Grit

CHAPTER XXXIV.

GRIT REACHES BOSTON

Full of hope and joyful anticipation, Grit left home and pursued his journey to Boston. He had occasion to stop a couple of hours at Portland, and improved it by strolling down to the pier of the little steamers that make periodical trips to the islands in the harbor. Just outside a low saloon he unexpectedly ran across his stepfather.

"How are you, Grit?" said Brandon affably.

There was a flush on Brandon's face, and an unsteadiness of gait which indicated that he had succeeded in evading what is known as the Maine law. To Grit it was not a welcome apparition. Still, he felt it due to himself to be ordinarily polite.

"I am well," he answered briefly.

"And how's your mother?" asked Brandon.

"Quite well, thank you," Grit answered, as formally as if the question had been asked by a stranger.

"Does she miss me much?" asked his stepfather, with a smile.

"She has not mentioned it," responded our hero coldly.

"I am sorry that circumstances compel me to be absent from her for a time," continued Brandon.

"Oh, don't disturb yourself," said Grit. "She is quite used to being alone. I think she mentioned that you talked of going to Europe."

Brandon frowned, and his bitter disappointment was thus recalled to his mind.

"I don't know whether I shall or not," he answered. "It depends upon whether my—speculation turns out well. Where are you going?"

Grit hesitated as to whether he should answer correctly. He was not anxious to have Brandon looking him up in Boston, but it occurred to him that he should be traveling at the West, and, therefore, he answered:

"I have heard of a chance in Boston, and am going to see about it."

"All right, Grit!" said Brandon. "You have my consent."

It occurred to Grit that he did not stand in need of his stepfather's approval, but he did not say so.

"Yes, Grit, I send you forth with a father's blessing," said Brandon paternally. "By the way, have you a quarter about you?"

Grit thought that a quarter was rather a high price to pay for Brandon's blessing, but he was in good spirits, and this made him good-natured. Accordingly, he drew a quarter from his pocket and handed it to his stepfather.

"Thank you, Grit," said Brandon briskly, for he had felt uncertain as to the success of his application. "I like to see you respectful and dutiful. I will drink your good health, and success to your plans."

"You had better drink it in cold water, Mr. Brandon."

"That's all right," said Brandon. "Good-by!"

He disappeared in the direction of the nearest saloon, and Grit returned to the depot to take the train for Boston.

"I don't know that I ought to have given him any money," thought Grit, "but I was so glad to get rid of him that I couldn't refuse."

He reached Boston without further adventure, arriving at the Boston and Maine depot in Haymarket Square about four o'clock.

"I wonder whether it is too late to call on Mr. Weaver to-night," thought Grit.

He decided that it was not. Even if it were too late for an interview, he thought it would be wise to let his prospective employer understand that he had met his appointment punctually.

"Carriage, sir?" asked a hackman.

Grit answered in the negative, feeling that to one in his circumstances it would be foolish extravagance to spend money for a carriage. But this was succeeded by the thought that time was valuable, and as he did not know where Essex Street was, it might consume so much to find out the place indicated in the letter that he might miss the opportunity of seeing Mr. Weaver.

"How far is Essex Street from here?" he asked.

"Three or four miles," promptly answered the hackman.

"Is there any street-car line that goes there?"

"Oh, bless you, no."

Neither of these answers was correct, but Grit did not know this.

"How much will you charge to take me to No. – Essex Street?"

"Seein' it's you, I'll take you for a dollar and a quarter."

Grit was about to accept this offer, when a quiet-looking man beside him said:

"The regular fare is fifty cents."

"Is it any of your business?" demanded the hackman angrily. "Do you want to take the bread out of a poor man's mouth?"

"Yes, if the poor man undertakes to cheat a boy!" answered the quiet man keenly.

"It's ridiculous expectin' to pay fifty cents for a ride of three or four miles," grumbled the hackman.

"The distance isn't over a mile and a quarter, and you are not allowed to ask over fifty cents. My boy, I advise you to call another hack."

"Jump in," said the hackman, fearful of losing his fare.

"I think I will get in, too, as I am going to that part of the city," said the small man, in whom my readers will probably recognize the detective already referred to.

"That'll be extra."

"Of course," said the detective. "I understand that, and I understand how much extra," said the stranger significantly.

