The Eye of Dread

“It isn’t dated. Been carrying it around in your pocket a good while I guess. Better date it.”

“Date it?”

“Yes. Put down the time you send, you know.”

“Oh, dat’s not’ing. He know putty goot when he get it.”

“Very well. ‘To Mr. John Thomas,–State Street, Chicago. Job’s ready. Come along.’ Who’s job is it? Yours?”

“No. It’s hees yob yet. You mak it go to-night, all right. Goot night. I pay it now, yas. Vell, goot night.”

He paid the boy and slipped out into the shadows of the street, and again making the detour so that he came to the hotel from the rear, he passed the stables, and before climbing to his cupboard of a room at the top of the building, he stepped round to the side and looked in at the dining room windows, and there he saw the young man seated at supper.

“All right,” he said softly.

The omnibus sent regularly by the hotel management brought only one passenger from the early train next day. Times had been dull of late and travel had greatly fallen off, as the proprietor complained. There was nothing unusual about this passenger,–the ordinary traveling man, representing a well-known New York dry-goods house.

Nels Nelson drove the omnibus. He had done so ever since Elder Craigmile went to Scotland with his wife. The young man he had found on the river bluff was pacing the hotel veranda as he drove up, and Nels Nelson glanced at him, and into the eyes of the traveling man, as he handed down the latter’s heavy valise.

Standing at the desk, the newcomer chatted with the clerk as he wrote his name under that of the last arrival the day before.

“Harry King,” he read. “Came yesterday. Many stopping here now? Times hard! I guess so! Nothing doing in my line. Nobody wants a thing. Guess I’ll leave the road and ‘go west, young man,’ as old Greeley advises. What line is King in? Do’ know? Is that him going into the dining room? Guess I’ll follow and fill up. Anything good to eat here?”

In the dining room he indicated to the waiter by a nod of his head the seat opposite Harry King, and immediately entered into a free and easy conversation, giving him a history of his disappointments in the way of trade, and reiterating his determination to “go west, young man.”

He hardly glanced at Harry, but ate rapidly, stowing away all within reach, until the meal was half through, then he looked up and asked abruptly, “What line are you in, may I ask?”

“Certainly you may ask, but I can’t tell you. I would be glad to do so if I knew myself.”

“Ever think of going west?”

“I’ve just come from there–or almost there–whereever it is.”

“Stiles is my name–G. B. Stiles. Good name for a dry-goods salesman, don’t you think so? I know the styles all right, for men, and women too. Like it out west?”

“Yes. Very well.”

“Been there long?”

“Oh, two or three years.”

“Had enough of it, likely?”

“Well, I can scarcely say that.”

“Mean to stay east now?”

“I may. I’m not settled yet.”

“Better take up my line. If I drop out, there’ll be an opening with my firm–good firm, too. Ward, Williams & Co., New York. Been in New York, I suppose?”

“No, never.”

“Well, better try it. I mean to ‘go west, young man.’ Know anybody here? Ever live here?”

“Yes, when I was a boy.”

“Come back to the boyhood home. We all do that, you know. There’s poetry in it–all do it. ‘Old oaken bucket’ and all that sort of thing. I mean to do it myself yet,–back to old York state.” G. B. Stiles wiped his mouth vigorously and shoved back his chair. “Well, see you again, I hope,” he said, and walked off, picking his teeth with a quill pick which he took from his vest pocket.

He walked slowly and meditatively through the office and out on the sidewalk. Here he paused and glanced about, and seeing his companion of the breakfast table was not in sight, he took his way around to the stables. Nels Nelson was stooping in the stable yard, washing a horse’s legs. G. B. Stiles came and stood near, looking down on him, and Nels straightened up and stood waiting, with the dripping rags in his hand.

“Vell, I tol’ you he coomin’ back sometime. I vaiting long time all ready, but yust lak I tol’ you, he coom.”

“I thought I told you not to sign that telegram. But it’s no matter,–didn’t do any harm, I guess.”

“Dot vas a fool, dot boy dere. He ask all tam, ’Vot for? Who write dis? You not? Eh? Who sen’ dis?’ He make me put my name dere; den I get out putty quvick or he ask yet vat iss it for a yob you got somebody, eh?”

“Oh, well, we’ve got him now, and he don’t seem to care to keep under cover, either.” G. B. Stiles seemed to address himself. “Too smart to show a sign. See here, Nelson, are you ready to swear that he’s the man? Are you ready to swear to all you told me?”

“It is better you gif me a paper once, vit your name, dot you gif me half dot money.”

Nels Nelson stooped deliberately and went on washing the horse’s legs. A look of irritation swept over the placid face of G. B. Stiles, and he slipped the toothpick back in his vest pocket and walked away.

“I say,” called the Swede after him. “You gif me dot paper. Eh?”

“I can’t stand talking to you here. You’ll promise to swear to all you told me when I was here the first time. If you do that, you are sure of the money, and if you change it in the least, or show the least sign of backing down, we neither of us get it. Understand?”

Again the Swede arose, and stood looking at him sullenly. “It iss ten t’ousand tallers, und I get it half, eh?”

“Oh, you go to thunder!” The proprietor of the hotel came around the corner of the stable, and G. B. Stiles addressed himself to him. “I’d like the use of a horse to-day, and your man here, if I can get him. I’ve got to make a trip to Rigg’s Corners to sell some dry goods. Got a good buggy?”

“Yes, and a horse you can drive yourself, if you like. Be gone all day?”

“No, don’t want to fool with a horse–may want to stay and send the horse back–if I find a place where the grub is better than it is here. See?”

“You’ll be back after one meal at any place within a hundred miles of here.” The proprietor laughed.

“Might as well drive yourself. You won’t want to send the horse back. I’m short of drivers just now. Times are bad and travel light, so I let one go.”

“I’ll take the Swede there.”

“He’s my station hand. Maybe Jake can drive you. Nels, where’s Jake?”

“He’s dere in the stable. Shake!” he shouted, without glancing up, and Jake slouched out into the yard.

“Jake, here’s a gentleman wants you to drive him out into the country,–”

“I’ll take the Swede. Jake can drive your station wagon for once.”