Hector's Inheritance, Or, the Boys of Smith Institute

“All I can say is, that it’s a very mean way,” said Wilkins in disgust.

He was not a model boy—far from it, indeed!—but he had a sentiment of honor that made him dislike and denounce a conspiracy like this.

“It’s a dirty trick,” he said, warmly.

“I agree with you on that point.” “What shall we do about it?”

“Lay low, and wait till the whole thing comes out. When Sock discovers his loss, Jim will be on hand to tell him where his wallet is. Then we can up and tell all we know.”

“Good! There’s a jolly row coming!” said Wilkins, smacking his lips.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE MISSING WALLET IS FOUND

Socrates Smith was, ordinarily, so careful of his money, that it was a very remarkable inadvertence to leave it on the bureau. Nor was it long before he ascertained his loss. He was sitting at his desk when his wife looked in at the door, and called for a small sum for some domestic expenditure.

With an ill grace—for Socrates hated to part with his money—he put his hand into the pocket where he usually kept his wallet.

“Really, Mrs. Smith,” he was saying, “it seems to me you are always wanting money—why, bless my soul!” and such an expression of consternation and dismay swept over his face, that his wife hurriedly inquired:

“What is the matter, Mr. Smith?”

“Matter enough!” he gasped. “My wallet is gone!”

“Gone!” echoed his wife, in alarm. “Where can you have left it?”

Mr. Smith pressed his hand to his head in painful reflection.

“How much money was there in it, Socrates?” asked his wife.

“Between forty and fifty dollars!” groaned Mr. Smith. “If I don’t find it, Sophronia, I am a ruined man!”

This was, of course, an exaggeration, but it showed the poignancy of the loser’s regret.

“Can’t you think where you left it?”

Suddenly Mr. Smith’s face lighted up.

“I remember where I left it, now,” he said; “I was up in the chamber an hour since, and, while changing my coat, took out my wallet, and laid it on the bureau. I’ll go right up and look for it.”

“Do, Socrates.”

Mr. Smith bounded up the staircase with the agility of a man of half his years, and hopefully opened the door of his chamber, which Jim had carefully closed after him. His first glance was directed at the bureau, but despair again settled down sadly upon his heart when he saw that it was bare. There was no trace of the missing wallet.

“It may have fallen on the carpet,” said Socrates, hope reviving faintly.

There was not a square inch of the cheap Kidderminster carpet that he did not scan earnestly, greedily, but, alas! the wallet, if it had ever been there, had mysteriously taken to itself locomotive powers, and wandered away into the realm of the unknown and the inaccessible.

Yet, searching in the chambers of his memory, Mr. Smith felt sure that he had left the wallet on the bureau. He could recall the exact moment when he laid it down, and he recollected that he had not taken it again.

“Some one has taken it!” he decided; and wrath arose in his heart, He snapped his teeth together in stern anger, as he determined that he would ferret out the miserable thief, and subject him to condign punishment.

Mrs. Smith, tired of waiting for the appearance of her husband, ascended the stairs and entered his presence.

“Well?” she said.

“I haven’t found it,” answered Socrates, tragically. “Mrs. Smith, the wallet has been stolen!”

“Are you sure that you left it here?” asked his wife.

“Sure!” he repeated, in a hollow tone. “I am as sure as that the sun rose to-morrow—I mean yesterday.”

“Was the door open?”

“No; but that signifies nothing. It wasn’t locked, and anyone could enter.”

“Is it possible that we have a thief in the institute?” said Mrs. Smith, nervously. “Socrates, I shan’t sleep nights. Think of the spoons!”

“They’re only plated.”

“And my earrings.”

“You could live without earrings. Think, rather, of the wallet, with nearly fifty dollars in bills.”

“Who do you think took it, Socrates?”

“I have no idea; but I will find out. Yes, I will find out. Come downstairs, Mrs. Smith; we will institute inquiries.”

When Mr. Smith had descended to the lower floor, and was about entering the office, it chanced that his nephew was just entering the house.

“What’s the matter, Uncle Socrates?” he asked; “you look troubled.”

“And a good reason why, James; I have met with a loss.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Jim, in innocent wonder; “what is it?”

“A wallet, with a large amount of money in it!”

“Perhaps there is a hole in your pocket,” suggested Jim.

“A hole—large enough for my big wallet to fall through! Don’t be such a fool!”

“Excuse me, uncle,” said Jim, meekly; “of course that is impossible. When do you remember having it last?”

Of course Socrates told the story, now familiar to us, and already familiar to his nephew, though he did not suspect that.

Jim struck his forehead, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him.

“Could it be?” he said, slowly, as if to himself; “no, I can’t believe it.”