As the man and boy rattled through the streets, they fell into a conversation, and Grit, feeling that he was with a friend, told his plan.

"Humph!" said the detective. "May I see this letter?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Do you know who recommended you to Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit's new friend.

"No, sir."

"And can't guess?"

"No, sir."

"Doesn't it strike you as a little singular that such an offer should come from a stranger?"

"Yes, sir; that did occur to me. Don't you think it genuine?" asked Grit anxiously.

"I don't know. I could tell better if I should see this Mr. Weaver."

"Won't you go in with me?"

"No; it might seem odd, and the proposal may be genuine. I'll tell you what to do, my boy. That is, if you feel confidence in me."

"I do, and shall be glad of your advice."

"Come to the Parker House after your interview, and inquire for Benjamin Baker."

"I will, sir, and thank you."

When the hack drew up in front of No. – Essex Street, the stranger got out with Grit.

"I am calling close by," he said, "and won't ride any farther. Here is the fare for both."

"But, sir," said Grit, "it is not right that you should pay my fare for me."

"It is all right," said Mr. Baker. "I have more money than you, probably, my young friend. Besides, meeting with you has saved me some trouble."

This speech puzzled Grit, but he did not feel like asking any explanation.

He glanced with some interest at the house where he was to meet Mr. Weaver. It was a three-story brick house, with a swell front, such as used to be very popular in Boston thirty or forty years since. It was very quiet in appearance, and there was nothing to distinguish it from its neighbors on either side.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Baker," said Grit, as he ascended the steps to ring the bell.

"Good afternoon. Remember to call upon me at the Parker House."

"Thank you, sir."

Benjamin Baker turned down a side street, and Grit rang the bell.

It was opened by a tall, gaunt woman, with a cast in her eye.

"What's wanted?" she asked abruptly.

"I called to see Mr. Weaver—Mr. Solomon Weaver," said Grit.

"Oh, yes," said the woman, with a curious smile. "Come in."

The hall which Grit entered was dark and shabby in its general appearance. Our hero followed his guide to a rear room, the door of which was thrown open, revealing a small apartment, with a shabby collection of furniture. There was no carpet on the floor, but one or two rugs relieved the large expanse of floor.

"Take a seat, and I'll call Mr. Weaver," said the woman.

Somehow Grit's courage was dampened by the unpromising look of the house and its interior.

He had pictured to himself Mr. Weaver as a pleasant, prosperous-looking man, who lived in good style, and was liberally disposed.

He sat down in an armchair in the center of the room.

He had but five minutes to wait.

Then the door opened, and to Grit's amazement the man whom he had known as Colonel Johnson entered the room, and coolly locked the door after him.

CHAPTER XXXV.

CROSS-EXAMINED

Grit's face showed the astonishment he felt at the unexpected appearance of a man whom he knew to be the prime instigator of the attempt to rob the bank at Chester.

Colonel Johnson smiled grimly as he saw the effect produced by his presence.

"You didn't expect to see me?" he said.

"No, sir," answered Grit.

"I flatter myself you had done me the honor to call upon me," said Johnson, seating himself at a little distance from our hero.

"I came to see Mr. Solomon Weaver, from whom I received a letter," explained Grit. "If this is your house I may have made a mistake in the number."

"Not at all," answered Johnson. "Mr. Weaver is a friend of mine."

"Does he live here?"

"Oh, yes," said Johnson, smiling.

"He wrote me that he wished to send me on a Western trip."

"That's all right."

"Then the letter was genuine," said Grit, hoping that things might turn out right after all.

Could it be possible, he thought, that Colonel Johnson was the friend who had recommended him? It did not seem at all probable, but in his bewilderment he did not know what to think.

"Can I see Mr. Weaver?" asked Grit, desirous of putting an end to his uncertainty.

"Presently," answered Colonel Johnson. "He is busy just at present, but he deputed me to speak with you."

This was all very surprising, but would probably soon be explained.

"I shall be glad to answer any questions," said Grit.

"I suppose you can present good recommendations, as the position is a responsible one," said Johnson, with a half smile.

"Yes, sir."

"Whom, for instance?"

"Mr. Graves, president of the Chester Bank," said Grit.

