Nelson The Newsboy
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"The books used to bring me in from three to five dollars a day. But the department stores cut the prices now, and soon the whole book-agent business will be ruined."
"What will you go into then?"
"I don't know. If I had the money I'd start a newsstand—for papers and books, too."
"That would pay, if you could get hold of the right corner," said our hero, with interest.
"I know of a good corner on Third Avenue. The man who keeps it now is old and wants to sell out."
"What does he want for the stand?"
"A hundred dollars. Of course the stock isn't worth it, but the business is."
"That depends on what he takes in a day."
"He averages seventy-five dollars a week. But it would be more, if he was able to get around and attend to it."
"A hundred dollars a week would mean about thirty dollars profit," said Nelson, who was quick at figures. "How much is the rent?"
"Five dollars a week."
"That would leave twenty-five dollars for the stand-keeper. Does he have a boy?"
"Yes, and pays him three dollars a week."
"Maybe we could buy the stand together, Van Pelt. You know all about books, and I know about the newspapers. We ought to make a go of it."
"That's so, but–" The book agent looked rather dubiously at our hero's clothes. "How about the cash?"
"We might save it somehow. I'm saving up for a suit now."
"You need the suit."
"I expected to get it in a few days. But Billy Darnley robbed me of five dollars, so I've got to wait a bit."
"Well, if we could raise that money we might buy out the stand and try our luck," continued George Van Pelt, after a thoughtful pause. "I think we'd get along. How much have you."
"Only a dollar or two now."
"I've got fifteen dollars, and about ten dollars' worth of books."
"Couldn't we get the man to trust us for the stand?"
"He said he might trust me for half the amount he asks, but fifty dollars would have to be a cash payment."
"We'll raise it somehow!" cried Nelson enthusiastically. The idea of owning a half interest in a regular stand appealed to him strongly. In his eyes the proprietor of such a stand was a regular man of business.
The pair hurried on, and at length reached the vicinity of Central Park, and Van Pelt pointed out the house in which the rich young man who had refused to take the books lived.
"Perhaps he won't let me in," he said.
"Wait—somebody is coming out of the house," returned our hero.
"It's Mr. Bulson himself," said George Van Pelt.
He hurried forward, followed by Nelson, and the pair met the young man on the steps of his bachelor abode.
Homer Bulson was a tall, slim young fellow, with light hair and blue eyes. His face was somewhat weak, but in his eyes was a look full of scheming cunning. He was faultlessly dressed in the latest fashion, wore a silk hat, and carried a gold-headed cane.
"Mr. Bulson, I must see you about these books," said George Van Pelt, coming to a halt on the steps of the stone porch.
"I told you before that I did not wish to be bothered," answered the young man coldly.
"But you ordered the books, sir."
"I will not discuss the matter with you. Go away, and if you bother me again I shall call a policeman."
"My friend hasn't done anything wrong," put in Nelson boldly. "You ordered some books from him, and you ought to pay for 'em."
"What have you to do with this matter?" demanded the rich young man, staring harshly at our hero.
"This man is my friend, and I don't want to see him swindled," said our hero.
"Swindled!"
"That's it. You ordered some books on poisons from him, and now you don't want to pay for 'em. It's a swindle and an outrage. He's a poor man, and you haven't any right to treat him so."
"Boy, if you speak like that to me, I'll have you put under arrest," stormed Homer Bulson in a rage.
"You must take the books," put in George Van Pelt, growing braver through what Nelson was saying. "If you won't take them, I'll sue you for the amount."
"Sue me?"
"Yes, sue you."
"And I'll put the reporters on the game," added the newsboy. "They like to get hold of society notes." And he grinned suggestively.
At this Homer Bulson's face became filled with horror. For more reasons than one he did not wish this affair to become public property.
"To sue me will do no good," he said lamely.
"Yes, it will," said the book agent. "You have money and will have to pay up."
"Or else your rich uncle will pay for you," said Nelson, never dreaming of how the shot would tell. Bulson grew very pale.
"I—I will take the books and pay for them," he stammered. "Not because I think I ought to take them, mind you," he added, "but because I wish no trouble in public. Where are the books?"
"Here." And George Van Pelt brought two volumes from his satchel.
