Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World

“Indeed, uncle, he took nothing, for he had only just opened the secretary when I woke up and spoke to him.”

“You stand by him, of course, shameless girl! I blush to think that you are my niece. I am glad to think that my eyes are opened before it is too late.”

The old merchant rang the bell violently, and aroused the house. Dodger made no attempt to escape, but stood beside Florence in the attitude of a protector. But a short time elapsed before Curtis Waring and the servants entered the room, and gazed with wonder at the tableau presented by the excited old man and the two young people.

“My friends,” said John Linden, in a tone of excitement, “I call you to witness that this girl, whom I blush to acknowledge as my niece, has proved herself unworthy of my kindness. In your presence I cut her off, and bid her never again darken my door.”

“But what has she done, uncle?” asked Curtis. He was prepared for the presence of Dodger, whom he rightly concluded to be the agent of Tim Bolton, but he could not understand why Florence should be in the library at this late hour. Nor was he able to understand the evidently friendly relations between her and the young visitor.

“What has she done?” repeated John Linden. “She has introduced that young ruffian into the house to rob me. Look at that secretary! He has forced it open, and stolen a large sum of money.”

“It is not true, sir,” said Dodger, calmly, “about taking the money, I mean. I haven’t taken a cent.”

“Then why did you open the secretary?”

“I did mean to take money, but she stopped me.”

“Oh, she stopped you?” repeated Linden, with withering sarcasm. “Then, perhaps, you will tell me where the money is gone?”

“He hasn’t discovered about the will,” thought Curtis, congratulating himself; “if the boy has it, I must manage to give him a chance to escape.”

“You can search me if you want to,” continued Dodger, proudly. “You won’t find no money on me.”

“Do you think I am a fool, you young burglar?” exclaimed John Linden, angrily.

“Uncle, let me speak to the boy,” said Curtis, soothingly. “I think he will tell me.”

“As you like, Curtis; but I am convinced that he is a thief.”

Curtis Waring beckoned Dodger into an adjoining room.

“Now, my boy,” he said, smoothly, “give me what you took from the secretary, and I will see that you are not arrested.”

“But, sir, I didn’t take nothing—it’s just as I told the old duffer. The girl waked up just as I’d got the secretary open, and I didn’t have a chance.”

“But the money is gone,” said Curtis, in an incredulous tone.

“I don’t know nothing about that.”

“Come, you’d better examine your pockets. In the hurry of the moment you may have taken it without knowing it.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Didn’t you take a paper of any kind?” asked Curtis, eagerly. “Sometimes papers are of more value than money.”

“No, I didn’t take no paper, though Tim told me to.”

Curtis quietly ignored the allusion to Tim, for it did not suit his purpose to get Tim into trouble. His unscrupulous agent knew too much that would compromise his principal.

“Are you willing that I should examine you?”

“Yes, I am. Go ahead.”

Curtis thrust his hand into the pockets of the boy, who, boy as he was, was as tall as himself, but was not repaid by the discovery of anything. He was very much perplexed.

“Didn’t you throw the articles on the floor?” he demanded, suspiciously.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t give them to the young lady?”

“No; if I had she’d have said so.”

“Humph! this is strange. What is your name?”

“Dodger.”

“That’s a queer name; have you no other?”

“Not as I know of.”

“With whom do you live?”

“With my father. Leastways, he says he’s my father.”

There was a growing suspicion in the mind of Curtis Waring. He scanned the boy’s features with attention. Could this ill-dressed boy—a street boy in appearance—be his long-lost and deeply wronged cousin?

“Who is it that says he is your father?” he demanded, abruptly.

“Do you want to get him into trouble?”

“No, I don’t want to get him into trouble, or you either. Better tell me all, and I will be your friend.”

“You’re a better sort than I thought at first,” said Dodger. “The man I live with is called Tim Bolton.”

“I though so,” quickly ejaculated Curtis. He had scarcely got out the words before he was sensible that he had made a mistake.

“What! do you know Tim?” inquired Dodger, in surprise.

“I mean,” replied Curtis, lamely, “that I have heard of this man Bolton. He keeps a saloon on the Bowery, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you would be living with some such man. Did he come to the house with you tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”