to Bert, who had a natural love of fun, and quite understood Angelica by this time, though, truth to tell, she was not difficult to read.

When supper was over, Miss Stubbs said graciously: "Mr. Barton, if you are not pressed for time, will you linger a while? I play a little on the piano, and if you are fond of music, I will play for you. Usually I have to be in the store, but this is my evening off."

"I shall be glad to stay, Miss Stubbs. I am fond of music."

"Mr. Harding often lingered with me in the evening hours. He liked to hear me play."

"As I no doubt shall."

"Do you sing, Mr. Barton?"

"No; I wish I did."

Miss Angelica's piano was probably twenty-five years old, and was very much out of tune. But even if it had been a Chickering Grand, her playing would hardly have captivated a musical ear. She had little taste, and the lessons she had taken had only given her the ability to play a few easy tunes.

Bert found half an hour of Miss Angelica's music and society all he cared to enjoy at one time. He therefore excused himself, and taking his hat, went out for a walk. As he was a stranger in Harrisburg, he was not particular in what direction he strolled, but naturally bent his steps toward what appeared to be the central part of the city.

As he sauntered along, his attention was attracted to a flaring poster on a dead wall, setting forth the attractive features of

THE STREETS OF GOTHAM.

A Realistic Play of New York Life.

As given by a Star Combination of world-renowned Actors.

For one week only.

Reserved seats, 50 cents. Balcony, 25 cents.

Now Bert had seldom enjoyed an opportunity of attending a dramatic performance, and felt strongly tempted to avail himself of the one that now offered. He wished to be as economical as possible, and decided to content himself with a seat in the balcony.

"Where is the theatre?" he asked of a boy who was studying the bill at the same time with himself.

"Just round the corner. I'll show you," was the reply.

"Thank you."

"Are you goin' to see de play?" asked the boy with interest.

"I think I shall."

"I'd go myself if I had another nickel," said the young guide. "I've got ten cents."

"But I thought twenty-five cents was the lowest price."

"I can go to de gallery for fifteen cents. De gallery is good enough for me."

"If a nickel will help you, here is one."

"Thank you," said the boy. "It's a boss play, dey tell me."

"I hope it is, as I am going myself."

The theatre was near at hand, and the two boys soon stood before it. It was rather early, being only a quarter past seven, but a small crowd of boys was already waiting for a chance to obtain admission to the gallery.

There seemed to be no hurry about buying a ticket, and Bert took a standing position near the box office, surveying with interest the passers by. All at once he felt a hand on his shoulder, and these words fell upon his ear:

"We meet again, my dear boy. Shake!"

Bert immediately recognized his travelling friend who had lost his money on the train.

"Are you one of the dramatic company?" he asked.

"Yes; I play the leading villain—and am acting stage manager. My name is Orville—Jack Orville. You have heard of me."

"I have always lived in the country," said Bert apologetically, "and so have little acquaintance with actors."

Orville looked disappointed. He liked to be known and recognized.

"That accounts for it," he said. "I am surprised to hear that you are from the country. You have the city air."

Bert was pleased to hear it, though perhaps that might be a mark of weakness.

At the moment another man came up hurriedly, and spoke to Orville.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish, Orville," he said. "Bob Hazleton is sick and insists upon going back to New York. Where shall we find a boy to take his place?"

Orville had an inspiration. He clapped his hand on Bert's shoulder, exclaiming: "Here he stands!"



CHAPTER XXVIII.

BERT'S FIRST APPEARANCE ON ANY STAGE.

Bert eyed the actor with amazement, rather disposed to doubt his sanity.

"Do you mean me?" he said.

"Certainly."

"Has he ever acted?" asked Pearson, the second actor, doubtfully.

"No, but he can act. I'll undertake to train him."

"There isn't much time. Hazleton can't appear to-night."

"Don't worry! I'll see that he is not missed."

As Pearson went away, Orville said: "You'll help us out, won't you, my boy?"

"What do you want me to do?" asked Bert, his heart beating with excitement.

"Take the part of a newsboy. You've seen and heard them in the streets of New York, haven't you?"

"Yes; but it seems sudden. I should have to learn the part."

"All told there are not more than twenty lines, and you won't come on till the second act. You've spoken pieces, haven't you?"

"Yes, and I like it."

"I was sure of it. Then you accept?"

"If you think I can do it, and will tell me exactly what to do."

"Come round at once to the stage entrance. I will give you your lines and tell you the business. We'll speak about terms later."

As Bert followed Orville round to the stage door he asked himself whether he was not acting foolishly in accepting, at such short notice, a position to which he was entirely unaccustomed. If he had not liked declamation, and felt moderately self-possessed before an audience, he would have promptly refused. As it was, the prospect, while it somewhat daunted, also pleased him. Besides, he saw that, though he might not be able to fill the place of Bob Hazleton, it was imperatively necessary that the part should be taken by some one, and there was no time to lose in hunting up another boy. If he did poorly, he could limit his engagement to one evening.

He was not at home behind the scenes, and at the outset came near tumbling through a trap door. He followed Orville to the general dressing-room, where the manager assisted him to attire himself in the costume provided for the newsboy. It is needless to say that it was not of a costly description, and would have been dear at a dollar and a half.

"I'll dress you first, and give you the lines afterward."

In five minutes Bert surveyed himself in a cracked mirror, and wondered if he were the same boy. Orville ruffled up his hair, taught him the free and easy walk of the typical newsboy, briefly instructed him in the "business" of the part, and then gave him his lines to commit.

"Read them to me," he said. "I want to see if you've caught the spirit of the part."

Of course Bert needed a little coaching, but "caught on," as Orville expressed it, with remarkable quickness. After a few minutes' rehearsal, his teacher said: "You'll do; that is, if you don't get rattled."

"What's that?"

"Get an attack of stage fright, and forget your lines."

"I won't do that," said Bert confidently.

"Then you'll have no trouble. Now, stay here till you get a summons from the call boy. I must make up for my part, though I don't appear, either, till the second act. Remember that we rely upon you."

"I'll get through," said Bert confidently.

By this time our hero looked forward eagerly to the moment when he would appear on the stage. He felt excited, and yearned to distinguish himself. He wanted to justify the stage manager's hasty, and, it must be confessed, rather imprudent, choice.

He waited in the wings till he heard the call boy's summons, and then made his entrance as instructed by Orville. He glanced at the audience, but only got a confused impression of hundreds of faces. He did not allow himself to think of them, but addressed himself to the business of his part. A part of this was to rescue a little girl from the abuse of a tyrannical old woman. He recited his lines with spirit; and so enlisted the sympathies of those present by his manly bearing that he received a tribute of applause. The scene came just at the close of the second act, and when the curtain fell there was prolonged hand-clapping. Bert did not know what it meant, but Orville came up to him, and said; "Go before the curtain, leading Maud by the hand. Bow to the audience."

Bert was a little bewildered, but followed directions. The corner of the curtain was moved aside, and Bert walked across the stage, leading little Maud (who was a daughter of the leading actress) by the hand. Children are always well received, and there was plenty of applause.

When Bert reappeared behind the scenes, Orville said, "Barton, you did yourself proud! Keep it up when you appear again in the fourth act, and you may consider yourself an actor."

In the fourth and last act Bert went on the stage in his street dress. His circumstances and his social position were supposed to have improved.

At the close of the performance Orville introduced Bert to the different members of the company.

"Do you mean to say you have never acted before?" asked Mr. Pearson.

"This is my first appearance on any stage," said Bert with a smile.

"Then you have done yourself great credit. I was myself trained at Wallack's Theatre, but had been a year on the boards before I could acquit myself as well as you."

"Thank you. I have done better than I expected."

"You more than filled Hazleton's place."

"Has he been long with you?"

"A year."

Bert felt this was indeed praise, that on his first appearance he should have equaled a boy with a year's experience.

"Of course you will play with us the balance of the week?" said Pearson.

"If you wish me to do so."

"What salary will you expect?" Bert smiled.

"I hardly know what will be a fair price to ask."