"How much?"
"Just what I told you before, Mr. Bulson—five dollars."
"It's a very high price for such small books."
"They are imported from France, remember, and besides, books on poisons–"
"Give them to me."
The books were passed over, and Homer Bulson drew from his vest pocket a small roll of bills. He handed over a five to George Van Pelt.
"Now begone with you," he said sourly. "And don't ever come near me again for another order."
"Don't worry, I won't come," answered the book agent. "You are too hard a customer to suit."
He pocketed the money and rejoined Nelson on the sidewalk. Then both started to walk away.
As they did so our hero glanced across the way and saw, in a window of the house opposite, the young lady who had offered her assistance after Billy Darnley had robbed him.
She recognized him and smiled, and he promptly touched his hat respectfully.
Homer Bulson saw the act and so did George Van Pelt, and both stared at Nelson.
"Whom did you see?" asked Van Pelt, as they walked down the street.
"A lady who once offered to help me," said Nelson. "She was in that house. She has left the window now."
"Why, that is where that man's rich uncle lives!" exclaimed the book agent.
"Is it?" cried our hero. "Then perhaps the lady is a relative to him."
"Perhaps."
"What is the uncle's name?"
"Mark Horton. I understood that he was once a rich merchant of Philadelphia. But he's a sickly old man now. I wanted to sell him some books, but they wouldn't let me see him."
"I hope that young lady isn't a relative to that Homer Bulson," mused Nelson. "If he is, he can't be very nice company for her."
"That's true, Nelson."
"You said you tried to sell books there but they wouldn't let you in."
"No, the gentleman was too sick to see me—at least that is what they said. But perhaps it was only a dodge to keep me out."
"I suppose they play all sorts of tricks on you—to keep you out of folks' houses," went on the newsboy thoughtfully.
"Sometimes they do. Some folks won't be bothered with a book agent."
"And yet you've got to live," laughed Nelson.
"Yes, all of us have got to live. But lots of folks, especially those with money, won't reason that way. They'll set a dog on you, or do worse, just to get rid of you. Why, once I had a man in Paterson accuse me of stealing."
"How was that?"
"It was the first week I went out selling books. I was down on my luck and didn't have any clothes worth mentioning."
"Like myself, for instance," interrupted the newsboy, with a laugh.
"If anything my clothes were worse. Well, I was traveling around Paterson when I struck a clothing shop on a side street. I went in and found the proprietor busy with a customer, and while I waited for him I picked up a cheap suit of clothes to examine it. All of a sudden the proprietor's clerk came rushing out of a back room and caught me by the arm.
"'You vos goin' to steal dot coat!' he roared.
"'No, I wasn't,' I said. 'I was just looking at it.'
"'I know petter,' he went on, and then he called the proprietor and both of them held me."
"I reckon you were scared."
"I was, for I didn't know a soul in the town. I said I wasn't a thief, and had come in to sell books, and I showed them my samples. At first they wouldn't believe a word, and they talked a whole lot of German that I couldn't understand. Then one went out for a policeman."
"And what did you do then?"
"I didn't know what to do, and was studying the situation when the other man suddenly said I could go—that he didn't want any bother with going to court, and all that. Then I dusted away, and I never stopped until I was safe on the train and on my way back to New York."
"Did you ever go to Paterson after that?"
"No, I never wanted to see that town again," concluded George Van Pelt.
CHAPTER VII.
A HARSH ALTERNATIVE
Homer Bulson was a fashionable man of the world. He had traveled a good deal and seen far more of a certain kind of "high life" than was good for him, either mentally or morally. He was fond of liquor and of gambling, and had almost run through the money which an indulgent parent had left him.
He was alone in the world, so far as immediate members of his family were concerned, but he had an uncle, Mark Horton, just mentioned, and also a cousin, Gertrude Horton, who was the ward of the retired merchant. This Gertrude Horton was the young lady who had offered to assist Nelson, and who had just recognized our hero from her seat at the window opposite.
In the fashionable world Homer Bulson cut a "wide swath," as it is commonly called, but he managed to keep his doings pretty well hidden from his uncle, who supposed him to be a model young man.
