Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

Ezekiel Snowdon read this letter with a perturbed brow.

“Such is gratitude!” he exclaimed, raising his eyes to heaven in protest. “The mental anguish that that boy has cost me ought to count for something. Yet his guardian has sent me a paltry two-dollar bill. Truly the virtuous are persecuted in this world. They must seek their reward in a better sphere.”

“Has the crazy man been caught, pa?”

“Not that I have heard. That good man, his cousin, has been foiled in his efforts probably. I shall miss the money I have been accustomed to receive from Bernard’s guardian. Unless we can fill his place, I shall be obliged to cut down the rations of butter, and have it only every other day.”

“I can’t do without butter, pa. You needn’t give any at all to the boarders.”

“True, the suggestion is a good one. Competent medical authorities say that butter is apt to bring humors to children. They will be better off without it.”

Bernard reported to Mr. Stackpole the interview he had had with his guardian, and asked his advice as to what he had better do.

“You had better try him for a while, Bernard,” said Mr. Stackpole, “and see whether he is ready to do the fair thing by you. If he doesn’t you will always find a friend in Joshua Stackpole.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stackpole, I am sure of that.”

“So this Mr. McCracken says your father left you no property. When did he die?”

“When I was about seven years old.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Very little. He used to travel – I think he was an agent of some kind. Mr. McCracken never would tell me much about him. How long shall you stay in New York, Mr. Stackpole?”

“I shall leave in a day or two. I have to go to Philadelphia on business, and after I return I shall leave for Colorado. My address will be at the Red Dog Mine, Gulchville.”

“That’s a queer name, Mr. Stackpole. Was there ever a red dog?”

“One of the miners in a fit of intoxication painted his dog red, and that gave a name to the mine.”

The next day found Bernard at his guardian’s house.

CHAPTER XII. BERNARD MEETS A FRIEND OF HIS FATHER

Cornelius McCracken lived in a three story and basement house on Lexington Avenue. It was a solid and comfortable house, but not showy. He had a wife and three children. The eldest, a girl, had recently married.

There were two boys of sixteen and eighteen, but they were not particularly interesting, and as they were attending school Bernard did not get well acquainted with them.

On the first morning after breakfast Bernard asked, as his guardian was starting for his office, “Is there anything you wish me to do?”

“No; you can go about the city and make yourself familiar with it. If I should get you a place here it might be well for you to know your way about the streets.”

“I shall like that.”

“Oh, by the way, have you any money for car fare, or any small expenses?”

“Yes, sir, I have all I shall need for the present.”

Mr. McCracken looked relieved, for he was not a liberal man, and was glad to be freed from the expense of supplying his ward with pocket money.

Shortly after breakfast he went out and bent his steps toward Broadway. He had been in New York before, but not for some years, and it was quite new to him. He wandered about as chance suggested.

About eleven o’clock he was passing a barber shop on a side street, and it occurred to him that his hair needed cutting. He entered the shop, and sat down to wait his turn. He found himself sitting next a man with hair partially gray, who regarded him with some attention.

“Have you come in to be shaved?” he asked, with a smile.

Bernard smiled in return.

“No,” he answered. “That can wait. I shall have my hair cut.”

“You bear a striking resemblance to a man I once knew,” said the old gentleman, after a pause.

“What was his name?” asked Bernard, with natural curiosity.

“Clayton Brooks.”

“That was my father,” said Bernard quickly.

“Is it possible? That accounts for the resemblance. Is your father living?”

“No, sir; he died ten years ago.”

“I supposed he must be dead, as I had lost track of him.”

“Did you know him well?” asked Bernard eagerly.

“Quite well. We were both traveling salesmen. He traveled for a jewelry firm in Maiden Lane, I for a dry goods house. Our territory was in large part the same, and we often stayed at the same hotel. Is your mother living?”

“No, sir. She died before my father.”

“Then you are an orphan?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Bernard gravely.

“Pardon me – it is none of my business – but your father left you comfortably provided for, did he not?”

Bernard shook his head.

“On the contrary, he left almost nothing, I am told.”

“Who, then, took care of you, for you were too young to take care of yourself?”

“A business man down town, Cornelius McCracken. He is my guardian, though there seems to be no property for him to take care of for me.”

“I remember the name.”

“Did you ever hear my father speak of him? I have often wondered how he came to be my guardian.”