"We will give you the same salary that Hazleton received, fifteen dollars a week, and you pay your own board. Is that satisfactory?"

Bert opened his eyes. Fifteen dollars a week seemed to him a large sum, for evening work. He found afterward that he was expected to appear at rehearsal; but even with this additional duty, the post appeared to him an easy one.

"I accept the terms," he said.

"All right; where are you boarding?"

He gave the address.

"Please be at the theatre to-morrow at ten, and Mr. Pearson will hear you rehearse and give you a few points."

Unknown to Bert there were two persons present at the theatre that night who recognized him. One of the male boarders, prompted by a rather significant hint from Miss Angelica, had invited that young lady to accompany him to the performance. They sat in the sixth row from the stage, though Bert, who attended only to his duties, did not see them.

When he first came on as a newsboy, Miss Stubbs said: "How much that newsboy looks like Mr. Barton, ma's new boarder."

"He does look some like him."

"But of course it isn't he. I wonder if he is here this evening."

"I don't see him anywhere," said the escort.

When Bert appeared in his own clothes in the fourth act, Angelica exclaimed: "Why, it is Mr. Barton, after all! Is it possible that I know a live actor? Why, I was talking to him at supper, and he was really quite attentive to me."

"He is put down on the bill as Bob Hazleton," said the young man, consulting the programme.

"That must be his stage name. I will get him to tell me all about acting to-morrow. Do you know, Mr. Cutting, I should like to go on the stage myself? I should so like to play Juliet."

"If you do, will you let me be Romeo?"

"Yes, if you desire it," said Angelica, tapping her escort coquettishly with her fan.

It's safe to say that Mr. Cutting, who was barely five feet in height, and Miss Angelica, who was tall, thin, and angular, would have made a very remarkable Romeo and Juliet.

As Bert left the stage door, a boy touched his arm. Looking round he saw that it was the one who had guided him to the theatre. The boy's face wore a respectful look as he said:

"Say, you didn't tell me you was one of de actors."

"I didn't know it myself," answered Bert.

"It was you that took off de newsboy," continued the boy.

"Yes, but I'm not the regular actor. He's sick and I took his place."

"It was tiptop. Are you goin' to act to-morrow night?"

"I shall act all this week."

"I'd like to see de play again. It's a boss play."

Bert felt in a liberal mood.

"Here is fifteen cents," he said. "Tell your friends to come."

"I'll bring 'em. I'll tell 'em I know one of de actors."

It may be remarked that Tom Roach, for this was the boy's name, gave such glowing accounts of the play to his intimate friends that no less than ten of them accompanied him to the theatre the next evening, and were especially enthusiastic when Bert was on the stage. Their liberal applause raised Bert in the good opinion of the management, who felt that they had secured a prize in the new actor.



CHAPTER XXIX.

BERT SECURES A BOX OF MR. HARDING'S PAPERS.

When our hero went down to breakfast next morning, he found himself the observed of all observers. Miss Angelica Stubbs and her escort had already made known that he was a member of the dramatic company, and as none of the boarders had ever before met "a live actor," all felt great curiosity and a desire to become acquainted with so distinguished a public character.

As he took his seat beside Miss Stubbs, she said: "I saw you on the stage last evening, Mr. Barton."

"Did you? I was not aware that you were in the house."

"Why didn't you tell me that you were an actor? I've got a bone to pick with you."

"I didn't know it myself, Miss Stubbs."

"You mean to say you didn't play the newsboy? Oh, Mr. Barton!"

"Yes; but when I left the house I had no idea of playing. It so happened that the young actor who usually takes the part—Bob Hazleton—was sick, and I was applied to by the manager to take his place."

"Then he knew you were an actor?"

"No; I only fell in with him on the train from New York."

"Why you acted just as if you were used to it."

"I am glad you think so. I hardly dared to accept the part."

"Will you play the rest of the week?"

"I have agreed to do so. Hazleton goes home to-day."

"How nice! I must go again."

"I take that as a compliment."

"Can't you actors take your friends in free?" asked Angelica, whose rule was to make all she could out of her acquaintances.

"I haven't been an actor long enough to find out."

"I should consider it such a favor. I would get all my friends to go."

"On the same terms?" asked Bert with a smile.

"No. They can pay."

Bert did secure a complimentary ticket for Miss Stubbs, who boasted everywhere that she was intimately acquainted with one of the leading actors in "The Streets of Gotham," and that he was really very attentive to her.

"What would my friends at Lakeville say if they knew my new business?" thought Bert. "I should be glad if Percy Marlowe could see me on the stage."

He determined, however, not to say anything in his letters about this new engagement, for, though he had been successful thus far, his success and popularity might not last.

"Did you see the notice of your play in the morning paper, Mr. Barton?" asked Miss Angelica.

"No; I haven't seen the paper yet."

"It speaks of one of the actors. I won't say who," continued Miss Stubbs, nodding playfully.

"Do you mean me?" asked Bert in excitement.

"Yes, here it is."

Bert ran his eye hastily over the notice, which occupied a quarter of a column. This is the portion that most interested him:

"The part of the newsboy was effectively taken by Mr. Bert Barton, who was engaged at the last moment to fill the place of Mr. Hazleton. His acting was spirited, and the fact that it was liked was shown by the hearty call before the curtain at the end of the second act. The management are fortunate in securing so good a substitute for Bob Hazleton."

Bert's face showed his gratification. It almost seemed a dream to him that he had really appeared on the stage, and he was glad that he had given satisfaction.

At ten o'clock he reported at the stage entrance, where he was met by Mr. Pearson, who was associate manager. He went through a rehearsal which enabled him to look forward with more confidence to a repetition of the part.

The afternoon he had to himself, and a part of this he spent in trying to find out what he could about Ralph Harding. He learned that Harding had been employed in the shoe factory of Benedict & Co. Two of Mrs. Stubbs's boarders worked at the same place, but neither had been intimate with Harding. Bert learned that he was looked upon as "a rolling stone," never content to remain long in one place. He had been employed less than six months at the Benedict shop, when, without assigning any reason, he gave notice that he wanted to leave.

"What sort of a man is he?" asked Bert.

"He is restless and at times gloomy," answered Blanchard, to whom he had put the question. "I worked next to him, but he seldom made any conversation with me."

"Was he a good workman?"

"Excellent, but he evidently did not like the business. He often lamented that he had not the means of getting out of it."

"Have you any idea where he went when he left Harrisburg?"

"From what I have heard him say, I think it probable that he went to some Western town or city."

"You have not heard from him since he left Harrisburg?"

"No; he was not likely to correspond with me. I doubt if he was intimate enough with any one here to do so, except possibly with Miss Stubbs," added Blanchard, with a smile.

"She tells me Mr. Harding paid her a good deal of attention."

"It is more probable that Miss Stubbs paid him a good deal of attention. At present you are her favorite."

"I don't want to interfere with you, Mr. Blanchard," said Bert, much amused.

"I can't undertake to compete with an actor, Mr. Barton."

"I can't get over my surprise at being called an actor. However, as long as it pays me better than anything else, I don't object."

The next day Mrs. Stubbs intercepted Bert as he was leaving the house.

"My daughter tells me," she said, "that you are willing to pay four dollars for the papers which Mr. Harding left behind him?"

"Yes," answered Bert eagerly.

"I don't see why I shouldn't sell them. I can't afford to lose eight weeks' board."

"Quite true, Mrs. Stubbs. I don't see why they won't be just as safe in my hands as in yours."

"You don't want to do Mr. Harding any harm; though I don't know why I should think of that, after the way he has served me!"

"Instead of that, Mrs. Stubbs, I can assure you that it will be money in his pocket, if, through his papers, I am able to find him."

"And in that case you will try to get him to pay his honest debts?"

"I will, Mrs. Stubbs."

"Then, Mr. Barton, if you will come up to the attic I will hand you the papers."

Bert gladly followed Mrs. Stubbs upstairs, and was shown on the attic floor a wooden box about half full of old letters and other papers. The box certainly did not look very valuable, and Bert said so.