The young man's reason for this was, his uncle was rich and at his death would leave a large property, and he wished to become heir to a large portion of what Mark Horton left behind him. He knew his uncle was a strict man, and would not countenance his high mode of living, should he hear of it.
Homer Bulson watched Nelson curiously, and then looked across the street to see if he could catch his cousin Gertrude's eye. But the young lady was now out of sight.
"How is it that she knows that street boy?" Bulson asked himself, as he walked into the house to stow away the books he had purchased. "I don't like it at all—seeing that he was with the man who sold me these books. I hope he doesn't ever tell her I've been buying books on poisons."
Entering one of his rooms—he occupied several—he locked the door and threw himself into an easy-chair. Soon he was looking over the books, and reading slowly, for his knowledge of French was decidedly limited.
"Oh, pshaw! I can't make anything out of this," he exclaimed at last. "That English book on poisons I picked up at the second-hand book store is good enough for me. I might as well put these in a fire." But instead he hid them away at the bottom of a trunk.
With the books on poisons out of his sight, Homer Bulson turned to his wardrobe and made a new selection of a suit of light brown which his tailor had just brought to him.
He was putting on the suit when there came a knock on the door.
"Who's there?" asked the young man.
"Mr. Grodell, sir," was the answer.
Mr. Grodell was the agent of the apartment house, and had come for his rent.
Homer Bulson was behind four months in payments, and the agent was growing anxious for his money.
"Very sorry, Mr. Grodell, but I am just changing my clothes," said the spendthrift.
"Then I'll wait," was the answer.
"Better not, it will take some time."
"I am in no hurry, Mr. Bulson," said the agent.
"Oh, pshaw! why does he bother me!" muttered Homer Bulson. "I haven't got any money for him."
He did not know what to do, and scratched his head in perplexity.
"Come around Saturday and I will pay you in full," he called out.
"You told me you would pay me last Saturday, Mr. Bulson."
"I know I did, but I was disappointed about a remittance. I will surely have your money this coming Saturday."
"Without fail?"
"Without fail."
"All right, Mr. Bulson. But I must have it then, or else take possession of the rooms." And with this parting shot the agent departed.
"The impudent fellow!" muttered Homer Bulson. "To talk to me in that fashion! He shall wait until I get good and ready to pay him!"
Nevertheless, the young man's pocketbook was very nearly empty, and this worried him not a little.
Several times he had thought of applying to his uncle for a loan, but each time had hesitated, being afraid that Mark Horton would suspect his extravagant mode of living.
"But I must get money somehow," he told himself.
At last he was dressed, and then he peered out into the hallway.
The agent had really gone, and satisfied on this point Homer Bulson left the residence for a stroll on Fifth Avenue.
This occupied over an hour, and then he walked over to one of the clubs to which he was attached, where he dined in the best of style.
After dinner came a game or two of billiards, and then he took a cab to his uncle's mansion near the Park.
He found Mark Horton seated in an invalid's chair in the library, and nearby was Gertrude trying her best to make the elderly man comfortable.
Evidently the elderly man was in a bad humor, for his eyes flashed angrily as the nephew entered.
The trouble was Mark Horton and his niece Gertrude had had something of a quarrel. The invalid wished Gertrude to marry her cousin Homer, and the girl did not desire the match, for she realized what a spendthrift and generally worthless fellow Bulson was.
Both knew that their uncle had made a will leaving his property divided equally between them, and Gertrude was almost certain that Bulson wished to marry her simply in order to gain control of everything.
The girl hated very much to displease her uncle, for she realized what troubles he had had in the past. A fearful railroad accident had deprived the man of his beloved wife years before, and shortly after this happening other trials had come to him, which had broken him down completely. What these trials were will be revealed as our story progresses.
"Well, Uncle Mark, how goes it to-day?" asked Homer Bulson, on walking in.
"Not very well, Homer," was the feeble answer.
"Uncle Mark had quite a bad attack about two hours ago," put in Gertrude Horton. "I had to send for the doctor."
"Wasn't he here this morning?"
"Yes, but I thought best to have him again," answered the girl.
"That's right."
"The doctor seems to do me small good," put in the invalid, in a feeble voice. "He doesn't seem to understand my case at all."
"He is one of the best physicians in New York," answered Homer Bulson.
