"And I should like to come," was the simple and direct answer.

"Do plan on it then. Come any time that you can arrange to. We should very much enjoy having you, shouldn't we, Stephen?"

Stephen, so suddenly appealed to, turned very red and answered "Yes" in a tone that seemed to come gruffly from way down inside his chest, and then to the sound of hasty farewells the car started and shot out into the village street and the campus with its rainbow-hued occupants was lost to sight.

"A charming girl, isn't she?" Mrs. Tolman said to her husband. "So natural and unaffected! Doris says that she is quite the idol of the college and bids fair to be class president. I wish Doris would bring her home for the holidays."

Inwardly Steve echoed the sentiment but outwardly he preserved silence. He was too human a boy to dwell long on thoughts of any girl and soon Jane Harden was quite forgotten in the satisfaction of a steaming dinner and a comfortable bed, and the fairy journey of the next day when amid a splendor of crimson and gold the glories of Jacob's Ladder and the Mohawk Trail stretched before his eyes.

Within the week the big red car headed for Coventry and without a mishap rolled into the familiar main street of the town which never had seemed dearer than after the interval of absence. As the automobile sped past, friendly faces nodded from the sidewalks and hands were waved in greeting. Presently his mother called from the tonneau:

"Isn't that the Taylors' car, Henry, coming toward us? If it is do stop, for I want to speak to them."

Mr. Tolman nodded and slowed down the engine, at the same time putting out his hand to bring the on-coming car to a standstill. Yes, there were the Taylors, and on the front seat beside the chauffeur sat "But," the friend who had been most influential in coaxing Stephen into the dilemma of the past fortnight. It was Bud, Steve could not forget, who had been the first to drop out of the car when trouble had befallen and who had led the other boys off on foot with him to Torrington. The memory of his chum's treacherous conduct still rankled in Steve's mind. He had not spoken to him since. But now here the two boys were face to face and unless they were to betray to their parents that something was wrong they must meet with at least a semblance of cordiality. The question was which of them should be the first to make the advance.

Twice Bud cleared his throat and appeared to be on the verge of uttering a greeting when he encountered Stephen's scowl and lost courage to call the customary: "Ah, there, Stevie!"

And Stephen, feeling that right was on his side and being too proud to open the conversation, could not bring himself to say: "Hi, Bud!" as he always did.

As a result the schoolmates simply glared at each other.

Fortunately their elders were too much occupied with friendly gossip to notice them and it was not until the talk shifted abruptly into a channel that appalled both boys that their glance met with the sympathy of common danger.

It was Bud's mother from whose lips the terrifying words innocently fell.

"Havens ill and you in New York Wednesday!" she exclaimed incredulously. "But I certainly thought I saw your car turning into the gate that very afternoon."

"I guess not, my dear," asserted Mrs. Tolman tranquilly. "The car has not been out of the garage until now. It must have been somebody else you saw."

"But it was your car—I am certain of it," persisted Mrs. Taylor.

"Nonsense, Mary!" laughed her husband. "If the car has been in the garage for a week how could it have been. You probably dreamed it. You want a big red car so much yourself that you see them in your sleep."

"No, I don't," protested Mrs. Taylor smiling good-humoredly at her husband's banter.

"Well, it may have been the Woodworths'," Mrs. Tolman said with soothing inspiration. "They have a car like ours and Mrs. Woodworth came to call while I was away. I'll ask the maid when I get home."

"Y-e-s, it may have been the Woodworths'," admitted Mrs. Taylor reluctantly. It was plain, however, that she was unconvinced. "But I could have staked my oath that it was your car and Steve driving it," she added carelessly.

"Steve!" Mr. Tolman ejaculated.

"Oh, Steve never drives the car," put in Mrs. Tolman quickly. "He is not old enough to have a license yet, you know. That proves absolutely that you were mistaken. But Stephen has run the car now and then when Havens or his father were with him and he does very well at it. Some day he will be driving it alone, won't you, son?"

Bending forward she patted the boy's shoulder affectionately.

For an instant it seemed to Stephen as if every one in both cars must have heard the pound, pound, pound of his heart, as if everybody from Coventry to Torrington must have heard it. Helplessly he stared at Bud and Bud stared back. No words were needed to assure the two that once again they were linked together by misdoing as they often had been in the past. Bud looked anxiously toward his chum. He was a mischievous, happy-go-lucky lad but in his homely, freckled face there was a winsome manliness. Whatever the scrapes he got into through sheer love of fun it was characteristic of him that he was always courageous enough to confess to them. This was the first inkling he had had that Stephen had not acquainted his father with the escapade of the previous week and such a course was so at variance with his own frank nature that he was aghast. Even now he waited, expecting his pal would offer the true explanation of the mystery under discussion. He was ready to bear his share of the blame,—bear more than belonged to him if he could lighten Steve's sentence of punishment.

But the silence remained unbroken and the words he expected to hear did not come. A wave of surprise swept over his face, surprise followed by a growing scorn. It came to him in a flash that Stephen Tolman, the boy he had looked up to as a sort of idol, was a coward, a coward! He was afraid! It seemed impossible. Why, Steve was always in the thick of the football skirmishes, never shrinking from the roughness of the game; he was a fearless hockey player, a dauntless fighter. Coward was the last name one would have thought of applying to him. And yet here he sat cowering before the just result of his conduct. Bud was disappointed, ashamed; he turned away his head but not before the wretched lad who confronted him had caught in his glance the same contemptuous expression he had seen in O'Malley's face.

Again Stephen was despised and knew it.

Nevertheless it would not do to betray his secret now. He must not show that he was disconcerted. At every cost he must brazen out the affair. He had gone too far to do otherwise. He wondered as he sat there if any one suspected him; if his father, whose eye was as keen as that of an eagle, had put together any of the threads of evidence. He might be cherishing suspicions this very moment. It seemed impossible that he shouldn't. If only he would speak and have it over! Anything would be better than this suspense and uncertainty.

Mr. Tolman, however, maintained unwonted stillness and save for a restless twitching of his fingers on the wheel of the car did not move. If, thought Steve miserably, he could summon the nerve to look up, he would know in a second from his father's face whether he was annoyed or angry. At last the situation became unbearable and come what might he raised his eyes. To his amazement his father was sitting there quite serenely and so was everybody else, and the pause that seemed to him to stretch into hours had glided off as harmlessly and as naturally as other pauses. Apparently nobody was thinking about him, at least nobody but Bud. With a sigh of relief his tense muscles relaxed. He could trust Bud not to betray him. Once again he was safe!



CHAPTER VI

MR. TOLMAN'S SECOND YARN

For a day or two it seemed to Stephen that he would never cease to be haunted by the shame and regret that followed his confiscation of the big red touring car, or forget the good resolutions he made in consequence; but within an incredibly short time both considerations were thrust into the background by the rush of life's busy current. School and athletics kept him occupied so that he had little leisure for thought, and when he was in the house his father and mother smiled on him as affectionately as before, which did much to restore to him his normal poise. Long ago the boys had dropped the motor-car episode from their memories and even Bud Taylor did not refer to it when he and Steve came together to organize the hockey team for the approaching matches.

In the meantime the Thanksgiving holidays were drawing near and Mr. Tolman suggested that he and Stephen should run over to New York for a short visit. With the prospect of so much pleasure was it strange the boy ceased to dwell on the unhappiness of the past or the possibility of disaster in the future? The coming journey to New York was, to be sure, no great novelty, for Stephen had often accompanied his father there on business excursions; nevertheless such an outing was a treat to which he looked forward as a sort of Arabian Nights adventure when for a short time he stayed at a large hotel, ate whatever food pleased his fancy, and went sight-seeing and to innumerable "shows" with his father. He was wont to return to Coventry after the holiday with a throng of happy memories and many a tale of marvels with which to entertain the boys.

Therefore when he and his father boarded the express Thanksgiving week the lad was in the highest spirits.

"Motor-cars are all very well," observed Mr. Tolman, as the porter stowed their luggage away, "but on a cold night like this a Pullman car on a well-laid track is not to be despised. Eh, son?"

"I don't believe that I should want to travel to New York in a touring-car at this time of year," agreed Stephen, smiling.

"It is getting too late in the season to use an open car, anyway," rejoined his father. "I have delayed putting the car up because I have been hoping we might have a little more warm weather; but I guess the warm days have gone and the winter has come to stay now."

"But there is no snow yet, Dad."

"No. Still it is too chilly to drive with any comfort. The Taylors shipped their car off last week and when I get home I shall do the same."

Stephen looked disappointed.

"I don't mind the cold when I'm wrapped up," he ventured.

"You are not at the wheel, son," was his father's quick retort. "The man who is has his fingers nipped roundly, I can assure you. It is a pity we have become so soft and shrink so from discomfort. Think what our forbears endured when they went on journeys!"

"Neither the English stagecoaches nor Stephenson's railroad could have been very comfortable, to judge from your descriptions of them," laughed Steve.

"Oh, don't heap all the blame on the English," his father replied. "Our own modes of travel in the early days were quite as bad as were those on the other side of the water."

"I wish you would tell me about the first American railroads," said the boy. "I was wondering about them the other night."

Mr. Tolman settled back in his seat thoughtfully.