"I wouldn't have kept it," said the landlady, "if I could have got hold of his trunk. But he got the start of me, and it was in the hands of an expressman before I knew that he was going to move. I was downstairs in the basement when Mr. Harding took the expressman upstairs, and the trunk was brought down and put in his wagon before I knew what was going on. Mr. Harding didn't even say good-by, and I haven't seen or heard of him from that day to this."

"Well, Mrs. Stubbs, here are your four dollars, and I hope you will some day get the balance of the debt."

Bert carried the box downstairs and into his room, where he proceeded to examine the contents, among which he was destined to come across a document of considerable interest to him.



CHAPTER XXX.

BERT OBTAINS AN IMPORTANT CLEW.

Mr. Harding was not a literary man, and his papers would hardly have been of any value to a publisher. They consisted principally of letters, some of them ten years old. It seemed to have been a habit of Ralph Harding to keep his letters, though he probably set no great value upon them.

Bert opened fifteen or twenty, and glanced over them, only to find that they related to matters in which he felt no interest whatever. He began to doubt whether they were even worth the small sum he had paid for them, when all at once he made a discovery. He found a letter dated Lakeville.

"Who can have written him from Lakeville?" he asked himself, and naturally turned the page to read the signature.

His heart beat quickly when he read the name of the writer—Albert Marlowe. It was dated about two years previous, and ran as follows:

DEAR SIR: I have received your letter, and am surprised that you should have the boldness to write to me for money. I am sorry to hear that you have been in bad luck, but I presume it is your own fault. You are able to earn good wages, and ought to pay your own way without depending on anybody. Look at me! I was once a common workman like you, but, thanks to my energy and enterprise, I am now the owner of a large factory, and able to live in comparative luxury. I don't know why you should expect me to support you. I have a family of my own to care for, and my first duty is to them.

You intimate that you are in possession of a secret which, if made known, will injure me. I suppose I know what you mean. I don't think, however, that you will find any one to believe what you may say to my disadvantage, and I warn you to be careful what you do, or I may testify that you yourself took the missing bonds. Don't trouble yourself to write to me again, for it will be time thrown away.

ALBERT MARLOWE.

Underneath the signature were a few lines, evidently written by Ralph Harding:

Who would believe that the writer of this letter is a thief, and that the capital on which he started in business was stolen? I bitterly repent that I was induced to join in the plot against poor Barton. He—poor fellow—is in exile, afraid to return to his own country, while the man who committed the crime which has shadowed his life, is rich and prosperous, and holds up his head in society. And I—miserable tool that I was—by my testimony helped him to fasten the crime on an innocent man. I don't know whether it will do any good to write again. I am a poor man, and Albert Marlowe is rich. He will defy me, and perhaps swear that I was implicated in the robbery myself. So I was, alas! for I accepted a bribe of two hundred dollars for my part in the matter. I wish I could see poor Barton righted!

Bert read this letter with flushed face and beating heart. Here was proof positive that his father was innocent; and Albert Marlowe, the rich manufacturer, the magnate of Lakeville, was guilty not only of robbery, but, what was even more contemptible, had schemed successfully to throw the guilt upon an innocent man, the husband of his cousin. Through him John Barton had suffered a ten-years' exile, and had been deprived for that time of his good name and the society of his family.

"I wouldn't take a thousand dollars for this letter," said Bert to himself in exultation. "I don't know what it amounts to in the eyes of the law, but I am sure it is valuable. Now, if I could only find Ralph Harding himself."

Bert continued his search among the letters, and finally found one postmarked Peoria, Illinois, which appeared to have been received by Ralph Harding about a week before he left Harrisburg.

This is an extract therefrom:

It is five years since I have seen you. This is a long separation considering that we two are the only ones left of the family. If you are in your old business as I infer from your letter, why can't you get work just as well here in Peoria as in Harrisburg? There is a large shop here, where I think you would not have any difficulty in securing employment. I presume as good wages are paid here as at the East. We have a small room which you could occupy, and it would be pleasant for a brother and sister who have been so long separated to find themselves under the same roof.

My husband is a carpenter, as you know. His earnings are not large, and he doesn't always have work, but we have a little sum saved up which we can fall back upon in time of need. I can't lend you any money, and indeed you ought not to expect it, as you are a single man, and have no one to take care of but yourself. I am afraid you are not a very good manager. Come to Peoria, and I will see if I can't help you save money. Consider what a position you would be in if you should fall sick.

Your affectionate sister, HELEN CLIFTON.

Underneath, in Ralph Harding's handwriting, was this brief indorsement:

All true, every word of it! Helen was always prudent and a good manager. It is true, as she says, that there are but two of us. Why shouldn't I go to Peoria, and see her?

There was no more; but as Ralph Harding a week later left Harrisburg, it seemed fair to infer that he had adopted his own half-expressed intention, and gone to Peoria, to see his sister, especially as there seemed a good chance of his obtaining work there in his own line.

"Peoria!" repeated Bert thoughtfully. "The chances are that Ralph Harding went there from Harrisburg, and it is very probable that he is there now. I wish I could find some one that could tell me about the place."

"Mr. Pearson," he said, when he met the associate manager at rehearsal, "can you tell me anything about Peoria?"

"Yes," answered the actor. "What do you want to know about it?"

"How large a place is it?"

"About the size of Harrisburg. I don't believe there is a thousand difference in the population."

"Is it far from here?"

"A matter of six or seven hundred miles, I should think, perhaps a little more. It is southeast of Chicago. Why do you want to know?"

"I want to find a man who, I have reason to think, is now living there. I may have to leave the company, as it is very important for me to find this man."

"There will be no occasion for you to leave the company. When we leave Harrisburg, we jump to Chicago, and probably three weeks from now we shall be playing in Peoria. It is on our list of places, and is a very good city for a short engagement. Will that be soon enough?"

Bert hesitated. If he remained with the company, his expenses would be paid out to Peoria, and he would be earning fifteen dollars a week besides.

"Come, now, don't hesitate!" said Mr. Pearson. "We shouldn't know how to get along without you."

Naturally this pleased Bert, and helped to fix his resolution.

"I don't know but I can wait two or three weeks," he said slowly, "if you are sure we shall play at Peoria."

"I am certain of it. The route was made up this morning. We are having some new bills printed in which your name is substituted for that of Bob Hazleton. So you see, my boy, you will be getting a reputation under your own colors."

This had its effect, for Bert felt that he should like to have a bill of the play in which his own name appeared. Otherwise he might find his friends incredulous as to his having actually been upon the stage. Later in the day he gave his promise that he would go with the company when they left Harrisburg, but would not sign an engagement for any definite time, as he did not wish to put any obstacle in the way of his following any clew that might lead to the discovery of Harding.

"Well, Mr. Barton," said Mrs. Stubbs after supper, "did you find anything of value in that box of papers?"

"Yes; I obtained some information that will probably be of value. Besides it gave me a clew to his present residence."

"Indeed," said Angelica, who was present, "where is he?"

"In Peoria, Illinois. He has a married sister living there."

"Shall you go out West to find him?"

"I expect to go with the company. They will play an engagement in Peoria."

"If you see Mr. Harding, please remember me to him. Say—that is, you may hint that I still think of him with interest, and—and hope he will some day return to us."

"That message ought to bring him, Miss Angelica."

"Of course I only think of him as a friend, but we were very congenial, and it is not often that one meets a congenial spirit."

"Why not send a letter to Mr. Harding by me?"

"I—that is; mamma, do you think it would be proper?" asked Angelica with bashful hesitation.

"I don't know why not," answered Mrs. Stubbs promptly. "You might ask in the letter when it will be convenient for him to pay his board bill."

"Oh, ma, how unromantic!"

"It may not be romantic, Angelica, but it's business," said the practical mother.

Miss Stubbs did write the letter, but it is certain she did not mention the board bill in it.



CHAPTER XXXI.

SQUIRE MARLOWE IS SURPRISED.

It may be well to return to Lakeville, as something has occurred there which deserves to be recorded.