Knowing what he did of Colonel Johnson's attempt upon the bank, it was perhaps a rather odd choice to make, but the young boatman thought it might help him to discover whether Johnson knew anything of his recent employment by the bank.

"I have heard of Mr. Graves," said Johnson. "Has he ever employed you?"

"Yes, sir."

"In what capacity?" demanded Johnson searchingly.

"He sent me to this city with a package."

"What did the package contain?"

"I think it contained bonds."

"Haven't they a regular bank messenger?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's his name?"

"Ephraim Carver."

"Why was he not employed? Why should you be sent in his place?"

"I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit independently.

"Why? Don't you know?"

"Even if I did I should consider that I had no right to tell."

"You are a very conscientious and honorable young man," said Johnson sneeringly.

"Thank you, sir," returned Grit, choosing not to show that he understood the sneer.

"Where is your stepfather?" inquired Johnson, changing the subject abruptly.

"In Portland."

"How do you know?"

"I met him in the street while on my way through the city."

"Did you speak with him?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did he say?" asked Johnson suspiciously.

"He wished to borrow twenty-five cents," answered Grit, with a smile.

"Did you lend it to him?"

"Yes."

"Very dutiful, on my word!"

"I have no feeling of that sort for Mr. Brandon," said Grit frankly. "I thought it the easiest way to get rid of him."

Johnson changed the subject again.

"Is Ephraim Carver likely to lose his situation as bank messenger?" he asked.

"I think you had better ask Mr. Graves," said Grit, on his guard.

Johnson frowned, for he did not like Grit's independence.

"It is reported that you are intriguing for his position," he continued.

"That is not true."

"Do you think there is any likelihood of your being appointed in his place?"

"No, sir; I never dreamed of it."

"Yet there is a possibility of it. Don't suppose that I am particularly interested in this Carver. So far as I am concerned, I should not object to your succeeding him."

"What does all this mean?" thought Grit.

"If you should do so, I might have a proposal to make to you that would be to your advantage."

Knowing what he did, Grit very well understood what was meant. Johnson, no doubt, wished to hire him to betray the confidence reposed in him by the bank, and deliver up any valuable package entrusted to him for a money consideration. Like any right-minded and honorable boy, Grit felt that the very hint of such a thing was an insult to him, and his face flushed with indignation. For the moment he forgot his prudence.

"I don't think there is the least chance of my getting such a position," he said; "but even if I did, it would not do you any good to make me a proposal."

"How do you know what sort of a proposal I should make?" demanded Johnson keenly.

"I don't know," answered Grit, emphasizing the last word.

"It appears to me, young man, that you are a little ahead of time," said Johnson. "You shouldn't crow too soon."

"I think I will bid you good evening," said Grit, rising.

"Why so soon? You haven't seen Mr. Weaver."

"On the whole, I don't think I should wish to engage with him."

Our hero felt that if Mr. Weaver were a friend of the man before him, it would be safest to have nothing to do with him. On the principle that a man is known by the company he keeps, the friend of Colonel Johnson could hardly be a desirable person to serve.

"You seem to be in a hurry, especially as you have not seen my friend Weaver."

"You will be kind enough to explain to him that I have changed my plans," said Grit.

"Resume your seat for five minutes," said Johnson, "and I will call Weaver. You had better see him for yourself."

"Very well, sir."

He reflected that merely seeing Mr. Weaver would not commit him to anything.

Colonel Johnson rose to his feet, and placed his foot firmly on a particular spot in the floor.

To Grit's dismay, the floor seemed to sink beneath him, and chair and all were lowered a dozen feet into a subterranean cavity, too quickly for him to help himself.

He realized that the chair so conveniently placed in the center of the apartment rested on a trap-door.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE BOY DANIEL

Though Grit was not hurt by his sudden descent into the dark cavity under the room in which he had been seated, he was, nevertheless, somewhat startled. Indeed, it was enough to startle a person much older. For the first time it dawned upon him that he was the victim of a conspiracy, and Mr. Weaver was either an imaginary person, or his offer was not genuine. It was clear, also, from the tenor of Johnson's questions that he fully understood, or at least suspected, that his plan had been known in advance to the bank officials.