"America," he answered presently, "went through a pioneer period of railroading not unlike England's. Many strange steam inventions were tried in different parts of the country, and many fantastic scientific notions put before the public. Even previous to Watt's steam engine Oliver Evans had astonished the quiet old city of Philadelphia by driving through its peaceful streets in a queer steam vehicle, half carriage and half boat, which he had mounted on wheels. Evans was an ingenious fellow, a born inventor if ever there was one, who worked out quite a few steam devices, some of which Watt later improved and adopted. Then in 1812 John Stevens of New York got interested in the steam idea and urged the commissioners of his state to build a railroad between Lake Erie and Albany, suggesting that a steam engine not unlike the one that propelled the Hudson River ferryboats could be used as power for the trains. He was enthusiastic over the scheme but the New York officials had no faith in the proposition, insisting that a steam locomotive could never be produced that would grip the rails with sufficient tension to keep cars on the track or draw a heavy load."

"They'd better have given the plan a showdown," interrupted Steve grimly.

"No doubt that is true," admitted his father. "However, it is very easy for us, with our knowledge of science, to look back and laugh at their mistakes. The world was very new in those days and probably had we lived at that time and been equally ignorant of railroads and engines we should have been just as cautious and unbelieving. The railroad was still a young invention, you must remember, and to many persons it seemed a rather mad, uncertain enterprise."

"When was the first American railroad built?" inquired the lad.

"If by a railroad you mean something which moved along rails like a tram-car, the first such road was built at Quincy, Mass., in 1826; but it was not a steam railroad. It was merely a train of cars drawn by horses along a track that spanned a series of stone ties. Nor was it very extensive in length. In fact, it was only three miles long and probably would not have been built at all if the question had not arisen as to how the heavy blocks of granite necessary for the construction of Bunker Hill monument were to be carried from the quarries to the Neponset River, the point from which they were to be shipped to Charlestown. Bryant, the builder of the road, had heard of Stephenson's successful use of tracks at the Newcastle coal mines and saw no reason why a road of similar pattern could not be laid from the quarries to the ship landing. If such a plan could be worked out, he argued, it would be a great saving of time and labor. Accordingly the railroad was built at a cost of more than ten thousand dollars a mile and it unquestionably performed the service required of it even if it did necessitate the expenditure of a good deal of money. Since the grade sloped toward the river the heavily loaded cars moved down the tracks very easily and as they were empty on their return the ascent was made with equal ease. All the year round this quaint railroad was in constant use, a snowplow being attached to the front car in winter to clear the deep snow from the tracks."

"I suppose that was the first railroad snowplow, too," observed Stephen.

"I suppose it was," his father agreed. "For some time afterward this old road with its granite ties was the model from which American engineers took their inspiration, it being many years before railroad builders realized that wooden ties were more flexible and made a better, even though less durable roadbed."

"Were any more railroads like the Quincy road built in America?" questioned Steve.

"Yes, a railroad very much like it was built in the Pennsylvania mining country to transport coal from the mines at Summit down to the Lehigh Valley for shipment. An amusing story is told of this railroad, too. It extended down the mountainside in a series of sharp inclines between which lay long stretches of level ground. Now you know when you coast downhill your speed will give you sufficient impetus to carry you quite a way on a flat road before you come to a stop. So it was with this railroad. But the force the cars gained on the hillside could not carry them entirely across these long levels, and therefore platform cars were built on which a number of mules could be transported and later harnessed to the cars to pull them across the flat stretches. At the end of each level the mules would be taken aboard again and carried down to the next one, where they were once more harnessed to the cars. Now the tale goes that to the chagrin of the railroad people the mules soon grew to enjoy riding so much that they had no mind to get out and walk when the level places were reached and it became almost impossible to make them. All of which proves the theory I advanced before—that too much luxury is not good for any of us and will even spoil a perfectly good mule."

Steve chuckled in response.

"I'm afraid with railroads like these America did not make much progress," he said.

"No very rapid strides," owned his father. "Nevertheless men were constantly hammering away at the railroad idea. In out-of-the-way corners of the country were many persons who had faith that somehow, they knew not how, the railroad would in time become a practical agency of locomotion. When the Rainhill contest of engines took place in England before the opening of the Liverpool-Manchester road, and Stephenson carried off the prize, Horatio Allen, one of the engineers of the Delaware and Hudson Canal Company, was sent over to examine the locomotives competing and if possible buy one for a new railroad they hoped to put into operation. Unluckily none of the engines were for sale but he was able to purchase at Stourbridge a steam locomotive and this he shipped to New York. It reached there in 1829—a ridiculous little engine weighing only seven tons. Before its arrival a track of hemlock rails fastened to hemlock ties had been laid and as the Lackawanna River lay directly in the path of the proposed road a wooden trestle about a hundred feet high had been built across the river. This trestle was of very frail construction and calculated to sustain only a four-ton engine and therefore when the seven-ton locomotive from Stourbridge arrived and was found to weigh nearly double that specification there was great consternation."

"Did they tear the trestle down and build another?" asked Steve with much interest.

Mr. Tolman did not heed the question.

"Now in addition to the disconcerting size of the engine," he continued, "the wooden rails which had been laid during the previous season had warped with the snows and were in anything but desirable condition. So altogether the prospect of trying out the enterprise, on which a good deal of money had already been spent, was not alone disheartening but perilous."

"The inspectors or somebody else would have put an end to such a crazy scheme jolly quick if it had been in our day, wouldn't they?" grinned the boy.

"Yes, nobody could get very far with anything so unsafe now," his father responded. "But all this happened before the era of inspectors, construction laws, or the Safety First slogan. Hence no one interfered with Horatio Allen. If he chose to break his neck and the necks of many others as well he was free to do so. Therefore, nothing daunted, he got up steam in his baby engine, which was the more absurd for having painted at its front a fierce red lion, and off he started—along his hemlock railroad. The frail bridge swayed and bent as the locomotive rumbled over it but by sheer miracle it did not give way and Allen reached the other side without being plunged to the bottom of the river."

Steve drew a long breath of relief.

"Did they go on using the railroad after that?" he asked.

His father shook his head.

"No," he replied. "Although every one agreed that the demonstration was a success the wooden rails were not durable enough to last long and the company was not rich enough to replace them with metal ones. Therefore, in spite of Allen's pleas and his wonderful exhibition of courage, the road fell into disuse, the engine was taken apart, and the enterprise abandoned."

"What a pity!"

"Yes, it was, for had New York persevered in this undertaking the railroad might have made its advent in the United States much sooner than it did. As it was, once again, like a meteor, the experiment flashed into sight and disappeared with success well within reach."

"And who was the next promoter?"

"Peter Cooper was the next experimenter of note," Mr. Tolman answered, "and his adventure with railroading was entertaining, too. He lived in Baltimore and being of a commercial trend of mind he decided that if a railroad could be built through the Potomac Valley and across the Alleghany Mountains it might win back for his state the trade that was rapidly being snatched away by the Erie and Pennsylvania Canal. With this idea in mind Cooper built thirteen miles of track and after experimenting with a sort of tram-car and finding it a failure he had a car made that should be propelled by sails."

"Sails!" gasped Steve.

His father smiled at his astonishment.

"Yes, sails!" he repeated. "Into this strangely equipped vehicle he invited some of the editors of the Baltimore papers, and little sensing what was before them the party set forth on its excursion."

"Did the car go?"

"Oh, it went all right!" chuckled Mr. Tolman. "The trouble was not with its going. The difficulty was that as it flew along the rails a cow suddenly loomed in its pathway and as she did not move out of the way of the approaching car she and the railroad pioneers came into collision. With a crash the car toppled over and the editors, together with the enraged Peter Cooper, were thrown out into the mud. Of course the affair caused the public no end of laughter but to Cooper and his guests it proved convincingly that sails were not a desirable substitute for steam power."

"I suppose Cooper then went to work to build some other kind of a railroad," mused Steve.

"That is exactly what he did," was the rejoinder. "He did not, however, do this deliberately but rather fell into a dilemma that left him no other choice. You see a group of men coaxed him to buy some land through which it was expected the new Baltimore and Ohio Railroad was to pass. These prospectors figured that as the road was already started and a portion of the wooden track laid the railroad was a sure thing, and by selling their land to the railroad authorities they would be enabled to turn quite a fortune for themselves. In all good faith Cooper had joined the company and then, after discovering that the railroad men had apparently abandoned their plan to build, in dastardly fashion, one after another of the promoters wriggled out of the enterprise and left poor Peter Cooper with a large part of his money tied up in a worthless, partially constructed railroad."

"What a rotten trick!" cried Steve.

"Yes; and yet perhaps Cooper deserved a little chastisement," smiled Mr. Tolman. "Instead of making money out of other people as he had intended—"

"He got stung himself!" burst out the boy.

"Practically so, yes," was the reply. "Well, at any rate, there he was and if he was ever to get back any of his fortune he must demonstrate that he had profound faith in the partly constructed railroad. Accordingly he bought a small engine weighing about a ton—"

"One ton!"