It is needless to say that Mrs. Barton missed Bert, whose bright and cheerful presence had filled the little house with comfort and gladdened his mother's heart. Still she knew that he was well, and heard from him every week, though Bert only detailed his experiences in general terms, not caring to raise expectations which perhaps might prove illusive.

Bert's absence from Lakeville excited some surprise and speculation. Squire Marlowe, to whom it had been mentioned by Percy, stopped Mrs. Barton in the street one day, and said: "Percy tells me that your son is away."

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

"He went to New York."

"Is he at work there?"

"No, he is travelling."

"Travelling? What do you mean?"

"Uncle Jacob has sent him off on some mission. He is at Harrisburg, I believe."

"That is very strange!" remarked the squire, arching his eyebrows. "What possible mission can Jacob have for the boy?"

"He doesn't write particulars; but his expenses are paid."

"I don't see how Jacob Marlowe, with his paltry twelve dollars a week, can make such arrangements."

"Nor I; but probably Uncle Jacob has interested his employer in Bert."

"It may be so, but I think it very unwise to send off a boy by himself. What judgment has he, or what can he do?"

"I don't very well know. He seems to enjoy the trip."

"Of course; but it will spoil him for solid work. He had better have stayed at home."

"What encouragement was there for him to stay in Lakeville? If you had not discharged him, he would be here now. If you will take him back into the factory, I will write him to that effect, and perhaps it will induce him to return."

"Ahem! I will think of it. Does he send you any money?"

"Not yet."

"Then how do you live?"

"Without calling upon you, Albert," said Mrs. Barton, with a little tinge of bitterness. "I hardly think you feel enough interest in me to care how I live."

Albert Marlowe was somewhat embarrassed, and regretted that he had asked the question. Mrs. Barton might take it into her head that he was willing to contribute to her support, and this was far from being the case.

"Women look at things from a peculiar point of view," he said. "Of course I wish you well, and for that reason regret that you are so injudicious in your management of Bert."

"I have no fear but that Bert will turn out well," rejoined Mrs. Barton proudly.

"Ahem! I hope so, though that twenty-dollar affair led me to fear that he had inherited loose ideas about honesty."

"What do you mean?" demanded Mrs. Barton, her cheeks aflame with indignation.

"I shouldn't think you would need to ask. Of course we both know why Mr. Barton is an exile, unable to return home."

"Yes, Albert Marlowe, we do know! He is an innocent man, suffering for the crime of another."

"That is what he says, is it?" sneered the squire. "That might be expected."

"Because it is true; but, Albert Marlowe, I have good hopes that his innocence may be vindicated, and the real criminal brought to light."

Her intense gaze made the squire uncomfortable. "Did she mean anything?" he asked himself.

"It is natural for you to take the most favorable view of the matter," he said; "but your hope is hardly likely to be realized. Good-morning."

Mrs. Barton looked after him, and her spirit rose in revolt against the inequalities of fortune. Here was the real criminal, as she fully believed—rich, prosperous, enjoying a high social position, while her poor husband, the scapegoat for another's offense, was an exile from home.

The next day Squire Marlowe went to New York on business. He occasionally visited Wall Street, and now and then made an investment. He looked the embodiment of dignity and respectability, with his ample figure, fine broadcloth suit, and gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and might readily have been taken for a prosperous and wealthy city banker.

About one o'clock he entered an expensive restaurant, a stone's throw from Broadway, and taking up the bill of fare made a selection of dishes for his dinner. As he did so, he said to himself, with a comfortable smile: "When I was a common workman in a shoe shop, how little did I think that I should ever be able to sit down in a restaurant like this, and pay a dollar and a half for my dinner. Why, I didn't earn much more than that by a day's labor. Here I am surrounded by brokers, bankers, and wealthy merchants, and quite as good as they."

The thought led Squire Marlowe to look around him. What he saw almost paralyzed him with surprise. There—at a neighboring table—sat Uncle Jacob, enjoying a luxurious dinner, the cost of which the squire, with the bill of fare before him, estimated must come to a high figure.

"Can that be Uncle Jacob?" Albert Marlowe asked himself in amazement. "How on earth can a clerk on twelve dollars a week salary afford to dine at a restaurant like this?"

As he had not yet given his order, he moved over to the table occupied by Uncle Jacob, and took a seat opposite him.

"Albert Marlowe!" exclaimed the old man, recognizing him with surprise.

"Yes, Uncle Jacob, it is I. But what on earth brings you here?"

"I should think it was pretty evident," said Jacob Marlowe with a smile, "I came in for my dinner."

"Yes, but do you usually come here?"

"Not always—perhaps half the time. I make my heartiest meal of the day at this time—unlike most New Yorkers—and like it to be a good one."

"Of course, but—how can you afford to eat here? Didn't you say that your salary was twelve dollars a week?"

"I think I said so."

"You are spending at that rate for your dinners alone. I don't understand how you can do it."

"I am an old man, Albert. I can't live many years, and I think it sensible to get as much comfort out of life as possible for my few remaining years."

"Still——"

"I had a little money, you know, five hundred dollars, and I have managed to turn it to good account, so that I don't feel quite so cramped as when I was at Lakeville."

"The old man's been speculating!" thought Albert Marlowe, "and he has had a stroke of luck; but he's a fool to think he can live like a banker on the strength of that. Very likely his next venture will sweep away his small amount of capital. Well, if he comes to grief, he needn't apply to me. Henceforth I wash my hands of him and his affairs altogether."

"Of course it's your own lookout," he said, "but to me you seem recklessly extravagant."

"Because I come in here? Well, perhaps so. When I find I can't afford it, I'll go to a cheaper place. Have you seen Mary Barton lately?"

"Yes; she is well. By the way, what have you done with her boy?"

"He is traveling."

"So I heard. It seems to me a very foolish proceeding. Who is paying his expenses?"

"Himself."

"Is he working, then?" asked the squire in surprise.

"Yes; he is a member of the 'Streets of Gotham' company, and is earning his living as an actor."

"What does he know about acting?" asked the squire in amazement.

"It appears that he is giving satisfaction. He sent me a paper containing a highly commendatory notice of his first appearance."

"It won't last," said Albert Marlowe, his wish being father to the thought.

When he returned to Lakeville that evening, he carried with him two pieces of news—first, that Uncle Jacob was living in luxury, and secondly, that Bert Barton was on the stage.

"If he can act, I can," said Percy jealously. "They must have been hard up for an actor when they took Bert Barton. A boy brought up in a country town. Never been to a theatre in his life before. Pooh! I dare say he appeared for one night only. The idea of Mary Barton's son acting before a regular audience, a boy who has hoed corn for farmer Wilson!"



CHAPTER XXXII.

HIRAM FRENCH, OF CHICAGO.

From Harrisburg the dramatic company with which Bert was connected went directly to Chicago.

"We don't like to make such long jumps," said Mr. Pearson, with whom Bert had become quite friendly, "but we could secure Hooley's Theatre this week, and no other. Were you ever in Chicago?"

"No," answered Bert. "I have never traveled much. I suppose you have."

"Yes; I went out to San Francisco last year with the 'Silver King.' You will find Chicago a pleasant city."

"Are the hotels dear?"

"No; only moderate in price. The theatrical people get a discount, you know."

"I think I should rather live in a boarding house."

"That will be cheaper. I don't mind going with you to keep you company."

"Do you know of any good house?"

"I know a very comfortable boarding-house on Monroe Street, kept by Mrs. Shelby, a widow lady. My sister once boarded there, when visiting Chicago."

"That will suit me, I think. Would you mind going 'round with me?"

"I'll take you there, with pleasure."

The two, on arriving in Chicago, went at once to Monroe Street, and called at the boarding-house.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Pearson," said the widow cordially. "Is your sister with you?"

"Not this time."

"Are you going to play here?"

"Yes; I shall appear at Hooley's Theatre all next week."

"Is that young gentleman your brother?"

"No, he is one of our actors, Mr. Bert Barton."

"He looks young for an actor," said the landlady, surprised.

"I appeared on the stage when I was only twelve. But we have come on business, Mrs. Shelby. Have you a vacant room?"