The young boatman understood how to manage a boat, but in the present case he found that he was out of his element. The tricks, traps, and devices of a great city he knew very little about. He had, indeed, read about trap-doors and subterranean chambers in certain sensational stories which had come into his possession, but he looked upon them as mere figments of the imagination, and did not believe they really existed. Now, here was he himself made an unexpected victim by a conspiracy of the same class familiar to him in novels.

Naturally, the first thing to do was to take a survey of his new quarters, and obtain some idea of his position. At first everything seemed involved in thick darkness, but as his eye became accustomed to it, he could see that he was in a cellar of about the same size as the room above, though there was a door leading into another. He felt his way to it, and tried to open it, but found that it was fastened, probably by a bolt on the other side. There was no other door.

"I am like a rat in a trap," thought Grit. "What are they going to do with me, I wonder?"

While it was unpleasant enough to be where he was, he did not allow himself to despond or give way to unmanly fears. There was no reason, he thought, to apprehend serious peril or physical violence. Colonel Johnson probably intended to frighten him, with a view of securing his compliance with the demands of the conspirators.

"He will find he has made a mistake," thought Grit. "I am not a baby, and don't mean to act like one."

He heard a noise, and, looking round, discovered the armchair in which he had descended being drawn up toward the trap-door. The door was opened by some agency, the chair disappeared, and again he was in darkness.

"They don't mean to keep me here in luxury," thought Grit. "If I sit down anywhere, it will have to be on the floor."

It was late in the afternoon, as we know, and it seemed likely that our hero would have to remain in the subterranean chamber all night. As there was no bed, he would have to lie down on the ground. Grit kneeled down, and ascertained that the floor was cemented, and not a damp earthen flooring as he had feared. He congratulated himself, for he was bound to make the best of the situation.

There was another source of discomfort, however. It was already past Grit's ordinary supper hour, and, except a very slight lunch, consisting of a sandwich bought in the cars, our hero had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and an early breakfast at that. Now, Grit was not one of those delicate boys who are satisfied with a few mouthfuls, but he had what is called a "healthy appetite," such as belongs to most boys who have good stomachs and spend considerable time in the open air. He began to feel an aching void in the region of his stomach, and thought, with a sigh, of the plain but hearty supper he should have had at home.

"I hope Colonel Johnson isn't going to starve me," he thought. "That is carrying the joke too far. It seems to me I never felt so hungry in all my life before."

Half an hour passed, and poor Grit's reflections became decidedly gloomy as his stomach became more and more troublesome. However, he was perfectly helpless, and must wait till the man, or men, who had him in their clutches, saw fit to provide for him.

Under these circumstances it may well be imagined that his heart leaped for joy when he heard the bolt of the only door, already referred to, slowly withdrawn with a rasping sound, as if it did not slide easily in its socket.

He turned his eyes eagerly toward the door.

It was opened, and a tall, overgrown youth entered with a small basket in his hand, which he set down on the floor while he carefully closed the door.

"Hello, there! Where are you?" he asked, for his eyes were not used to the darkness.

"Here I am," answered Grit. "I hope you've brought me some supper."

"Right you are!" said the youth. "Oh, now I see you."

The speaker was tall and overgrown, as I have said. He was also painfully thin, and his clothes were two or three sizes too small for him, so that his long, bony arms protruded from his coat-sleeves, and his legs appeared to have outgrown his pants. His face was long, and his cheeky were hollow.

"He reminds me of Smike, in 'Nicholas Nickleby,'" thought Grit.

"Take your supper, young one, and eat it quick," said the youth, for he was not more than eighteen.

Grit needed no second invitation. He quickly explored the contents of the basket. The supper consisted of cold meat and slices of bread and butter, with a mug of tea. To Grit everything tasted delicious, and he did not leave a crumb.

"My! haven't you got an appetite?" said the youth.

"I haven't had anything to eat since morning," said Grit apologetically—"that is, only a sandwich."

"Say, what are you here for?" asked the youth curiously.

"I don't know," answered Grit.

"Honor bright?"

"Yes, honor bright. Do you live here?"

"Yes," answered the youth soberly.

"Is this man—Colonel Johnson—any relation of yours?"

"No."

"Where are your folks?"

"Haven't got any. Never had any as I know of."

"Have you always lived here?"