"So small that it was christened the 'Tom Thumb.' He now had his wooden rails and his pygmy engine but was confronted by still another perplexity. The railroad must pass a very abrupt curve, it was unavoidable that it should do so—a curve so dangerous that everybody who saw it predicted that to round it without the engine jumping the track and derailing the cars behind would be impossible. Poor Peter Cooper faced a very discouraging problem. There was no gainsaying that the curve was a bad one; moreover, his locomotive was not so perfect a product as he might have wished. It had been built under his direction and consisted of the wee engine he had bought in New York connected with an iron boiler about the size of an ordinary tin wash boiler; and as no iron piping was made in America at this time Cooper had taken some old steel musket barrels as a substitute for tubing. With this crude affair he was determined to convince the public that a steam railroad was a workable proposition."

"He had a nerve!"

"It took nerve to live and accomplish anything in those days," returned Mr. Tolman. "In the first place few persons had fortunes large enough to back big undertakings; and in addition America was still such a young country that it had not begun to produce the materials needed by inventors for furthering any very extensive projects. In fact the world of progress was, as Kipling says, 'very new and all.' Hence human ingenuity had to make what was at hand answer the required purpose, and as a result Peter Cooper's Tom Thumb engine, with its small iron boiler and its gun-barrel tubing, was set upon the wooden track, and an open car (a sort of box on wheels with seats in it) was fastened to it. Into this primitive conveyance the guests invited for the occasion clambered. Ahead lay the forbidding curve. Stephenson, the English engineer, had already stated mathematically the extreme figure at which a curve could be taken and the locomotive still remain on the track, and Peter Cooper was well aware that the curve he must make was a far worse one. However, it would never do for him to betray that he had any misgivings. Therefore, together with his guests, he set out on his eventful trip which was either to demolish them all, or convince the dignitaries of the railroad company that not only was a steam railroad practical but that the Baltimore and Ohio Road was a property valuable enough to be backed by capital."

Steve leaned forward, listening eagerly to the story.

"Slowly the little engine started, and nearer and nearer came the terrible curve. The train was now running at fifteen miles an hour, a speed almost unbelievable to the simple souls of that time. Round the curve it went in safety, increasing its velocity to eighteen miles an hour. The railroad officials who were Cooper's guests were frantic with enthusiasm. One man produced paper and pencil and begged those present to write their names, just to prove that it was possible to write even when flying along at such a meteoric rate of speed. Another man jotted down a few sentences to demonstrate that to think and write connected phrases were things that could be done, in spite of the fact that one was dashing through space with this unearthly rapidity."

"So the railroad men were converted, were they?"

"They were more than converted; they were exultant," said his father. "Of course it was some time after this before the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad became a reality. Capital had to be raised and the project stably launched."

"Oh, then this was not the first railroad in the country, after all," observed the boy in a disappointed tone.

"No. South Carolina boasts the first regular passenger locomotive propelled by steam," returned Mr. Tolman. "This road ran from Charleston to Hamburg and although a charter was obtained for it in 1827 it took all the first year to lay six miles of track. In fact it was not until 1830 that the railroad began to be operated to any extent. When it was, a locomotive, every part of which had been produced in this country, was employed to draw the trains. This was the first steam locomotive of American make in history. It was dubbed 'The Best Friend' and, like the engines that had preceded it, had a series of interesting adventures. Since it was the only locomotive in the possession of the road and was in use all day any repairs on the hard-worked object had to be made at night."

"Humph!" ejaculated Stephen.

"Nevertheless 'The Best Friend' might have gone on its way prosperously had it not been for the ignorance of those who ran it. The engineer, to be sure, understood more or less about a steam locomotive although he was none too wise; but the fireman, unfortunately, understood next to nothing, and one day, on being left alone in the cab and seeing the steam escaping from the safety valve, he conceived the notion that a leak was causing unnecessary waste. Therefore he securely screwed up the space through which the steam had been issuing, and to make prevention more certain he himself, a large and heavy man, sat down on the escape valve."

"And presto!" exclaimed Steve, rubbing his hands.

"Exactly so! Presto, indeed! Figuratively speaking, he blew sky-high and 'The Best Friend' with him," replied Mr. Tolman. "It was an unfortunate happening, too, for people were still ill-informed about the uses of steam and very nervous about its mysterious power and this accident only served to make them more so. For some time afterward many persons refused to patronize the railroad in spite of all the authorities could do to soothe them. In time, however, the public calmed down, although in order to reassure them it was found necessary to put a car heaped with bales of cotton between them and the engine, not only to conceal the monster from their view but also to convince them that it was some distance away. Whether they also had a vague notion that in case they went skyward the cotton might soften their fall when they came down, I do not know."

"Railroading certainly had its troubles, didn't it?" Steve commented with amusement.

"It certainly had, especially in our own country," was the reply. "In England Stephenson and other experimenters like him had materials at hand which to some extent served their purpose; moreover, thanks to Watt and other inventors, there were definite scientific ideas to work from. But in America the successful railroad which might serve as a model was unknown. Therefore for some time English engines continued to be shipped across the sea, and even then it was a long time before our American engineers understood much about their mechanism. Only by means of repeated experiments, first in one part of the country and then in another, did our American railroads, so marvelous in their construction, come into being."

Mr. Tolman paused a moment, yawned, and then rose and beckoned to the porter.

"We still have much to perfect in our modern railroad, however," he said with a touch of humor. "The sleeping car, for example, is an abomination, as you are speedily to have proved to you. Here, porter! We'd like these berths made up. I guess we'd better turn in now, son. You have had enough railroading for one day and are tired. You must get a rest and be in the pink of condition to-morrow for, remember, you are going to wake up in New York."

"If it will make to-morrow come any quicker I am quite ready to go to bed," retorted Stephen, with a sleepy smile.



CHAPTER VII

A HOLIDAY JOURNEY

The next morning, when Steve woke to the swaying of the train and a drowsy sense of confusion and smoke, he could not for an instant think where he was; but it did not take long for him to open his eyes, recollect the happenings of the previous day, smile with satisfaction, and hurriedly wriggle into his clothes.

Already he could hear his father stirring in the berth below and presently the elder man called:

"We shall be in New York in half-an-hour, son, so get your traps packed up. How did you sleep?"

"Sound as a top!"

"That is fine! I was afraid you might not rest very well. As I observed last night, a sleeping car is not all that it might be. The day will come when it will have to be improved. However, since it gets us to New York safely and economizes hours of day travel, it is a blessing for which we should be grateful."

As he spoke he moved into the aisle and helped the boy down from his perch; they then sought out a distant seat where they dropped down and watched the rapidly passing landscape.

"I have been thinking, as I was dressing, of the story you told me last night about our American railroads," said the lad. "It surprised me a good deal to hear that the South took the lead over the North in the introduction of the steam locomotive."

Mr. Tolman smiled into the eager face.

"While it is true that South Carolina took the initiative in railroading for a short time the South did not remain long in the ascendency," he answered, "for the third steam locomotive put into actual passenger service was built at Albany. This city, because of its geographical position, was a great stagecoach center, having lines that radiated from it into the interior in almost every direction. And not only was it an important coaching rendezvous but as it was also a leading commercial tributary of New York the Mohawk and Hudson Railroad had built a short track between Albany and Schenectady and supplied it with cars propelled by horse power. Now in 1831 the company decided to transform this road into a steam railroad and to this end ordered a steam locomotive called the 'DeWitt Clinton' to be constructed at West Point with the aim of demonstrating to the northern States the advantages of steam transportation. You can imagine the excitement this announcement caused. Think, if you had never seen a steam engine, how eager you would be to behold the wonder. These olden time New Yorkers felt precisely the same way. Although the route was only sixteen miles long the innovation was such a novel and tremendous one that all along the way crowds of spectators assembled to watch the passing of the magic train. At the starting point near the Hudson there was a dense throng of curious onlookers who gathered to see for the first time in all their lives the steam locomotive and its brigade of coaches,—for in those days people never spoke of a train of cars; a group of railroad carriages was always known as a brigade, and the term coach was, and in many cases still is applied to the cars. This train that created so much interest was practically like Stephenson's English trains, being made up of a small locomotive, a tender, and two carriages constructed by fastening stagecoach bodies on top of railroad trucks. Stout iron chains held these vehicles together—a primitive, and as it subsequently proved, a very impractical method of coupling."

"It must have been a funny enough train!" Steve exclaimed.

"I doubt if it appeared so to the people of that time," his father returned, "for since the audience of that period had nothing with which to compare it, it probably seemed quite the ordinary thing. Was it not like the railroad trains used in England? How was America to know anything different? Yes, I am sure the 'DeWitt Clinton' was considered a very grand affair indeed, even though it was only a small engine without a cab, and had barely enough platform for the engineer to stand upon while he drove the engine and fed the pitch-pine logs into the furnace."

"How many people did the train hold?" inquired Steve, with growing curiosity.

"Each coach carried six persons inside and two outside," was Mr. Tolman's reply, "and on this first eventful trip not quite enough adventurous souls could be found to fill the seats. Perhaps could the unwary passengers who did go have foreseen the discomforts ahead of them there would have been fewer yet. But often ignorance is bliss. It certainly was so in this case for in high feather the fortunate ones took their places, the envied of many a beholder."