"Yes; I had one vacated yesterday."

"Suppose Mr. Barton and myself take it for a week?"

"I shall be glad to have you. I can't afford to have my rooms remain vacant."

"What will be your terms?"

"Six dollars each, including board."

"Is that satisfactory, Bert?" asked Pearson.

"Quite so, Mr. Pearson."

"Then we will take possession. I hope it is almost time for a meal, Mrs. Shelby. I am almost famished."

"You will only have to wait an hour. I will show you to your rooms, and then I must be excused, as my presence is required downstairs."

The room shown by the landlady was of fair size and neatly furnished. Bert looked about him in satisfaction.

"I would rather be here than at a hotel," he said.

"So would I, as long as I have a companion," returned Mr. Pearson. "Besides, I shall be saving from four to five dollars a week. I ought to pay more than half of it, as I am receiving a considerably higher salary than you."

"No, Mr. Pearson, I prefer to pay my share. But for you I should be paying more at a hotel."

Bert felt a little diffidence in appearing before a Chicago audience. He had, to be sure, been favorably received in Harrisburg, but he had an idea that in a larger city it would be more difficult to achieve success. The first night undeceived him. He received a liberal share of applause, and was called before the curtain.

"I congratulate you, Bert," said Mr. Pearson. "You seem to have made yourself solid with the audience."

"I am glad that I give satisfaction," returned Bert. "It will encourage me to do better."

"You had better adopt the profession of an actor," continued his friend.

Bert shook his head.

"I prefer to enter a business of some kind," he said. "Though I have succeeded in one part, I am not sure that I should succeed in others."

Bert was about leaving the theatre that night when the call boy brought him a card.

"There is a gentleman at the door would like to see you," he said.

Bert glanced at the card, and found it bore the name of

HIRAM FRENCH.

It was a name he had never before heard, and when he reached the door he looked inquiringly at the middle-aged gentleman who stood before him.

"You are young Barton?" said the visitor.

"Yes; that is my name."

"Are you the son of John Barton, who once worked in the shoe factory of Weeks Brothers?"

"Yes, sir," answered Bert, coloring, for he knew that the stranger must be aware that his father was resting under a criminal charge.

"I thought I could not be mistaken. You look as your father did at your age."

"Then you knew my father as a boy?" said Bert, eagerly.

"I was a schoolmate of his. Later on I was employed in the same factory with him—that of Weeks Brothers."

"Did you know under what circumstances he left the factory?" asked Bert, with some embarrassment.

"Yes, I knew all about it. But I want you to come home and pass the night at my house, and we will talk over that and other matters."

"Thank you, sir. I will give notice to a friend who rooms with me."

Bert found Mr. Pearson, and informed him that he would absent himself for one night from Mrs. Shelby's boarding-house. Then he returned to Mr. French.

"I live on Indiana Avenue," explained the latter. "We shall find a car at the corner of State and Madison Streets."

As they walked to the car, Bert's new friend asked: "How long have you been on the stage, Mr. Barton?"

"Only two weeks."

"You don't mean that that comprises your whole experience."

"Yes. I stepped in at Harrisburg to supply the place of a young actor who was taken sick."

"You act as if you had been trained to it. But how came you to be at Harrisburg? That is not your home?"

"No. As you were my father's friend, I will tell you what brought me out there."

Bert briefly related the story that is already known to the reader. Hiram French listened with great attention.

"I remember Ralph Harding," he said. "He was not popular among his shopmates, especially after his agency in throwing suspicion upon your father."

"Was it generally thought that my father was guilty?" asked Bert.

"No; while circumstances were strong against him, no one could believe that a man whose reputation for integrity was as high as your father's would be guilty of stealing. But the good will of his associates could not help him."

"Did you know Mr. Marlowe?"

"Albert Marlowe? Yes."

"Was he well liked?"

"Not by me. He was far from being as highly respected as your father."

"Yet he has prospered. He is the owner of a factory in Lakeville, and is considered worth thirty thousand dollars."

"I am surprised to hear it. When I knew him he was always in debt."

"If he really took the bonds charged upon my father, that would account for his start in business."

"Exactly so. Now that I think of it, two or three days after the theft, I saw him and Ralph Harding walking together, apparently engaged in earnest conversation. They evidently had a good understanding with each other. I believe you are on the right track, and I heartily hope you will succeed in making your father's innocence evident to the world. John Barton was my favorite friend, and I hope some day to see him in Chicago."

"Are you in business here, Mr. French?"

"Yes; I am in the old line. Like Albert Marlowe, I am the owner of a large shoe factory, and I am worth, I should say, considerably more money."

Hiram French occupied a handsome house on Indiana Avenue, furnished with taste, and was, as his style of living showed, in easy circumstances. He introduced Bert to his wife and daughter, who seemed at once drawn to the young actor. When he left the house the next morning after breakfast he was urgently invited to call again during his stay, and partially promised to do so. But he was in haste to reach Peoria, for there it was he hoped to find a witness that would vindicate his father's name and fame.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

A LATE ARRIVAL AT MRS. BARTON'S COTTAGE.

One evening, about eight o'clock, Mrs. Barton was sewing in her little sitting-room when an unusual feeling of loneliness overcame her. Circumstances had separated her from her husband, and her only son was hundreds of miles away.

"Why," she asked herself, "can I not fare as well as other wives and mothers? I am a wife, yet I cannot enjoy my husband's society. Fortunately I am not likely long to be separated from Bert. If he only succeeds in his mission, and comes home able to vindicate the fame of his father, and restore him to me, I shall be perfectly happy."

She felt unusually restless, and found it difficult to keep on with her work.

"I feel as if something were going to happen. I hope no misfortune is impending over me."

She had hardly spoken when the door bell rang.

"It is some neighbor come to make a call," she thought. "I am glad of it, for I am not in the mood for work."

She rose and opened the door. She started back in surprise when in her visitors she recognized Uncle Jacob, and leaning upon his arm the husband of whom she had just been thinking.

"May we come in?" asked Uncle Jacob, cheerily.

"Surely, but—has anything happened?"

"Only this; that your husband is sick and has come here to be nursed back to health by my advice."

"But—is it safe?"

"I think so. The fact is, Bert has made an important discovery, and is likely to make more. We are in a fair way to prove your husband's innocence, and put the guilt where it belongs."

"And where does it belong?"

"The man who stole the bonds, we have every reason to believe, is Albert Marlowe."

"I do not wish to get him into trouble, but if it is necessary in order to vindicate my husband's reputation, I will not object."

"Albert Marlowe has been a cruel enemy to you and your family," said Jacob Marlowe, sternly. "He is entitled to no consideration. The past ten years cannot be recalled; but I think that we shall be able to provide a brighter future for yourself and Mr. Barton. The first thing to do is to get him well."

"What is the matter with you, John?" asked Mrs. Barton, now for the first time noting with alarm her husband's pale face.

"The doctor says my system is run down, and that I need time to recuperate. I was living in a boarding-house in Montreal, and the prospect of being sick there was too much for me. I wanted my wife to take care of me, and, taking the first train to New York, I consulted Uncle Jacob as to whether it would be safe. In the light of Bert's discoveries he told me to take the risk. So here I am. May I stay?"

"Do you need to ask that?" said Mrs. Barton, with an affectionate glance at her husband. "There is no place where you have a better right to be."

Then, as she thought of her scanty means, a momentary look of anxiety overspread her face lest she should not be able to provide him with the medicines and nourishing food that he required. Uncle Jacob, who was a keen observer, read her thoughts, and reassured her by saying: "Mr. Barton is provided with what money may be required for at least a month, and after that time I think some more can be found."

"But, Uncle Jacob, I cannot consent to impose upon your liberality any further. You have but a small sum of money yourself. What would happen to you if you should fall sick?"

"I think I should follow your husband's example, and come here to be nursed back to health," replied Uncle Jacob.

"What am I to say to the neighbors, for they will be sure to inquire?"

"Say that you are taking care of a sick gentleman from New York."

"It will not do to give his real name?"