"So you said before, Homer. Well, I doubt if I ever get any better."
"Oh, Uncle Mark!" cried Gertrude, much shocked.
"I seem to be completely broken down," went on the invalid. "At times the strangest of sinking spells come over me. I feel very, very old."
There was a painful silence, and Gertrude rearranged the pillow behind the invalid's head.
"Did you see about those stocks to-day, Homer?" went on Mark Horton. "I had forgotten about them."
"I did, sir."
"And what did the broker say?"
"He urged me to hold on awhile longer."
"And you have them still?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Very well; do as he advises. Some day, when I am stronger, I must attend to many other business matters."
"Oh, Uncle Mark, don't worry about business," pleaded Gertrude, passing her arm around his neck.
There was another pause and Mark Horton gazed sharply at Gertrude. Then he turned to Homer Bulson.
"She won't marry you, Homer—I don't know why," he said.
The face of the young man fell, and he bit his lip.
"Well, I suppose she will do as she pleases," he remarked, somewhat sarcastically.
"I think I should be allowed to make my own choice," said Gertrude. She had already refused Bulson several times.
"I can't understand it," said the invalid. "To my mind you are just suited to each other."
"I do not think so," answered Gertrude.
"And why not?"
"I would rather not say, Uncle Mark."
"You can't have anything against me personally," put in Bulson, with a scowl.
"But I have!" cried the girl. "You go to the race-track, and drink, and gamble, and I do not like it."
A stormy scene followed, in which all three in the room took part. Strange to say, Mark Horton sided with his nephew, for he did not realize the blackness of Bulson's character.
"You are prejudiced and foolish," cried the invalid at last, turning to his niece. "You do not wish to please me in anything." And so speaking, he arose and tottered from the room. Homer Bulson made as if to follow him, then reconsidered the matter and sank back into a chair. Poor Gertrude burst into a flood of tears.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE COMBINATION OF THE SAFE
"Gertrude, you are making a great mistake," said Homer Bulson, after a pause broken only by the sobbing of the girl.
"Please don't speak to me, Homer," she answered. "I have heard enough for one day."
"You have no right to blacken my character," he said with assumed dignity.
"Uncle Mark forced me to speak the truth."
"It was not the truth. But let that pass. Why didn't you tell him you would marry me?"
"Because I don't want to marry you."
"But you might let him think that you–"
"I am above practicing a deception upon him, Homer."
"Oh, you aren't a saint!" he sneered. "I know why you are so loving to him—you thought to get all of his money. Now you are trying to blacken my character, so that you may get all of it, anyway. But the game won't work."
"I told him what I did simply to let him know why I didn't care to marry you, Cousin Homer."
"And why are you so opposed to me?"
"I do not like your ways. Isn't that enough? As for Uncle Mark's money, I trust he will live a long time to enjoy it himself."
"Uncle Mark can live but a short while longer. Anybody can see that. He is exceedingly feeble."
"You seem to wish his death," replied Gertrude sharply.
"I? No, indeed; I hope he does live. Haven't I done what I could for him—giving him wines and the like? And he has the best of doctors—on my recommendation."
"I don't think the wine you gave him is doing any good. He seems to become weaker after it, instead of stronger."
"Bosh! If he hadn't the wine, he would collapse utterly."
At this the girl merely shrugged her shoulders.
This was not the first time that Homer Bulson and herself had quarreled over the care their uncle should have. To the girl the retired merchant seemed to grow unexpectedly weak in spite of all she could do. The doctor, too, was baffled, and said he had never come across such a strange case before.
"If you won't marry me, you shall not turn Uncle Mark against me," went on Bulson sternly. "If you try it, you will repent it as long as you live."
So speaking, he strode from the room and made after Mark Horton, who had gone to his private apartment on the second floor.
He found the retired merchant resting in an easy-chair by the window, his head bowed low.
"Cheer up, uncle," he said, placing his hand on the other's shoulder. "Let me pour you a glass of wine."
And he walked to a medicine closet in a corner and got out a bottle he had brought a few days before.
"Thank you, Homer; I will have a little wine," replied the retired merchant.
The wine was poured out and Mark Horton gulped it down. Homer Bulson watched him closely, and then turned away his face to hide a sinister smile.