"What happened?" asked the boy eagerly. "Was the trip a success?"

"That depends on what you mean by success," laughed his father. "If you are asking whether the passengers arrived safely at Schenectady I can assure you that they did; but if you wish to know whether the journey was a comfortable one, and likely to convert the stranger to steam travel, that is quite another matter. The description of the excursion which history has handed down to us is very naive. In the first place the pitch-pine fuel sent a smudge of smoke and cinders back over all the passengers and if it did not entirely choke them it at least encrusted them thickly with dirt, particularly the ones who sat outside. The umbrellas they opened to protect themselves were soon demolished, their coverings being blown away or burned up by the sparks. In fact, it was only by continual alertness that the clothing of the venturesome travelers was not ignited. In the meantime those inside the coaches fared little better, for as the coaches were without springs and the track was none too skilfully laid, the jolting of the cars all but sent the heads of the passengers through the roof of the coaches. Added to this the train proceeded in a series of jerks that wrenched the chains and banged one coach into another with such violence that those outside were in danger of being hurled down upon the track, and those inside were tossed hither and thither from seat to seat. You will easily comprehend that the outing was not one of unalloyed pleasure."

The boy laughed heartily.

"Of course," went on Mr. Tolman, "there was no help for anybody until the first stopping place was reached; but when the engine slowed down and the grimy, almost unrecognizable pilgrims had a chance to catch their breath, something had to be done by way of a remedy. The remedy fortunately was near at hand and consisted of nothing very difficult. Some of the more enterprising of the company leaped out and tore the rails from a near-by fence and after stretching the coupling chains taut, they bound them to the wooden boards. In this way the coaches were kept apart and the silk hats of the dignitaries who had been invited to participate in the opening of the road rescued from total annihilation."

"I'll bet everybody was glad to disembark at Schenectady," declared Stephen.

"I'll wager they were! They must have been exhausted from being jounced and jostled about. Nevertheless the novelty of the adventure probably brought its own compensations, and they were doubtless diverted from their woes by the sight of the cheering and envious spectators, the terrified horses, and the open-mouthed children that greeted them wherever they went."

"But the promoters could hardly expect the public to be very keen for a steam railroad after such an exhibition," reflected Steve.

"Fortunately our forefathers were not as critical as you," said his father, "and in consequence the coach line from Albany to Schenectady was speedily supplanted by a steam railroad, as were the various coach lines into the interior of the State. As a result hundreds of broken-down coach horses were turned out to pasture, a merciful thing. Gradually a series of short steam railway lines were constructed from one end of the State to the other, until in 1851 these were joined together to make a continuous route to Lake Erie. Perhaps we have only scant appreciation of the revolution that came with this advance in transportation. It meant the beginning of travel and commerce between the eastern States and those in the interior of the country; it also meant the speedy shipment of eastern products to the West, where they were greatly needed, and the reception of western commodities in the East. But more than all this, it signified a bond of fellowship between the scattered inhabitants of the same vast country who up to this time had been almost total strangers to one another, and was a mighty stride in the direction of national loyalty and sympathy. Therefore it was entirely seemly that Millard Fillmore, then President of the United States, and Daniel Webster, the Secretary of State, should be honored guests at the celebration that attended the opening of the railroad."

"Did the road reach no farther than Lake Erie?" asked Stephen.

"Not at first," replied his father. "From that point commerce was carried on by means of ships on the Great Lakes. But in time western railroad companies began to build short stretches of track which later on they joined together as the other railroad builders had done."

"Did the line go all the way across the country?"

"Oh, no, indeed. Our trans-continental railroads were a mighty project in themselves and their story is a romance which I will tell you some other time. Before such stupendous enterprises could be realities, our young, young country had a vast deal of growing to do, and its infant railroads and engineering methods had to be greatly improved. So long as we still built roads where the rails were liable to come up through the floor and injure the passengers, and where the tracks were not strongly enough constructed to resist floods and freshets, our steam locomotion could not expect any universal degree of popularity."

"I don't suppose, though, that the cows continued to tip the cars over and turn the passengers out into the dirt as they did in the days of Peter Cooper," mused Steve thoughtfully.

"They may not have derailed the trains," his father replied quite seriously, "but they often did delay them. Nor could the passengers be blamed for finding fault with the unheated cars, or the fact that sometimes, when it snowed hard, the engineer ran his engine under cover and refused to go on, leaving those on the train the choice of staying where they were until the storm abated or going on foot to their destination."

"Not really!"

"Yes, indeed. Such things happened quite frequently. Then there are stories of terrible gales when the snow piled up on the track until the engine had to be dug out, for snow plows did not keep the tracks clear then as they do now; nor was it an uncommon thing for the mud from the spring washouts to submerge the rails, in which case the engines had to be pulled out of the mire by oxen. In fact, at certain seasons of the year some trains carried oxen for this very purpose. For you must remember that the engines of that date were not powerful enough to make progress through mud, snow, or against fierce head winds. Often a strong gale would delay them for hours or bring them to a standstill altogether."

"Well, I guess it is no wonder we were not equipped to build a trans-continental road under such conditions," said the lad, with a quiet smile.

"Oh, these defects were only a minor part of our railroad tribulations," responded his father. "For example, when Pennsylvania started her first railroad the year after the line between New York and Schenectady was laid, there was a fresh chapter of obstacles. Strangely enough, the locomotive, 'Old Ironsides,' was built by Mr. M. W. Baldwin, whose name has since become celebrated as the founder of the Baldwin Locomotive Works. In 1832, however, the Baldwin locomotive was quite a different product from the present-day magnificently constructed steam engine. This initial attempt at locomotive building was a queer little engine with wheels so light that unless there was plenty of ballast aboard it was impossible to keep it on the track; and besides that, the poor wee thing could not get up steam enough to start itself and in consequence Mr. Baldwin and some of his machinists were obliged to give it a violent push whenever it set out and then leap aboard when it was under way in order to weigh it down and keep it on the track."

"Imagine having to hold an engine down!" ejaculated Steve, with amusement.

"The story simply goes to prove how much in the making locomotives really were," Mr. Tolman said. "And not only did this toy engine have to be started by a friendly push, but it was too feeble to generate steam fast enough to keep itself going after it was once on its way. Therefore every now and then the power would give out and Mr. Baldwin and his men would be forced to get out and run along beside the train, pushing it as they went that it might keep up its momentum until a supply of steam could again be acquired. Can you ask for anything more primitive than that?"

"It certainly makes one realize the progress locomotive builders have made," the boy replied, with gravity.

"It certainly does," agreed his father. "Think how Baldwin and his men must have struggled first with one difficulty and then with another; think how they must have experimented and worked to perfect the tiny engine with which they began! It was the conquering of this multitude of defects that gave to the world the intricate, exquisitely made machine which at this very minute is pulling you and me into New York."

There was an interval of silence during which Stephen glanced out at the flying panorama framed by the window.

"Where was New England all this time?" demanded he, with jealous concern. "Didn't Massachusetts do anything except build the old granite road at Quincy?"

"Railroads, for various reasons, were not popular in Massachusetts," returned his father. "As usual New England was conservative and was therefore slow in waking up to the importance of steam transportation. Boston was on the coast, you see, and had its ships as well as the canal boats that connected the city with the manufacturing districts of the Merrimac. Therefore, although the question of building railroads was agitated in 1819 nothing was done about the matter. As was natural the canal company opposed the venture, and there was little enthusiasm elsewhere concerning a project that demanded a great outlay of money with only scant guarantee that any of it would ever come back to the capitalists who advanced it. Moreover, the public in general was sceptical about railroads or else totally uninterested in them. And even had a railroad been built at this time it would not have been a steam road for it was proposed to propel the cars by horse power just as those at Quincy had been."

"Oh!" interjected Steve scornfully. "They might at least have tried steam."

"People had little faith in it," explained Mr. Tolman. "Those who had the faith lacked the money to back the enterprise, and those who had the money lacked the faith. If a company could have gone ahead and built a steam railroad that was an unquestioned success many persons would undoubtedly have been convinced of its value and been willing to put capital into it; but as matters stood, there was so much antagonism against the undertaking that nobody cared to launch the venture. There were many business men who honestly regarded a steam railroad as a menace to property and so strong was this feeling that in 1824 the town of Dorchester, a village situated a short distance from Boston, actually took legal measures to prevent any railroad from passing through its territory."

"They needn't have been so fussed," said Stephen, with a grin. "Railroads weren't plenty enough to worry them!"

"Oh, the Quincy road was not the only railroad in Massachusetts," his father asserted quickly, "for in spite of opposition a railroad to Lowell, modeled to some extent after the old granite road, had been built. This railroad was constructed on stone ties, as the one at Quincy had been; for although such construction was much more costly it was thought at the time to be far more durable. Several years afterward, when experience had demonstrated that wood possessed more give, and that a hard, unyielding roadbed only creates jar, the granite ties that had cost so much were taken up and replaced by wooden ones."

"What a shame!"