"No; call me Mr. Robinson, as you did on my former visit," said Mr. Barton.

"Now that this matter is arranged, can you take care of us both to-night?" asked Uncle Jacob.

"Yes, there is Bert's room."

"Then I will trespass upon your hospitality for one night."

"Can't you stay longer, Uncle Jacob?"

"No, I must get back to business. I must not run any risk of losing my situation, you know."

"To be sure not," said Mrs. Barton, earnestly. "Do you like your employer, Uncle Jacob?"

"I have no reason to complain of him," answered the old man, with a smile. "He lets me do about as I please."

"You were very lucky in getting in with him."

"As you say, I am in good luck. But I think I ought to get higher pay."

"It seems to me twelve dollars a week is a very good salary," said Mrs. Barton, soberly. "You could save something out of that if you were not so generous."

"I must think seriously of that, Mary. If I get mean and close-fisted, you mustn't be surprised. It will be only because I follow your advice."

"You can never become mean or close-fisted, Uncle Jacob. It isn't in your nature to be either. But I hope you will be reasonably economical, and not give away so much money to others."

"You are a good little woman, Mary," said Uncle Jacob, feelingly. "If you are ever blessed with means, you will do just as you advise me not to do. Don't be worried about me, Mary. God loves a cheerful giver, you know, and whatever I give to you is cheerfully given."

An hour was spent in conversation, and then, as Mr. Barton showed fatigue, he and Uncle Jacob retired to bed, and Mrs. Barton mixed some flour so as to be able to give her guests warm biscuits in the morning, for she remembered that her husband had been very fond of them in former years.

The next morning after breakfast Uncle Jacob took his departure.

"I leave you in good hands, John," he said to Mr. Barton. "Now, get well as fast as you can."

"There is one thing that will make me well," said Barton, "and that is, vindication from the false charge that has darkened my life and destroyed my happiness during the last ten years."

"That is coming, and coming soon," said Uncle Jacob. "Only be patient a little while. Bert has already made a discovery that makes it clear who is the real criminal."

"I hope he will never suffer as I have done," said the sick man.

"You have a more Christian spirit than I, John. I think it only right that he should suffer for the wrong he has done you. Well, good-by. Let me hear from you, and if Bert makes any further progress in his mission, I will apprise you and Mary."

Uncle Jacob left the village without being seen by Albert Marlowe or Percy, who alone were likely to recognize him. But it leaked out that Mrs. Barton had a boarder, Percy being the first to hear of it.

"What do you think, papa?" he said one day. "Bert Barton's mother has taken a boarder from the city."

"A boarder from the city?" repeated Squire Marlowe, surprised.

"Yes."

"What brought him to Lakeville?"

"I don't know. I can tell you who brought him here."

"Who, then?"

"Uncle Jacob."

"Has he been here, then?"

"Yes; he came in the evening and went back the next morning."

"I wonder he did not call upon us," said the squire thoughtfully.

"It's no great loss if he didn't," returned Percy, pertly. "He would probably want to borrow money."

"No; he appears to be doing very well in the city; that is, for him. But what could induce a gentleman from the city to come here to Lakeville to board in a humble cottage?"

"I hear he is in poor health," said Percy.

"Have you seen him? Do you know what his appearance is?"

"Yes. I saw him sitting at Mrs. Barton's window. He is of dark complexion, and has dark hair. Then he seemed to have a high forehead."

Squire Marlowe started in surprise.

"Dark complexion, dark hair, a high forehead! Is it possible that it can be——"

"Who, father?" asked Percy, curiously.

"Never mind, my son. Some one whom I used to know answers to that description."

As Percy went out, Albert Marlowe said to himself: "If it should be he, what shall I do about it? It is not for my interest that he should remain in Lakeville. I might denounce him to the authorities, but I would warn him first. Then, if he still lingers, he must take the consequences."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

BERT INTERVIEWS HARDING'S SISTER.

The next week Bert found himself in Peoria. His heart beat with excitement, for here he hoped he would attain the object he had in view.

The first day he was occupied in obtaining a boarding place, and in matters connected with the play. He understood his duty to his employers, and, eager as he was to seek out Ralph Harding, he waited till he could do so without intrenching upon their time.

After considerable inquiry he found himself standing in front of a neat-looking frame house of two stories in a quiet street. The plate on the front door bore the name

CLIFTON.

Bert rang the bell.

The door was opened by a girl about twelve years of age.

"Is Mrs. Clifton at home?" asked Bert.

"Yes, sir. Won't you walk in?"

She led the way into a tiny parlor, so small that the owner would have found it difficult to give a fashionable party, or indeed any party at all.

"Sit down here," said the young girl, pointing to a rocking-chair, "and I will call ma."

Bert took a seat, and was startled a minute later by a hoarse voice saying, with much energy, "Get out, you tramp!"

He looked around the room in angry amazement, but could see no one.

Directly afterward he heard a discordant laugh, and, guided by the sound, looked up to see that it proceeded from a green parrot in a cage above his head.

Bert smiled. It was impossible for him to be angry with a parrot, however impolite the bird might be.

Just then a lady entered the room—a lady of middle size and middle age, plain in feature, but not unpleasant to look upon.

"Did you wish to see me, sir?" she asked.

"Are you the sister of Ralph Harding?" asked Bert.

The woman's face changed instantly.

"Yes," she answered eagerly. "Do you bring me any news of him? He is not in trouble, is he?"

It was Bert's turn to be surprised.

"I thought he was staying with you," he said.

"Not now."

"But he has been here. He came here from Harrisburg, didn't he?"

"Yes, and he was here till three weeks ago. Then he came home from the shop where he was at work and told me he was going away."

"Did he tell you where he was going?" asked Bert, eagerly.

"He said he should go to Chicago first, but I have not heard from him since he went away."

Ralph Harding then was in Chicago. If Bert had only known that, he would have remained there and prosecuted the search in the Lake City. Yet what chance would he have of finding a man whom he had never seen and would not know by sight in so large and populous a place?

His face showed the keenness of his disappointment, and Mrs. Clifton was led to inquire:

"Did you wish to see my brother on business of importance?"

"Of importance to me, yes."

"Is it," she asked with hesitation, "likely to get Ralph into trouble?"

"No, madam. On the contrary, if I find him it will be of advantage to him."

"Then I hope you may find him. But I am afraid it will be difficult. Ralph is very restless. We tried all we could to keep him here, but it was of no use. He had a good place, and, though I say it myself, a good home, where he enjoyed every comfort, but all that didn't prevent him leaving us to go among strangers," she concluded, with a sigh.

"I only just came from Chicago. I wish I had known that he was there."

"Did you come to Peoria expressly to see my brother?" asked Mrs. Clifton, showing some curiosity.

"Not entirely. I am connected with the theatrical company. We play the 'Streets of Gotham.'"

"Are you an actor, and so young," asked Mrs. Clifton, in surprise.

"I take a small part in the play," answered Bert, modestly. "Allow me to place two admission tickets at your disposal."

"Oh ma, can I go with you?" asked the young girl who had opened the front door.

"Perhaps so, Belle."

"Have you any picture of your brother which you could show me?" asked Bert, returning to the object of his visit.

"Fortunately, Ralph had some photographs taken while he was here. But for me he would not have done so, but I insisted, and paid for them myself. Belle, go and get one of the pictures of your Uncle Ralph."

The little girl left the room, and soon returned with a photograph.

"You can have that, if you like," said Mrs. Clifton. "I got a dozen, and Ralph did not feel enough interest to keep one for himself, so I have plenty. I suppose it isn't anything extra, but it look like Ralph."

Bert was eagerly scanning the picture which Ralph Harding's sister had given him.

The face was long, the nose aquiline, the cheeks hollow, and the expression was that of a man who was dissatisfied with life. There were side whiskers of scanty growth, and there was a scrubby mustache of yellowish hue. It was a front view, and both ears were visible. They were of extraordinary size and stood out prominently from the head.

"I think I shall know Ralph Harding if I see him," thought Bert.

"I am very much obliged to you for the picture," said Bert. "With it to help me I hope I may find your brother."