"I cannot understand Gertrude," said Mark Horton. "I always thought she preferred you."
"I think she has another person in view," answered Bulson, struck with a certain idea.
"Another? Who is it?"
"I would rather not say, uncle."
"But I demand to know."
"I cannot tell you his name. But he is a common sort of person. He went past the house a while ago and she nodded and smiled to him."
"And how long has this been going on?"
"Oh, several months, I dare say. They meet in the evening on the sly. But please don't tell Gertrude that I spoke of this."
"What does the man do?"
"I am not sure, but I think he is in the theatrical business, when he has an engagement—something on the variety stage."
"What! My Gertrude the wife of a variety actor? Never, Homer, never!" groaned Mark Horton. "This is too much! I will speak to her at once!"
"Uncle, you just promised not to let her know–"
"You'll be safe, Homer, never fear. But I won't have this—I'll cast her out first."
"I suppose she wanted to keep this a secret until after you—that is–"
"Until after I am dead, so that she can use up my money on her actor husband," finished Mark Horton bitterly. He suddenly sprang to his feet. "But she shall marry you, Homer, and nobody else. That is final."
"Pray do not excite yourself too much, uncle. Let the matter rest for a few days."
"And if I should die in the meantime, what then? No, Homer; delays are dangerous. I—I—feel as if I cannot last much longer. Who knows but what this night may prove my last?"
And Mark Horton sank back again in his chair and covered his face with his hands.
"Uncle, in case anything should happen to you, may I ask what you have done with your will?" asked Bulson, after a long pause. "Or, perhaps Gertrude knows about this?"
"Yes, she knows, but you must know, too. Both the old will and the new one are in the safe in the library, in the upper compartment on the right side. On the left side are two gold pieces which I brought home with me when I visited the mint in California."
"Is that all the money there is in the safe?"
"No, there is more gold than that—in a secret compartment at the bottom. There is a spring to open this compartment on the left side, a small gilded knob. It is right I should tell you of this, otherwise you might never find the secret compartment."
"And the combination of the safe?" went on Bulson, more anxiously than ever.
"The combination is 0, 4, 25, 12, 32, and once around to the left to 0 again. You had better put it down. I have it written on a slip in my pocketbook."
"Then it won't be necessary for me to put it down," answered the nephew, but he took good care to remember the combination, nevertheless.
It was now time for Mark Horton to retire, and, the wine having made him drowsy, he soon forgot his anger against Gertrude and went to sleep.
When Homer Bulson went below he paused in the hallway and glanced through the doorway into the library.
He saw that Gertrude had left the apartment and that it was empty.
None of the servants were about, and the housekeeper, an elderly lady, was also nowhere to be seen.
"I wonder if I dare do it so soon?" he muttered to himself. Then he shut his teeth hard. "I must do something! I have used up my last dollar, and I can't go around empty-handed. Uncle Mark will never grow strong enough to know."
Going to the front door he opened it, then slammed it violently and made a noise as if he was descending the steps. Then he closed the door with care and stole back into the gloom of the library. It was now after midnight, a fitting time for the desperate deed this misguided young man had undertaken.
CHAPTER IX.
A PAIR WELL MATCHED
After leaving George Van Pelt Nelson felt more like working, and buying a large supply of evening papers he was soon hard at it, crying his wares as loudly as possible.
Business proved brisk, and by seven o'clock he had sold out. Then he went back to the lunch-room.
Sam Pepper met him with a scowl.
"Concluded to come back after all, eh?" he said. "Work piling up on me and nobody to help. Pitch in, quick, or I'll thrash you good; do you hear?"
The rest of the evening passed in almost utter silence between them. By ten o'clock the most of the lunch trade came to an end. At eleven Sam Pepper began to lock up.
"I'm going out," he said. "An old friend is sick. Maybe I won't be back till morning. Watch things good while I'm gone."
"Who is sick?" asked our hero.
"None of your business. You mind what I told you, and keep your mouth closed," growled the lunch-room keeper.
Nelson had noticed a heavy handbag lying in the corner of the back room, and now he saw Sam Pepper pick the bag up. As the man moved it, something inside struck together with a hard, metallic sound, as if the bag might contain tools.