"Thus do we live and learn," said his father whimsically. "Our blunders are often very expensive. The only redeeming thing about them is that we pass our experience on to others and save them from tumbling into the same pit. Thus it was with the early railroad builders. When the Boston and Providence Road was constructed this mistake was not repeated and a flexible wooden roadbed was laid. In the meantime a short steam railroad line had been built from Boston to Newton, a distance of seven miles, and gradually the road to this suburb was lengthened until it extended first to Natick and afterward to Worcester, a span of forty-four miles. Over this road, during fine weather, three trains ran daily; in winter there were but two. I presume nothing simpler or less pretentious could have been found than this early railroad whose trains were started at the ringing of a bell hung on a near-by tree. Although it took three hours to make a trip now made in one, the journey was considered very speedy, and unquestionably it was if travelers had to cover the distance by stagecoach. When we consider that in 1834 it took freight the best part of a week to get to Boston by wagons a three-hour trip becomes a miracle."

"I suppose there was not so much freight in those days anyway," Steve speculated.

"Fortunately not. People had less money and less leisure to travel, and therefore there were not so many trunks to be carried; I am not sure, too, but the frugal Americans of that day had fewer clothes to take with them when they did go. Then, as each town or district was of necessity more or less isolated, people knew fewer persons outside of their own communities, did a less extensive business, and had less incentive to go a-visiting. Therefore, although the Boston and Worcester Railroad could boast only two baggage cars (or burthen cars, as they were called), the supply was sufficient, which was fortunate, especially since the freight house in Boston was only large enough to shelter these two."

"And out of all this grew the Boston and Albany Railroad?" questioned the boy.

"Yes, although it was not until 1841, about eight years later, that the line was extended to New York State. By that time tracks had been laid through the Berkshire hills, opening up the western part of Massachusetts. The story of that first momentous fifteen-hour journey of the Boston officials to the New York capital, where they were welcomed and entertained by the Albany dignitaries, is picturesque reading indeed. One of the party who set out from Boston on that memorable day carried with him some spermaceti candles which on the delegates' arrival were burned with great ceremony at the evening dinner."

"I suppose it seemed a wonderful thing to reach Albany in fifteen hours," remarked Steve.

"It was like a fairy tale," his father answered. "To estimate the marvel to the full you must think how long it would have taken to drive the distance, or make the journey by water. Therefore the Boston officials burned their spermaceti candles in triumph; and the next day, when the Albany hosts returned to Boston with their guests, they symbolized the onrush of the world's progress by bringing with them a barrel of flour which had been cut, threshed, and ground only two days before, and put into a wooden barrel made from a tree which was cut down, sawed, and put together while the flour was being ground. This does not seem to us anything very astounding but it was a feat to stop the breath in those days."

"And what did they do with the flour?"

"Oh, that evening when they reached Boston the flour was made into some sort of bread which was served at the dinner the Boston men gave to their visitors."

"I wonder what they would have said if somebody had told them then that sometime people would be going from Boston to New York in five hours?" the lad observed.

"I presume they would not have believed it," was the reply. "Nor would they have been able to credit tales of the great numbers of persons who would constantly be traveling between these two great cities. At that time so few people made the trip that it was very easy to keep track of them; and that they might be identified in case of accident the company retained a list of those who went on the trains. At first this rule worked very well, the passengers being carefully tabulated, together with their place of residence; but later, when traffic began to increase and employees began to have more to do, those whose duty it was to make out these lists became hurried and careless and in the old railroad annals we read such entries as these:

"'Woman in green bonnet; boy; stranger; man with side whiskers,' etc."

A peal of laughter broke from Stephen.

"Railroad officials would have some job to list passengers now, wouldn't they?" he said. "We should all just have to wear identification tags as the men did during the War."

His father acquiesced whimsically.

"I have sometimes feared we might have to come to that, anyway," he replied. "With the sky populated with aeroplanes and the streets filled with automobiles man stands little chance in these days of preserving either his supremacy or his identity. When we get on Fifth Avenue to-day you see if you do not agree with me," he added, as the train pulled into the big station.



CHAPTER VIII

NEW YORK AND WHAT HAPPENED THERE

It took no very long interval to prove that there was some foundation for Mr. Tolman's last assertion, for within a short time the travelers were standing on Fifth Avenue amid the rush of traffic, and feeling of as little importance as dwarfs in a giant's country. The roar of the mighty city, its bustle and confusion, were both exhilarating and terrifying. They had left their luggage at the hotel and now, while Steve's father went to meet a business appointment, the boy was to take a ride up the Avenue on one of the busses, a diversion of which he never tired. To sit on top and look down on the throng in the streets was always novel and entertaining to one who passed his days in a quiet New England town. Therefore he stopped one of the moving vehicles and in great good humor bade his father good-by; and feeling very self-sufficient to be touring New York by himself, clambered eagerly up to a seat.

There were few passengers on the top of the coach for the chill of early morning still lingered in the air; but before they reached Riverside Drive a man with a bright, ruddy countenance and iron-grey hair hailed the bus and climbed up beside the boy. As he took his place he glanced at him kindly and instantly Steve felt a sense of friendliness toward the stranger; and after they had ridden a short distance in silence the man spoke.

"What a beautiful river the Hudson is!" he remarked. "Although I am an old New Yorker I never cease to delight in its charm and its fascinating history. It was on this body of water, you know, that the first steamboat was tried out."

"I didn't know it," Stephen confessed, with an honest blush.

"You will be learning about it some day, I fancy," said the other, with a smile. "An interesting story it is, too. All the beginnings of our great industries and inventions read like romances."

"My father has just been telling me about the beginnings of some of our railroads," observed Steve shyly, "and certainly his stories were as good as fairy tales."

"Is your father especially interested in railroads?" inquired the New Yorker.

"Yes, sir. He is in the railroad business."

"Ah, then that accounts for his filling your ears with locomotives instead of steamboats," declared the man, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Now if I were to spin a yarn for you, it would be of steamboats because that happens to be the thing I am interested in; I believe their history to be one of the most alluring tales to which a boy could listen. Sometime you get a person who knows the drama from start to finish to relate to you the whole marvelous adventure of early steamboating, and you see if it does not beat the railroad story all out."

He laughed a merry laugh in which Stephen joined.

"I wish you would tell it to me yourself," suggested the lad.

The man turned with an expression of pleasure on his red-cheeked face.

"I should like nothing better, my boy," he said quickly, "but you see it is a long story and I am getting out at the next corner. Sometime, however, we may meet again. Who knows? And if we do you shall hold me to my promise to talk steamboats to you until you cry for mercy."

Bending down he took up a leather bag which he had placed between his feet.

"I am leaving you here, sonny," he said. "I take it you are in New York for a holiday."

"Yes, sir, I am," returned Steve with surprise. "My father and I are staying here just for a few days."

"I hope you will have a jolly good time during your visit," the man said, rising.

Stephen murmured his thanks and watched the erect figure descend from the coach and disappear into a side street. It was not until the New Yorker was well out of sight and the omnibus on its way that his eye was caught by the red bill book lying on the floor at his feet. None of the few scattered passengers had noticed it and stooping, he picked it up and quietly slipped it into his pocket.

What should he do with it?

Of course he could hand it over to the driver of the bus and tell him he had found it. But the man might not be honest and instead of turning it in to the company might keep it. There was little doubt in Steve's mind that the pocketbook belonged to the stranger who had just vacated the place and it was likely his address was inside it. If so, what a pleasure it would be to return the lost article to its rightful owner himself. By so doing he would not only be sure the pocketbook reached its destination but he might see the steamboat man again.

He longed to open the bill book and investigate its contents. What was in it, he wondered. Well, the top of a Fifth Avenue coach was no place to be looking through pocketbooks, there was no question about that. Let alone the fact that persons might be watching him, there was danger that in the fresh morning breeze something might take wing, sail down to the Hudson, and never be seen again. Therefore he decided to curb his impatience and wait until he reached a more favorable spot to examine his suddenly acquired treasure. Accordingly he tucked the long red wallet farther down into the breast pocket of his ulster, and feeling assured that nothing could be done about it at present, gave himself up to the pleasure and excitement of the drive.

It was not until he had rejoined his father at the hotel and the two were sitting at lunch in the great dining room that the thought of it again flashed into his mind.

"Gee, Dad!" he suddenly exclaimed, looking up from his plateful of fried chicken with fork suspended in mid-air. "I meant to tell you I found a pocketbook in the bus this morning."

"A pocketbook!"

"Yes, sir. I think the man who had been sitting beside me must have dropped it when he stooped over to get his bag. At any rate it was lying there after he got out."

"What did you do with it?" Mr. Tolman inquired with no great warmth of interest. "Gave it to the conductor, I suppose."

The boy shook his head.

"No, I didn't," was the answer. "I was afraid he might not turn it in, and as I liked the man who lost it I wanted to be sure he got it, so I brought it back with me."

"And where is it now?" demanded Mr. Tolman, now all attention. "I hope you were not so careless as to leave it upstairs in our room."

"No. I didn't leave it in the room," returned the lad. "It is out in my coat pocket. I meant to take it out and see what was in it; but so many things happened that I forgot about it until this very minute."

"You don't mean that you left it in your ulster pocket and let them hang it out there on the rack?"

"Yes."

"You checked your coat and left it there?"

"Why—yes," came the faltering reply.

Mr. Tolman was on his feet.