"If you do," returned Mrs. Clifton, "will you write to me and let me know, Mr.——?"

"Barton. You will see my name on the playbill—Bert Barton. Yes, I will write to you in that case."

"There is one question I would like to ask you, Mr. Barton. You say you have never met my brother?"

"No."

"Then how did you learn that he had a sister in Peoria, and how did you know that that sister was myself."

"I was staying at his old boarding-house in Harrisburg. He left behind a box of papers, and among those papers was a letter from you, urging him to come to Peoria."

"I remember that letter."

"It was that letter—excuse my reading it—that led me to come to Peoria in search of Mr. Harding."

"I am glad you came, for I have some hope through you of inducing Ralph to return. You see, Mr. Barton, there are only two of us. I had not seen him for five years, and now that he has left us, five years more may roll by before we meet again. I think Ralph would be better with us. He is not a cheerful man. Sometimes I think he is burdened with a secret which is preying upon him. I am sure he would be better off with us than among strangers."

"I agree with you, Mrs. Clifton. You may rest assured that, should I be fortunate enough to find your brother, I will do all I can to induce him to return to you when our business is concluded. This may require him to go East, but afterward he will be free to go where he pleases. The secret you refer to may relate to the business upon which I wished to see him."

As Bert rose to go Mrs. Clifton took his hand, and said, earnestly: "I wish you success, I am sure. I feel better for your visit."

The information which Bert had received made him desirous of going back to Chicago as soon as possible and making every effort to find Ralph Harding. But there was one embarrassment. He did not like to leave the company till they were able to find a substitute. In New York this would have been easy, but here in Peoria there would be a great difficulty.

But he was unexpectedly relieved from this perplexity.

On Friday morning Mr. Pearson, who had just come from the manager's room, said to him, "I have news for you, Bert."

"What is it, Mr. Pearson?"

"Bob Hazleton has just arrived, and wants to take his old place. But, of course, that would not be fair to you."

"Tell the manager to take him back," said Bert eagerly. "I have some important business calling me to Chicago, and I shall be glad to resign."

"You are sure you won't be disappointed?"

"Very sure. I have been wondering how I could resign without embarrassing the company."

"We shall be very sorry to lose you, but if that is the way you feel, Bob is in luck."

Bert played that evening in the presence of his predecessor in the role, and on Saturday took the morning train for Chicago.



CHAPTER XXXV.

SUCCESS COMES STRANGELY.

On his return to Chicago, Bert went back to Mrs. Shelby's boarding-house, and was cordially received. His board bill was but six dollars a week, and he took care not to spend any money unnecessarily for outside expenses.

About the middle of the week he received a letter from Uncle Jacob, to whom he had telegraphed his movements.

This is an extract therefrom:

"You will be surprised to learn that your father is sick at Lakeville, under your mother's care. I don't think his trouble is physical so much as mental. If, by your help, his reputation is vindicated, and he is relieved from suspicion, I am sure he will soon be himself again.

"There is some risk, no doubt, in the step he has taken. He might be denounced and arrested, if information were given to the authorities. But a long time has elapsed since the charge was made, and no one in Lakeville was cognizant of the circumstances except Albert Marlowe, and, though he may learn that the city boarder at your house is your father, I cannot believe he would be so base as to give a hint to the authorities. If he should, the letter of Ralph Harding's which you forwarded will throw suspicion upon him. I am anxious, however, to have you find the man himself, as his oral testimony will avail more than any letters. You may assure him, if found, that he will be liberally dealt with, if he helps clear your father.

"I don't know how you may be situated as to money, and I therefore send you an order for fifty dollars. Present it to Clement Green, of No. 13-1/2 La Salle Street, and he will cash it. He is not a banker, but an insurance agent, with whom I am well acquainted. I am glad to hear that you have left the stage, as it will permit you to devote your entire time to hunting up Ralph Harding."

On account of the income from his dramatic engagement, Bert had spent but little of his uncle's money for the last three weeks. However, he thought it best to cash the order at once, as he might have unforeseen expenses. He accordingly made his way to the office on La Salle Street to which he had been directed, and presented his order to Mr. Green in person.

"How is my old friend Mr. Marlowe?" asked that gentleman, courteously.

"He was very well when I left New York," answered Bert.

"I knew him in California. In fact, we both worked together in the same mine. Try to persuade him to come out to Chicago. I should be delighted to entertain him. Are you a relative of his?"

"Yes, sir; he is my great uncle."

"Shall you stay long in Chicago?"

"I am not sure. It will depend on my business."

"You are young to be intrusted with a business matter."

"Yes, sir; but there was no one else to undertake it."

"How will you have the money?"

"In tens and fives."

"Very well. Let me advise you to divide your money and not carry it all in your pocket-book. You know, of course, that in a city like this there are pickpockets and designing persons who would be glad to rob you."

"Thank you for the suggestion. I will follow your advice." Bert borrowed an envelope, and put all his money, except about ten dollars in small bills, in the inside pocket of his vest. This was wise, for he had fifty dollars besides the sum which he had just been paid. It proved to be a prudent precaution.

Outside the office a young man of rather flashy appearance had noticed Bert, and, following him in on some pretext that would avert suspicion, had seen that Mr. Green was paying him money. He went out quickly, and waited till Bert emerged into the street. He then quickened his steps, and overtook him.

"Good-morning, young man," he said.

"Good-morning," returned Bert, eyeing the stranger with some curiosity.

"You must excuse the liberty I have taken in addressing you, but if you will favor me with a few minutes' conversation, I think I can make it worth your while."

"Very well. I am ready to hear what you have to say."

"By the way, are you staying at a hotel?"

"No; I am boarding on Monroe Street."

"Is it a good boarding-house?"

"Excellent."

"I am looking for one, and if you will allow me, I will walk round with you, and see what it is like."

Bert knew that Mrs. Shelby had a room which she was anxious to let, and he readily agreed to introduce the stranger.

"I am staying at a hotel just now," explained his companion, "but I prefer a boarding-house as more home-like. Are you a stranger in the city?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where from?"

"From New York."

"I am from San Francisco. I have only been here a week."

They conversed upon indifferent topics till they reached Mrs. Shelby's.

"I will go up and take a look at your room first, if you don't mind. That will give me an idea of the accommodations."

"Very well, sir."

Bert led the way to his own room, and both entered.

"Very neat, on my word!" said the stranger. "Now I will allude to the little matter of business—and then you can introduce me to your landlady."

"Just as you please, sir."

"It is briefly this: Do you see this watch?"

He took out a showy gold watch, and held it up before Bert.

"I find myself unexpectedly short of funds, owing to the failure of a remittance to come to hand, and I am going to offer you this watch at a bargain. You have none, I see."

"No, and I have no money to spare to buy one."

"Wait till I offer you an inducement. This watch cost me a hundred dollars. I have had it only six months. I offer it to you for twenty-five."

"I presume that is a good offer; but I have no money of my own that I can use for the purpose of buying a watch."

"My young friend, it will pay you to borrow, for you can double your money on the watch. Any one will give you fifty for it."

"Then why do you offer it to me for twenty-five?" asked Bert shrewdly.

"Because I can't wait to hunt up a customer."

"I cannot buy it."

"Then I will make you another offer. Lend me ten dollars on it, and I will redeem it in three days, and give you five dollars for the accommodation."

Bert hesitated. It seemed an easy way of earning five dollars.

"If I don't redeem it, you have the watch itself for security for a ridiculously small sum. Of course I shan't give you the chance, if I can help it. I expect funds from San Francisco to-morrow."

"I think I shall have to decline," Bert said, after a pause; "but your offer seems a good one, and I have no doubt you will easily get accommodated elsewhere."

Bert was not prepared for the next movement.

The stranger rose from his seat, drew a sponge from his pocket, and quickly applied it to Bert's nostrils. He felt his head swimming and consciousness departing.

"Aha," thought the stranger. "My prudent young friend will advance money this time without security."

He hastily thrust his hand into Bert's pocket, drew out his pocket-book, and, without stopping to open it or examine its contents, sprang to the door, with the intention of making his escape.