"Always lived with him," answered the boy, jerking his thumb in an upward direction. "Sometimes here, sometimes in New York."

"Do you like to be with—him?"

"No."

"Why don't you run away?"

"Run away!" repeated the other, looking around him nervously. "He'd get me back, and half kill me."

"There's some mystery about this boy," thought Grit. "Do you think he will keep me here long?" he asked, in some anxiety.

"Can't say—maybe."

"What's your name?"

"Daniel."

"What's your other name?"

"Haven't got any."

"Daniel," said Grit, a thought striking him. "Do you ever go out—about the city, I mean?"

"Oh, yes; I go to the post-office and other places."

"Will you carry a message for me to the Parker House?"

"I darsn't," said Daniel, trembling.

"No one will know it," pleaded Grit. "Besides, I'll give you—five dollars," he added, after a pause.

"Have you got so much?" asked Daniel eagerly.

"Yes."

"Show it to me."

Grit did so.

"Yes, I'll do it," said the youth, after a pause; "but I must be careful so he won't know."

"All right. When can you leave the house?"

"In the morning."

"That will suit me very well. Now, shall I see you again to-morrow morning?"

"Yes, I shall bring you your breakfast."

"Very well; I will write a note, and will describe the gentleman you are to hand it to."

"You'll be sure to give me the money?"

"Yes, I will give it to you before you go, if you will promise to do my errand faithfully."

"I'll promise. I never had five dollars," continued Daniel. "There's many things I can buy for five dollars."

"So you can," answered Grit, who began to perceive that this overgrown youth was rather deficient mentally.

"You mustn't tell anybody that you are going to carry a message for me," said Grit, thinking the caution might be necessary.

"Oh, no, I darsn't," said Daniel quickly, and Grit was satisfied.

Our hero felt much more comfortable after he was left alone, partly in consequence of the plain supper he had eaten, partly because he thought he saw his way out of the trap into which he had been inveigled.

"To-morrow I hope to be free," he said to himself, as he lay down on the floor and sought the refreshment of sleep.

Fortunately for him, he was feeling pretty well fatigued, and though it was but eight o'clock, he soon lost consciousness of all that was disagreeable in his situation under the benignant influence of sleep.

When Grit awoke, he had no idea what time it was, for there was no way for light to enter the dark chamber.

"I hope it is almost breakfast-time," thought our hero, for he already felt the stirrings of appetite, and besides, all his hope centered in Daniel, whom he was then to see.

After awhile he heard the welcome sound of the bolt drawn back. Then a sudden fear assailed him. It might be some one else, not Daniel, who would bring his breakfast. If so, all his hopes would be dashed to the ground, and he could fix no limit to his captivity. But his fears were dissipated when he saw the long, lank youth, with the same basket which he had brought the night before.

"Good morning, Daniel," said Grit joyfully. "I am glad to see you."

"You're hungry, I reckon," said the youth practically.

"Yes; but I wanted to see you, so as to give you my message. Are you going out this morning?"

"Yes; I'm goin' to market."

"Can you go to the Parker House? You know where it is, don't you?"

"Yes; it is on School Street."

Grit was glad that Daniel knew, for he could not have told him.

Grit had written a note in pencil on a sheet of paper which he fortunately had in his pocket. This he handed to Daniel, with full instructions as to the outward appearance of Mr. Benjamin Baker, to whom it was to be handed.

"Now give me the money," said Daniel.

"Here it is. Mind, Daniel, I expect you to serve me faithfully."

"All right!" said, the lank youth, as he disappeared through the door, once more leaving Grit alone.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

DANIEL CALLS AT THE PARKER HOUSE

It was half-past nine o'clock in the forenoon, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, detective, sat smoking a cigar in the famous hotel on School Street, known as "Parker's."

"I hope nothing has happened to the boy," he said to himself, uneasily, as he drew out his watch. "It is time he was here. Have I done rightly in leaving him in the clutches of a company of unprincipled men? Yet I don't know what else I could do. If I had accompanied him to the door, my appearance would have awakened suspicion. If through his means I can get authentic information as to the interior of this house, which I strongly suspect to be the headquarters of the gang, I shall have done a good thing. Yet perhaps I did wrong in not giving the boy a word of warning."