"Wait here until I come back," he said in a sharp tone.

"Where are you going?"

"Give me your check quickly," went on his father, without heeding the question. "Hurry!"

Steve fumbled in his jacket pocket.

"Be quick, son, be quick!" commanded Mr. Tolman impatiently. "Don't you know it is never safe to leave anything of value in your coat when you are staying at a large city hotel? Somebody may have taken the pocketbook already."

Scarlet with consternation the lad produced the check.

"If nothing has happened to that pocketbook you will be very fortunate," asserted the man severely. "Stay here! I will be right back."

With beating heart the boy watched him thread his way between the tables and disappear from the dining room into the lobby.

Suppose the bill book should be gone!

What if there had been valuable papers in it, money—a great deal of money—and now through his carelessness it had all disappeared? How stupid he had been not to remember about it and give it to his father the instant they had met! In fact, he would much better have taken a chance and handed it to the bus conductor than to have done the foolish thing he had. He had meant so well and blundered so grievously! How often his father had cautioned him to be careful of money when he was traveling!

Tensely he sat in his chair and waited with miserable anxiety, his eyes fixed on the dining-room door. Then presently, to his great relief, he saw his father returning.

"Did you—" he began.

"You will have to come yourself, Steve," said the elder man whose brow was wrinkled into a frown of annoyance. "The maid who checked the coats is not there, and the one who is insists that the ulster is not mine, and in spite of the check will not allow me to search the pockets of it."

Stephen jumped up.

"I suppose she is right, too," went on Mr. Tolman breathlessly, "but the delay is very unfortunate."

They made their way into the corridor, where by this time an office clerk and another man had joined the maid who was in charge of the coat rack.

Stephen presented his check and without comment the woman handed him his coat. With trembling hand he dived into the deep pocket and from it drew forth the red bill book which he gave to his father.

"There it is, Dad, safe and sound!" he gasped.

Instantly the clerk was in their path.

"I beg pardon, sir," said he with deference, "but does that pocketbook belong to you?"

Mr. Tolman wheeled about.

"Eh—what did you say?" he inquired.

"I asked, sir, if that pocketbook was your property?" repeated the clerk.

Mr. Tolman faced his inquisitor.

"What business is that of yours?" he demanded curtly.

"I am sorry, sir, to appear rude," the hotel employee replied, "but we have been asked to be on the lookout for a young lad who rode this morning on one of the Fifth Avenue busses where a valuable pocketbook was lost. Your son tallies so well with the description that—"

"It was I," put in Stephen eagerly, without regard for consequences. "Who wants me?"

With a smile of eagerness he turned, expecting to encounter the genial face of his acquaintance of the morning. Then he would smile, hold out the pocketbook, and they would laugh together as he explained the adventure, and perhaps afterward have luncheon in company.

Instead no familiar form greeted him. On the contrary the slender man who had been standing beside the clerk came forward.

Mr. Tolman sensed the situation in a second.

"You mean somebody thinks my son took the pocketbook?" asked he indignantly, as he confronted the clerk and his companion.

"It is not my affair, sir, and I am sorry it should happen in our hotel," apologized the clerk. "Perhaps if you will just explain the whole matter to this gentleman—" he broke off, saying in an undertone to the man at his elbow. "This is your boy, Donovan."

The tall man came nearer.

"You are a detective?" asked Mr. Tolman bluntly.

"Well, something of the sort, sir," admitted the man called Donovan. "It is occasionally my business to hunt people up."

"And you have been sent to hunt my son up?"

Donovan nodded.

Stephen turned white and his father put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"My son and I," he replied, addressing the detective quietly, "can explain this entire affair to you and will do so gladly. The boy did find the pocketbook but he was ignorant of its value because he has not even looked inside it. In fact, that he had the article in his possession did not come into his mind until a few moments ago. If he had known the thing was valuable, do you suppose he would have left it in his ulster pocket and checked the coat in a public place like this?"

The detective made no reply.

"We both shall be very glad," went on Mr. Tolman firmly, "to go with you to headquarters and straighten the matter out."

"There may be no need of that, sir," Donovan responded with a pleasant smile. "If we can just talk the affair over in a satisfactory way—"

"Suppose you come upstairs to our room," suggested Mr. Tolman. "That will give us more quiet and privacy. Will that be agreeable to you?"

"Perfectly."

As the three walked toward the elevator Steve glanced with trepidation at the plain-clothes man.

The boy knew he had done nothing wrong; but would he be able to convince the detective of the truth of his story? He was thoroughly frightened and wondered whether his father was also alarmed.

If, however, Mr. Tolman was worried he at least did not show it. Instead he courteously led the way from the elevator down the dim corridor and unlocked the door of Number 379.

"Come in, Mr. Donovan," he said cordially. "Here is a chair and a cigar. Now, son, tell us the story of this troublesome pocketbook from beginning to end."

In a trembling voice Stephen began his tale. He spoke slowly, uncertainly, for he was well scared. Gradually, however, he forgot his agitation and his voice became more positive. He recounted the details of the omnibus ride with great care, adding ingenuously when he came to the termination of the narrative:

"And I hoped the man's name would be inside the pocketbook because I liked him very much and wanted to return to him what he had lost."

"And wasn't it?" put in Mr. Donovan quickly.

"I don't know," was the innocent retort. "Don't you remember I told you that I hadn't looked inside yet?"

The detective laughed with satisfaction.

"That was a shabby trick of mine, youngster," said he. "It was mean to try to trap you."

"Trap me?" repeated Steve vaguely.

"There, there, sonny!" went on Donovan kindly. "Don't you worry a minute more about this mix-up. Mr. Ackerman, the gentleman who lost the bill book, did not think for a second that you had taken it. He simply was so sure that he had lost it on the bus that he wanted to locate you and find out whether you knew anything about it or not. His name was not inside the pocketbook, you see, and therefore any one who found it would have no way of tracing its owner. What it contains are valuable papers and a big wad of Liberty Bonds which, as your father knows, could quickly be converted into cash. In consequence Mr. Ackerman decided that the sooner the pocketbook was found the better. The omnibus people denied any knowledge of it and you were the only remaining clue."

Mr. Tolman sank back in his chair and a relaxation of his muscles betrayed for the first time that he had been much more disturbed than he had appeared to be.

"Well," he said, lighting a fresh cigar, "the bill book is not only located but we can hand it back intact to its owner. If you can inform us where the gentleman lives, my boy and I will call a taxi and go to his house or office with his property."

A flush of embarrassment suffused the face of the officer.

"Maybe you would like to come with us, Donovan," added Mr. Tolman, who instantly interpreted the man's confusion.

"I hate to be dogging your footsteps, sir, in this fashion," Mr. Donovan answered, with obvious sincerity. "Still, I—"

"You have your orders, no doubt."

"Well, yes, sir," admitted the plain-clothes man with reluctance. "I have."

"You were to keep your eye on us until the pocketbook reached its owner."

"That's about it, sir. Not that I personally have the least suspicion that a gentleman like you would—"

"That is all right, my man. I perfectly understand your position," Mr. Tolman cut in. "After all, you have your duty to do and business is business. We'll just telephone Mr. Ackerman that we are coming so that we shall be sure of catching him, and then we will go right up there."

"Very well, sir."

Stephen's father started toward the telephone and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, paused and turned.

"Steve," he said, "I believe you are the person to communicate with Mr. Ackerman. Call him up and tell him you have found his purse and that you and your father would like to come up to his house, if it will be convenient, and return it."

"All right, Dad."

"You will find his number on this slip of paper, sonny," the detective added, handing the lad a card. "He is not at his office. He went home to lunch in the hope that he had left the pocketbook there."

After some delay Stephen succeeded in getting the number written on the card. A servant answered the summons.

"May I speak to Mr. Ackerman, please?" inquired the lad. "He is at luncheon? No, it would not do the least good for me to tell you my name for he would not know who it was. Just tell him that the boy who sat beside him this morning on the Fifth Avenue bus—" there was a little chuckle. "Oh, he will be here directly, will he? I thought perhaps he would."

A moment later a cheery voice which Steve at once recognized to be that of the steamboat man came over the wire:

"Well, sonny?"

"I found your bill book, Mr. Ackerman, and my father and I would like to bring it up to you."

"Well, well! that is fine news!" cried the man at the other end of the line. "How did you know who it belonged to?"

"Oh, I—we—found out—my father and I," stammered the lad. "May we come up to your house with it now?"

"You would much better let me come to you; then only one person will be inconvenienced," the New Yorker returned pleasantly. "Where are you staying?"

"At the Manhattan."

"You must not think of taking the trouble of coming way up here. Let me join you and your father at your hotel."

"Very well, Mr. Ackerman. If you'd rather—"

"I certainly should rather!" was the emphatic answer. "I could not think of bringing two people so far out of their way."

"There are three of us!" squeaked Stephen.

"Three?"

"Yes, sir. We have another person—a friend—with us," explained the boy, with quiet enjoyment. How easy it was to laugh now!

"All the more reason why I should come to you, then," asserted Mr. Ackerman. "I will be at the Manhattan within half an hour. Perhaps if you and your father and your friend have the afternoon free you would like to go to some sort of a show with me after we conclude our business. Since you are here on a holiday you can't be very busy."