But another boarder chanced to be passing through the entry at the moment. A quick glance revealed to him Bert unconscious on a chair, and the pocket-book in the hand of the man who was leaving the room. He took in the situation at once.

"Give me that pocket-book," he said sternly. The other looked undecided.

"Give it to me, or I will hold you and summon help. If you surrender it, I will let you go scot free."

The thief muttered an execration, but did not dare to refuse.

The boarder entered the room and set himself to reviving Bert.

"Where am I?" asked Bert, languidly.

"You are all right now," was the reply.

Bert looked up in the face of his visitor, and started in great excitement.

"Tell me, quick," he said, "are you not Ralph Harding?"

"Yes," answered the other in great surprise. "Who are you that recognizes me?"



CHAPTER XXXVI.

RALPH HARDING IS FOUND.

Bert was still partly under the influence of chloroform; but the sight of Ralph Harding, whom he recognized from the photograph which had been given him, roused him from his stupefaction.

Harding repeated his question.

"Who are you?" he asked, "and how do you know me?"

"I am Bert Barton."

"What? not the son of John Barton?" exclaimed Harding, drawing back with a troubled look.

"Yes," answered Bert, gravely; "I am the son of John Barton, and I have been in search of you for several weeks."

"You have been in search of me? Why did you want to see me?"

"I want you to clear my father of the false charge which was brought against him ten years ago," answered Bert, firmly.

"I don't understand what you mean," stammered Harding, who had sunk back into a chair and was eyeing Bert with a troubled look.

"Oh, yes, you do, Mr. Harding. It was you who gave the information that one of the stolen bonds was in my father's overcoat pocket."

"It was true," said Harding doggedly.

"Where were the rest?" asked Bert, pointedly.

"How should I know? Your father had them secreted somewhere, I suppose."

"You know better than that. My father was innocent. He knew nothing of the bonds. An enemy plotted to get him into trouble."

"Do you charge me with being that enemy?" demanded Harding.

"You had something to do with it, but you were the instrument of another."

"How do you know that?" admitted Harding, incautiously.

"Shall I tell you the name of that other?"

"Yes."

"It is Albert Marlowe."

Ralph Harding started in surprise.

"Does he admit it?" he asked, after a pause.

"No; he does not know that it is suspected. I want you to back me up in the demand that he clear my father from suspicion."

"He will never do it. How could he, without criminating himself?"

"Whatever be the result, my father's character must be cleared."

"Tell me, is your father still living?" asked Ralph Harding, earnestly.

"Yes, he is."

"Have you seen him?"

"Yes. Poor father, he has suffered much. He has been separated from my mother and myself these many years, and has not dared to show himself at his old home, or among his old friends, because he was liable to be arrested on the old charge."

Ralph was looking down upon the floor, and his features were working convulsively. Bert guessed what was passing through his mind, and paused to give him time.

He looked up after a while, and asked: "What would you have me do?"

"Testify to what you know. It will clear my father, and he can come home once more."

"But it will condemn Albert Marlowe."

"Why not let it? He is the guilty man. Have you so much reason to like Albert Marlowe that you will not do this act of justice?"

"No!" Ralph Harding burst out, and his face wore an expression of resentment. "He has used me like a dog. It was through me that he became a rich man, and in return he has treated me with contempt and indifference. If I dared——"

"You would expose him?"

"Yes, I would. It is of no use to deny what you have said. Your father is an innocent man. The bonds were stolen by Albert Marlowe."

Bert looked triumphant. He had wrung the truth from the accomplice of Squire Marlowe.

"How did you find me?" asked Harding, abruptly. "How did you know I was in Chicago?"

"I was told so by your sister."

"Have you been in Peoria, then?" asked Harding, in great surprise.

"Yes; I was there last week."

"But how did you find out that I had a sister?"

"At Harrisburg. You left a letter from your sister at your boarding-house there, which gave me the clew I wanted."

"And how did you trace me to Harrisburg?"

Bert explained.

"And you defrayed your own expenses? I thought you and your mother were left in poverty."

"So we were; but an uncle of my mother's recently returned from California, and it is he who has supplied me with the funds needed for my journey."

"Then he is wealthy?"

"I don't think so. He is employed in New York on a small salary, but he is liberal with the little he has. He has set his heart on clearing my father's reputation. It is he who sent me on my present mission."

"Does your father think that Albert Marlowe is the real thief?"

"He does. In fact, he is firmly convinced of it. Now, Mr. Harding, I have told you why I wanted to find you. You have as much as told me I am right in my suspicion. You are partly responsible for my poor father's undeserved sufferings. But for you he would never have been charged with the crime. Is it not so?"

"I admit it," Ralph Harding answered, slowly.

"Will you tell me who put the bond into my father's pocket?"

"I did."

"And who prompted you to do it?"

"It was the man you suspected—Albert Marlowe."

"It was the proceeds of his theft that enabled him to start in business, was it not?"

"You are right."

"I have one more question to ask. Will you accompany me to New York and testify to this, if needful?"

"But what will happen to me?" asked Harding, troubled.

"My uncle bade me promise you that we will do our utmost to prevent your coming to harm. As to Albert Marlowe, we shall demand a confession from him, or we shall have him arrested, and the whole matter investigated."

Ralph Harding paused for a brief space, and then said: "What are your plans if I agree to help you?"

"To start for New York to-night," answered Bert, promptly. "In New York I will take you to Uncle Jacob's office, and we will decide what to do next."

Harding hesitated a moment, then said: "I believe you will keep your promise, and I will put myself in your hands. I always liked your father better than Albert Marlowe, who is a very selfish man, and he has not kept his promise to me. I have reproached myself more than once for consenting to help Marlowe in his plot. It has never been out of my mind. I have been restless, unable to settle down anywhere, and have suffered punishment myself, though not as severe as has fallen upon your father. When I have made reparation, as I now have a chance to do, I shall be more contented in mind."

"Can you be ready to take the evening train with me?"

"Yes."

"Where are you living?"

"In this house."

"Then we can remain together. I have not thanked you yet for coming to my help, and saving my money."

"I am glad to have helped the son. It will help offset the injury I have done the father."

Bert, accompanied by Ralph Harding, took the evening train for New York. Their arrival was timely, for reasons which will be shown in a later chapter.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

ALBERT MARLOWE MEETS HIS VICTIM.

Like most wrong-doers, Albert Marlowe had never ceased to entertain an apprehension that his connections with the bond theft would some time be made public. Yet, as the years rolled by, and he became rich and prosperous, his fears abated somewhat, and he felt no qualms of conscience, though he knew that an innocent man was suffering exile for his sake. When he thought of John Barton it was with dislike. For nothing is truer than the saying that we dislike those whom we have injured. He did not know whether Barton was alive or dead, but hoped that he was dead, as this would make him absolutely safe.

When he learned from Percy that Mrs. Barton had a male boarder, his fears instantly suggested that it might be John Barton. The description given by Percy tallied with his recollections of the victim of his wicked plot. His fears and suspicions were instantly aroused. Why was John Barton here? He was under the ban of the law, liable to be re-arrested, yet he ran that risk. What object had he in view? That he sought the care of his wife because he was ill did not seem a sufficient motive. Evidently it behooved him to find out, first, whether Mrs. Barton's boarder was really her husband; and, secondly, if such should be the case, to warn him to leave Lakeville. It gave the squire an uncomfortable feeling to have his victim so near at hand.

First, to find out who the boarder was. Albert Marlowe got into the habit of walking two or three times a day past the cottage of Mrs. Barton, in the hope of seeing the mysterious stranger. He did this for several days, but did not succeed in his object. The reason was that Mr. Barton was confined by weakness first to the bed, and then to the lounge in the little sitting-room.

But on the fifth day Squire Marlowe was in luck. The mysterious boarder was walking to and fro in the front yard attached to the cottage. When he saw Albert Marlowe he turned away, and was about to re-enter the house. The squire did not need this corroboration of his suspicion, for he had already recognized Barton, though the two had not met for ten years.