The Store Boy

CHAPTER VII THE TRAMP MAKES ANOTHER CALL

My read­ers will nat­ural­ly be sur­prised at the tramp's resti­tu­tion of a coin, which, though coun­ter­feit, he would prob­ably have man­aged to pass, but this chap­ter will throw some light on his mys­te­ri­ous con­duct.

When he made a sud­den ex­it from Mrs. Bar­clay's house, up­on the ap­pear­ance of the squire and his friend, he did not leave the premis­es, but post­ed him­self at a win­dow, slight­ly open, of the room in which the wid­ow re­ceived her new vis­itors. He lis­tened with a smile to the squire's at­tempt to force Mrs. Bar­clay to sell her house.

“He's a sly old ras­cal!” thought the tramp. “I'll put a spoke in his wheel.”

When the squire and his wife's cousin left the house, the tramp fol­lowed at a lit­tle dis­tance. Not far from the squire's hand­some res­idence Kirk left him, and the tramp then came bold­ly for­ward.

“Good-​evenin',” he said fa­mil­iar­ly.

Squire Dav­en­port turned sharply, and as his eye fell on the un­pre­pos­sess­ing fig­ure, he in­stinc­tive­ly put his hand in the pock­et in which he kept his wal­let.

“Who are you?” he de­mand­ed ap­pre­hen­sive­ly.

“I ain't a thief, and you needn't fear for your wal­let,” was the re­ply.

“Let me pass, fel­low! I can do noth­ing for you.”

“We'll see about that!”

“Do you threat­en me?” asked Squire Dav­en­port, in alarm.

“Not at all; but I've got some busi­ness with you--some im­por­tant busi­ness.”

“Then call to-​mor­row forenoon,” said Dav­en­port, anx­ious to get rid of his ill-​look­ing ac­quain­tance.

“That won't do; I want to leave town tonight.”

“That's noth­ing to me.”

“It may be,” said the tramp sig­nif­icant­ly. “I want to speak to you about the hus­band of the wom­an you called on to-​night.”

“The hus­band of Mrs. Bar­clay! Why, he is dead!” ejac­ulat­ed the squire, in sur­prise.

“That is true. Do you know whether he left any prop­er­ty?”

“No, I be­lieve not.”

“That's what I want to talk about. You'd bet­ter see me to-​night.”

There was sig­nif­icance in the tone of the tramp, and Squire Dav­en­port looked at him search­ing­ly.

“Why don't you go and see Mrs. Bar­clay about this mat­ter?” he asked.

“I may, but I think you'd bet­ter see me first.”

By this time they had reached the Squire's gate.

“Come in,” he said briefly.

The squire led the way in­to a com­fort­able sit­ting room, and his rough vis­itor fol­lowed him. By the light of an as­tral lamp Squire Dav­en­port looked at him.

“Did I ev­er see you be­fore?” he asked.

“Prob­ably not.”

“Then I don't see what busi­ness we can have to­geth­er. I am tired, and wish to go to bed.”

“I'll come to busi­ness at once, then. When John Bar­clay died in Chica­go, a wal­let was found in his pock­et, and in that wal­let was a promis­so­ry note for a thou­sand dol­lars, signed by you. I sup­pose you have paid that sum to the wid­ow?”

Squire Dav­en­port was the pic­ture of dis­may. He had mean­ly ig­nored the note, with the in­ten­tion of cheat­ing Mrs. Bar­clay. He had sup­posed it was lost, yet here, af­ter some years, ap­peared a man who knew of it. As Mr. Bar­clay had been ret­icent about his busi­ness af­fairs, he had nev­er told his wife about hav­ing de­posit­ed this sum with Squire Dav­en­port, and of this fact the squire had mean­ly tak­en ad­van­tage.

“What proof have you of this strange and im­prob­able sto­ry?” asked the squire, af­ter a ner­vous pause.

“The best of proof,” an­swered the tramp prompt­ly. “The note was found and is now in ex­is­tence.”

“Who holds it--that is, ad­mit­ting for a mo­ment the truth of your sto­ry?”

“I do; it is in my pock­et at this mo­ment.”

At this mo­ment Tom Dav­en­port opened the door of the apart­ment, and stared in open-​eyed amaze­ment at his fa­ther's sin­gu­lar vis­itor.

“Leave the room, Tom,” said his fa­ther hasti­ly. “This man is con­sult­ing me on busi­ness.”

“Is that your son, squire?” asked the tramp, with a fa­mil­iar nod. “He's quite a young swell.”

“What busi­ness can my fa­ther have with such a cad?” thought Tom, dis­gust­ed.

Tom was pleased, nev­er­the­less, at be­ing tak­en for “a young swell.”