Stephen's eyes sparkled with merriment.

"I don't know whether our friend can go or not," he replied politely, "but I think perhaps Dad and I could; and if we can we should like to very much."

"That will be excellent. I will come right along. Not only shall I be glad to get my pocketbook back again but I shall be glad to see you once more. I told you this morning that I had a feeling we should meet some time. Whom shall I ask for at the hotel?"

"Stephen Tolman."

With a click the boy hung up the receiver.

"Mr. Ackerman is coming right down," said he, addressing his father and the detective with a mischievous smile. "He has invited the three of us to go to the matinee with him."

"The three of us!" echoed the plain-clothes man.

"Yes," returned the lad. "I told him we had a friend with us and so he said to bring him along."

"Good heavens!" Donovan ejaculated.

Mr. Tolman laughed heartily.

"Not all the thieves you arrest take you to a theater party afterward, do they, Officer?" he asked.

"I said from the first you were gentlemen," Mr. Donovan asserted with humor.

"But couldn't you go?" inquired Steve, quite seriously.

"Bless you, no, sonny!" replied the man. "I am from headquarters, you know, and my work is chasing up crooks—not going to matinees."

Nevertheless there was an intonation of gentleness in his voice, as he added, "I am obliged to you just the same, for in spite of my calling I am a human being and I appreciate being treated like one."



CHAPTER IX

AN ASTOUNDING CALAMITY

Mr. Ackerman was as good as his word, for within half an hour he presented himself at the hotel where he found Mr. Tolman, Mr. Donovan and Steve awaiting him in their pleasant upstairs room. As he joined them his eye traveled inquiringly from one to another of the group and lingered with curiosity on the face of the detective. The next instant he was holding out his hand to Stephen.

"Well, my boy, I am glad to see you again," said he, a ring of heartiness in his voice.

"And I am glad to see you, too, Mr. Ackerman," Steve replied, returning the hand-clasp with fervor. "This is my father, sir; and this"—for a second he hesitated, then continued, "is our friend, Mr. Donovan."

With cordiality the New Yorker acknowledged the introductions.

"Mr. Donovan," explained Mr. Tolman, scanning Mr. Ackerman's countenance with a keen, half-quizzical expression, "is from headquarters."

The steamboat magnate started and shot a quick glance at those present. It was plain he was disconcerted and uncertain as to how to proceed.

Mr. Donovan, however, came to his rescue, stepping tactfully into the breach:

"I was not needed for anything but to supply your address, sir; but I was able to do that, so between us all we have contrived to return your pocketbook to you as good as before it left your possession."

As he spoke Mr. Tolman drew forth the missing bill book and held it toward its owner.

"That looks pretty good to me!" Mr. Ackerman exclaimed, as he took the article from Mr. Tolman's outstretched hand and regarded it reflectively. "I don't know when I have ever done anything so careless and stupid. You see I had got part way to the bank before I remembered that I had left my glasses, on which I am absolutely dependent, at home. Therefore, there being no taxi in sight, I hailed a passing bus and climbed up beside this youngster. How the bill book happened to slip out of my pocket I cannot explain. It seemed to me it would be safer to have the securities upon my person than in a bag that might be snatched from me; but apparently my logic was at fault. I was, however, so certain of my wisdom that I never thought to question it until I had reached the sidewalk and the bus had gone.

"Your boy, Mr. Tolman, confided while we rode along this morning that he was visiting in New York for a few days; but of course I did not ask his name or address and so when I wanted his help in tracing the missing pocketbook I had no way of locating him beyond assuming that he must be staying at one of the hotels. Therefore when the omnibus company could furnish no clue, I got into touch with an agency whose business it is to hunt people up. If the pocketbook had been dropped on the bus I felt sure your boy, who was almost the only other person on top of the coach, would know about it; if, on the other hand, it had been dropped in the street, my problem would be a different one. In either case the sooner I knew my course of action the better. I hope you will believe, Mr. Tolman, that when I called in the aid of detectives I had no suspicions against your son's honesty."

Mr. Tolman waved the final remark aside good-humoredly.

"We have not taken the affair as a personal matter at all," he declared. "We fully appreciate your difficulty in finding Stephen, for he was also up against the problem of finding you. New York is a rather large city anyway, and for two people who do not even know one another's names to get together is like hunting a needle in a haystack. Our only recourse to discovering the owner of the pocketbook would be through the advertising columns of the papers and that is the method we should have followed had not Donovan appeared and saved us the trouble."

He exchanged a smile with the detective.

"The advertising column was my one hope," Mr. Ackerman replied. "I felt sure that any honest person who picked up the purse would advertise it. It was not the honest people I was worrying about. It was the thought that I had dropped the bill book in the street where any Tom-Dick-and-Harry could run away with it that concerned me. Moreover, even if your boy had found it on the bus, he might have turned it in to an employee of the coach line who was not honest enough to give it in turn to his superiors. So I wanted to know where I stood; and now that I do I cannot tell you how grateful I am both to Stephen and to this officer here for the service they have rendered me." Then, turning toward Mr. Tolman, he added in an undertone, "I hope neither you nor your son have suffered any annoyance through this unfortunate incident."

"Not in the least," was the prompt response. "I confess we were a trifle disconcerted at first; but Mr. Donovan has performed his duty with such courtesy that we entertain toward him nothing but gratitude."

"I am glad of that," Mr. Ackerman replied, "for I should deeply regret placing either you or your boy, even for a moment, in an uncomfortable position, or one where it might appear that I—"

But Mr. Tolman cut him short.

"You took the quickest, most sensible course, Ackerman," said he. "Too much was at stake for you to risk delay. When a pocketbook filled with negotiable securities disappears one must of necessity act with speed. Neither Stephen nor I cherish the least ill-will about the affair; do we, son?"

"No, indeed."

Then smiling ingenuously up into the face of the New York man, he said:

"Don't you want to look in your pocketbook and see if everything is all right, sir?"

The steamboat financier laughed.

"You are a prudent young man," declared he. "No, I am quite willing to risk that the property you have so kindly guarded is intact."

"It ought to be," the boy said. "I haven't even opened the pocketbook."

"A better proof still that everything is safe within it," chuckled Mr. Ackerman. "No, sonny, I am not worrying. I should not worry even if you had ransacked the bill book from one end to the other. I'd take a chance on the honesty of a boy like you."

Mr. Tolman, however, who had been listening, now came forward and broke into the conversation:

"Stephen's suggestion is a good, businesslike one, Ackerman," he declared. "As a mere matter of form—not as a slam against our morals—I am sure that both he and I would prefer that you examined your property while we are all here together and assure yourself that it is all right."

"Pooh! Pooh! Nonsense!" objected the financier.

"It is a wise notion, Mr. Ackerman," rejoined Mr. Donovan. "Business is business. None of us questions the honor of Mr. Tolman or his son. They know that. Nevertheless I am sure we should all feel better satisfied if you went through the formality of an investigation."

"Very well, just as you say. But I want it understood that I do it at their and your request. I am perfectly satisfied to leave things as they are."

Taking the now familiar red pocketbook from his coat he opened it unconcernedly; then the three persons watching him saw a look of consternation banish the smile from his face.

"What's wrong, Ackerman?" inquired the plain-clothes man quickly.

Without a word the other held the bill book toward him. It was empty. Bonds, securities, money were gone! A gasp of incredulity came from Stephen.

"I didn't open it—truly I didn't!" exclaimed he, in a terror-stricken voice.

But Mr. Ackerman did not heed the remark.

"I am afraid this looks pretty black for us, Ackerman," said Mr. Tolman slowly. "We have nothing to give you but the boy's word."

Mr. Donovan, however, who had been studying the group with a hawklike scrutiny now sprang to his feet and caught up his hat.

"I don't see how they dared put it over!" he exclaimed excitedly. "But they almost got away with it. Even I was fooled."

"You don't mean to insinuate," Mr. Tolman burst out, "that you think we—"

"Good heavens, no!" replied the detective with his hand on the door knob. "Don't go getting hot under the collar, Mr. Tolman. Nobody is slamming you. I have been pretty stupid about this affair, I'm afraid; but give me credit for recognizing honest people when I see them. No, somebody has tricked you—tricked you all. But the game isn't up yet. If you gentlemen will just wait here—"

The sentence was cut short by the banging of the door. The detective was gone. His departure was followed by an awkward silence.

Mr. Ackerman's face clouded into a frown of disappointment and anxiety; Mr. Tolman paced the floor and puffed viciously at a cigar; and Steve, his heart cold within him, looked from one to the other, chagrin, mortification and terror in his eyes.

"I didn't open the pocketbook, Mr. Ackerman," he reiterated for the twentieth time. "I truly didn't."

But the steamboat magnate was too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts and speculations to notice the high-pitched voice with its intonation of distress.

At last Mr. Tolman could endure the situation no longer.

"This is a most unfortunate happening, Ackerman," he burst out. "I am more concerned about it than I can express. My boy and I are utter strangers to you and we have no way of proving our honesty. All I can say is that we are as much amazed at the turn affairs have taken as yourself, and we regret it with quite as much poignancy—perhaps more since it reflects directly upon us. If there is anything we can do—"

He stopped, awaiting a reply from the other man, but none came.

