The Store Boy

CHAPTER XXXIII GOOD NEWS

The tramp, as we may call him for want of a dif­fer­ent name, cer­tain­ly showed signs of im­prove­ment in his per­son­al ap­pear­ance. He looked quite re­spectable, in fact, in a busi­ness suit of gray mixed cloth, and would have passed muster in any as­sem­blage.

“I think I have met you be­fore,” an­swered Ben, with a smile.

“Per­haps it would have been more of a com­pli­ment not to have rec­og­nized me. I flat­ter my­self that I have changed.”

“So you have, and for the bet­ter.”

“Thank you. I be­lieve we rode to­geth­er when we last met.”

“Yes,” said Ben.

“And you were not sor­ry to part copy with me--is it not so?”

“I won't con­tra­dict you.”

“Yet I am in­clined to be your friend.”

“I am glad of it,” said Ben po­lite­ly, though, truth to tell, he did not an­tic­ipate any par­tic­ular ben­efit to ac­crue from the ac­quain­tance of the speak­er.

“I see you don't at­tach much im­por­tance to my of­fer of friend­ship. Yet I can do you an im­por­tant ser­vice.”

Mr. Tay­lor, who had been oc­cu­py­ing a seat with Ben, here arose.

“You have some­thing to say to my young friend,” he said. “Take my seat.”

“Don't let me de­prive you of it,” said the oth­er with a po­lite­ness Ben had not deemed him ca­pa­ble of.

“By no means. I am go­ing in­to the smok­ing car to smoke a cigar. Ben, I will be back soon.”

“I didn't ex­pect to meet you so far from Pen­tonville,” said Ben's new com­pan­ion, un­able to sup­press his cu­rios­ity.

“I don't live in Pen­tonville now.”

“Where then?”

“In the city of New York.”

“Are you em­ployed there?”

“Yes; but I am just re­turn­ing from a trip to West­ern Penn­syl­va­nia.”

“Did you go on busi­ness?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you are get­ting on, for a coun­try boy. What do you hear from home?”

“My moth­er is well, but I fan­cy that is not what you mean.”

“Yes, I am in­ter­est­ed about your moth­er. Has she yet paid off that mort­gage on her cot­tage?”

“How did you know there was a mort­gage,” asked Ben, in sur­prise.

“I know more than you sup­pose. What are the chances that she will be able to pay?”

“They are very small,” an­swered Ben, grave­ly, “but the mon­ey is not yet due.”

“When will it be due?”

“In about six weeks.”

“Squire Dav­en­port will fore­close--I know him well enough for that.”

“So I sup­pose,” said Ben, sober­ly.

“Is there no friend who will oblige you with the mon­ey?”

“I don't know of any­one I should feel at lib­er­ty to call on.”

It came in­to his mind that Mrs. Hamil­ton was abun­dant­ly able to help them, but she did not know his moth­er, and it would sa­vor of pre­sump­tion for him to ask so great a fa­vor. True, he had ef­fect­ed a most prof­itable sale for her, but that was on­ly in the line of his faith­ful du­ty, and gave him no claim up­on his em­ploy­er.

“I thought, per­haps, the gen­tle­men you were trav­el­ing with--the one who has gone in­fo the smok­ing-​car--might--”

“He is on­ly a busi­ness ac­quain­tance; I have known him less than a week.”

“To be sure, that al­ters mat­ters. He is not your em­ploy­er, then?”

“No.”

“Then I be­lieve I shall have to help you my­self.”

Ben stared at his com­pan­ion in amaze­ment. What! this man who had robbed him of a dol­lar on­ly four weeks be­fore, to of­fer as­sis­tance in so im­por­tant a mat­ter!

“I sup­pose you are jok­ing,” said he, af­ter a pause.

“Jok­ing! Far from it. I mean just what I say. If Squire Dav­en­port un­der­takes to de­prive your moth­er of her home, I will in­ter­fere, and, you will see, with ef­fect.”

“Would you mind ex­plain­ing to me how you would help us?” asked Ben.

“Yes, in con­fi­dence, it be­ing un­der­stood that I fol­low my own course in the mat­ter.”

“That is fair enough.”

“Sup­pose I tell you, then, that Squire Dav­en­port--I be­lieve that is the ti­tle he goes by in your vil­lage--owes your moth­er more than the amount of the mort­gage.”

“Is this true?” said Ben, much sur­prised.

“It is quite true.”

“But how can it be?”

“Your fa­ther, at his death, held a note of Dav­en­port's for a thou­sand dol­lars--mon­ey which he had placed in his hands--a note bear­ing six per cent. in­ter­est.”

Ben was more and more sur­prised; at first he was elat­ed, then de­pressed.

“It will do me no good,” he said, “noth­ing was found at fa­ther's death, and the note is no doubt de­stroyed.”

“So Squire Dav­en­port thinks,” said his com­pan­ion qui­et­ly.

“But isn't it true?”

“No; that note not on­ly is in ex­is­tence, but I knew where to lay my hands on it.”

“Then it will more than off­set the mort­gage?” said Ben joy­ful­ly.

“I should say. No in­ter­est has been paid on the note for more than five years. The amount due must be quite dou­ble the amount of the mort­gage.”

“How can I thank you for this in­for­ma­tion?” said Ben. “We shall not be forced to give up our lit­tle cot­tage, af­ter all. But how could Squire Dav­en­port so wicked­ly try to cheat us of our lit­tle prop­er­ty?”

“My dear boy,” said the tramp, shrug­ging his shoul­ders, “your ques­tion sa­vors of ver­dan­cy. Learn that there is no mean­ness too great to be in­spired by the love of mon­ey.”

“But Squire Dav­en­port was al­ready rich.”

“And for that rea­son he de­sired to be­come rich­er.”

“When shall we go to see the squire and tell him about the note?”

“I pre­fer that you should wait till the day the mort­gage comes due. When is that?”

“On the twen­ti­eth of De­cem­ber.”

“Then on the nine­teenth of De­cem­ber we will both go to Pen­tonville and wait till the squire shows his hand.”

“You seem to be--ex­cuse me--in bet­ter cir­cum­stances than when we last met.”

“I am. An old un­cle of mine died last month, and con­sid­er­ate­ly left me ten thou­sand dol­lars. Per­haps if he had known more about my way of life he would have found an­oth­er heir. It has led me to turn over a new leaf, and hence­forth I am re­spectable, as be­fits a man of prop­er­ty. I even keep a card case.”

He drew out a card case and hand­ed a card to Ben. It bore the name of Har­vey Dins­more.

“Mr. Dins­more,” said our young hero, I re­joice at your good for­tune."

“Thank you. Shall we be friends?”

“With plea­sure.”

“Then I have more good news for you. Your fa­ther owned twen­ty-​five shares in a West­ern rail­way. These shares are sell­ing at par, and a year's div­idends are due.”

“Why, we shall be rich,” said Ben, fair­ly daz­zled by this sec­ond stroke of good for­tune.

“I hope so; though this is on­ly a be­gin­ning.”

“How can we prove that the rail­way shares be­long to us?”

“Leave that to me. On the nine­teenth of De­cem­ber you will meet me in Pen­tonville. Till then we prob­ably shall not meet.”

At this mo­ment Mr. Tay­lor made his ap­pear­ance, re­turn­ing from the smok­ing-​car, and Har­vey Dins­more left them.

“Well, Ben, has your friend en­ter­tained you?” asked Tay­lor.

“He has told me some very good news.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

In due time they reached New York, and Ben start­ed up­town to call up­on Mrs. Hamil­ton.