"Good heavens, Ackerman," he cried. "You don't mean to say you do not believe my son and me—that you suspect us of double-dealing!"

"I don't know what to believe, Tolman," owned Mr. Ackerman with candor. "I want very much to credit your story; in my heart, I do credit it. But head and heart seem to be at variance in this matter. Frankly I am puzzled to know where the contents of that pocketbook have gone. Were the things taken out before the bill book fell into your son's hands or afterward? And if afterward, who took them? Who had the chance? Donovan seems to think he has a clue, but I confess I have none."

"Hadn't you looked over the bonds and stuff since you took them home?"

"No," Mr. Ackerman admitted. "I got them from the broker yesterday and as it was too late to put them into the safe-deposit vault, I took them home with me instead of putting them in our office safe as I should have done. I thought it would be easier for me to stop at the bank with them this morning on my way to business. It was foolish planning but I aimed to save time."

"So the pocketbook was at your house over night?"

Mr. Ackerman nodded.

"Yes," confessed he. "Nevertheless it did not go out of my possession. I had it in the inner pocket of my coat all the time."

"You are sure no one took the things out while you were asleep last night?"

"Why—I—I don't see how they could," faltered Mr. Ackerman. "My servants are honest—at least, they always have been. I have had them for years. Moreover, none of them knew I had valuable papers about me. How could they?" was the reply.

Once more silence fell upon the room.

"Come, Tolman," ejaculated the steamboat man presently, "you are a level-headed person. What is your theory?"

"If I did not know my son and myself as well as I do," Mr. Tolman answered with deliberation, "my theory would be precisely what I fancy yours is. I should reason that during the interval between the finding of the purse and its return the contents had been extracted."

He saw the New Yorker color.

"That, I admit, is my logical theory," Mr. Ackerman owned with a blush, "but it is not my intuitive one. My brain tells me one thing and my heart another; and in spite of the fact that the arguments of my brain seem correct I find myself believing my heart and in consequence cherishing a groundless faith in you and your boy," concluded he, with a faint smile.

"That is certainly generous of you, Ackerman!" Mr. Tolman returned, much moved by the other's confidence. "Stephen and I are in a very compromising situation with nothing but your belief between us and a great deal of unpleasantness. We appreciate your attitude of mind more than we can express. The only other explanation I can offer, and in the face of the difficulties it would involve it hardly seems a possible one, is that while the coat was hanging in the lobby—"

There was a sound outside and a sharp knock at the door, and an instant later Mr. Donovan entered, his face wreathed in smiles. Following him was the woman who had checked the coats, a much frightened bell boy, and a blue-uniformed policeman.

The woman was sobbing.

"Indeed, sir," she wailed, approaching Steve, "I never meant to keep the pocketbook and make trouble for you. I have a boy of my own at home, a lad about your age. What is to become of him now? Oh, dear; oh, dear!"

She burst into passionate weeping.

"Now see here, my good woman, stop all this crying and talk quietly," cut in the policeman in a curt but not unkind tone. "If you will tell us the truth, perhaps we can help you. In any case we must know exactly what happened."

"She must understand that anything she says can be used against her," cautioned the detective, who in spite of his eagerness to solve the mystery was determined the culprit should have fair play.

"Indeed, I don't care, sir," protested the maid, wiping her eyes on her ridiculously small apron. "I can't be any worse off than I am now with a policeman taking me to the lock-up. I'll tell the gentlemen the truth, I swear I will."

With a courtesy he habitually displayed toward all womanhood Mr. Tolman drew forward a chair and she sank gratefully into it.

"I spied the bill book in the young gentleman's pocket the minute he took off his coat," began she in a low tone. "It was bright colored and as it was sticking part way out I couldn't help seeing it. Of course, I expected he would take it with him into the dining room but when he didn't I came to the conclusion that there couldn't be anything of value in it. But by and by I had more coats to hang up and one of them, a big, heavy, fur-lined one, brushed against the young gentleman's ulster and knocked the pocketbook out on to the floor so that it lay open under the coat rack. It was then that I saw it was stuffed full of papers and things."

She stopped a moment to catch her breath and then went resolutely on:

"It seemed to me it was no sort of a plan to put the wallet back into the lad's pocket, for when I wasn't looking somebody might take it. So I decided I much better keep it safe for him, and maybe," she owned with a blush, "get a good-sized tip for doing it. I have a big pocket in my underskirt where I carry my own money and I slipped it right in there, meaning to hand it to the young man when he came out from lunch."

The corners of her mouth twitched and her tears began to fall again, but she wiped them away with her apron and proceeded steadily:

"But nothing turned out as I planned, for no sooner was the bill book in my pocket than I was called away to help about the wraps at a lady's luncheon upstairs. There were so many people about the hall that I had no chance to restore the bill book to the lad's pocket without some one seeing me and thinking, perhaps, that I was stealing. There was no help but to take it with me, trusting they would not keep me long upstairs and that I would get back to my regular place before the young gentleman came out of the dining room. It was when I got out of the elevator in the upper hall that I spied Dick, one of the bell boys I knew, and I called to him; and after explaining that I couldn't get away to go downstairs I asked him to take the wallet and put it in 47's pocket. He's a good-natured little chap and always ready to do an errand, and more than that he's an honest boy. So I felt quite safe and went to work, supposing the young man had his pocketbook long ago."

All eyes were turned upon the unlucky bell boy who hung his head and colored uncomfortably.

"So it was the boy who took the contents of the pocketbook!" was Mr. Ackerman's comment.

"Speak up, boy," commanded the officer. "The gentleman is talking to you." The lad looked up with a frightened start.

He might have been sixteen years of age but he did not look it for he was pale and underfed; nor was there anything in his bearing to indicate the poise and maturity of one who was master of the occasion. On the contrary, he was simply a boy who was frankly distressed and frightened, and as unfeignedly helpless in the present emergency as if he had been six years old and been caught stealing jam from the pantry shelf. It did not take more than a glance to convince the onlookers that he was no hardened criminal. If he had done wrong it had been the result either of impulse or mischief, and the dire result of his deed was a thing he had been too unsophisticated to foresee. The plight in which he now found himself plainly amazed and overwhelmed him and he looked pleadingly at his captors.

"Well, my boy, what have you to say for yourself?" repeated Mr. Ackerman more gently.

"Nothin'."

"Nothing?"

"No, sir."

"You did take the things out of the pocketbook then."

"Yes, sir."

"But you are not a boy accustomed to taking what does not belong to you."

The culprit shot a glance of gratitude toward the speaker but made no reply.

"How did you happen to do it this time?" persisted Mr. Ackerman kindly. "Come, tell me all about it."

Perhaps it was the ring of sympathy in the elder man's voice that won the boy's heart. Whatever the charm, it conquered; and he met the eyes that scanned his countenance with a timid smile.

"I wanted to see what was in the pocketbook," said he with naive honesty, "and so I took the things out to look at them. I wasn't goin' to keep 'em. I dodged into one of the little alcoves in the hall and had just pulled the papers out when I heard somebody comin'. So I crammed the whole wad of stuff into my pocket, waiting for a time when I could look it over and put it back. But I got held up just like Mrs. Nolan did," he pointed toward the woman in the chair. "Some man was sick and the clerk sent me to get a bottle of medicine the minute I got downstairs, and all I had the chance to do was to stick the empty wallet in 47's pocket and beat it for the drug store. I thought there would be letters or something among the papers that would give the name of the man they belonged to, and I'd take 'em to the clerk at the desk an' say I found 'em. But no sooner had I got the medicine up to room Number 792 than the policeman nabbed me with the papers an' things on me. That's all there is to it, sir."

"Have you the things now?" the officer put in quickly.

"Sure! Didn't I just tell you I hadn't had the chance to hand 'em over to the clerk," the boy reiterated, pulling a wad of crumpled Liberty Bonds and documents out of his pocket, and tumbling them upon the table.

There was no doubting the lad's story. Truth spoke in every line of his face and in the frankness with which he met the scrutiny of those who listened to him. If one had questioned his uprightness the facts bore out his statements, for once out of the hotel on an errand he might easily have taken to his heels and never returned; or he might have disposed of his booty during his absence. But he had done neither. He had gone to the drug store and come back with every intention of making restitution for the result of his curiosity. That was perfectly evident.

"I'm sorry, sir," he declared, when no one spoke. "I know I shouldn't have looked in the pocketbook or touched the papers; but I meant no harm—honest I didn't."

"I'll be bound of that, sir," the woman interrupted. "Dick was ever a lad to be trusted. The hotel people will tell you that. He's been here several years and there's never been a thing against him. I blame myself for getting him into this trouble, for without meaning to I put temptation in his way. I know that what he's told you is the living truth, and I pray you'll try and believe him and let him go. If harm was to come to the lad through me I'd never forgive myself. Let the boy go free and put the blame on me, if you must arrest somebody. I'm older and it doesn't so much matter; but it's terrible to start a child of his age in as a criminal. The name will follow him through life. He'll never get rid of it and have a fair chance. Punish me but let the little chap go, I beg of you," pleaded the woman, with streaming eyes.