Nelson The Newsboy

"If that's a fortune, what's the amount you expect to gain? Old Horton is worth over a hundred thousand, if he's worth a cent."

"But I'm not sure of this fortune yet. He's a queer old fellow. He might cut me off at the last minute."

"Not if you had that will. You could date that to suit yourself, and you'd push your game through somehow."

"I can give you two thousand dollars—not a dollar more."

"It's five thousand or nothing," responded Sam Pepper doggedly.

"Will you accept my check?"

"No; I want the cash."

"That means you won't trust me!" cried Bulson, in a rage.

"Business is business."

Homer Bulson breathed hard. The pair were on a side street, close to where a new building was being put up. The young man paused.

"You're a hard-hearted fellow, Pepper," he said. "You take the wind out of my sails. I've got to have a drink on that. Come, though. I don't bear a grudge. Drink with me."

As he spoke he pulled a flask from his pocket and passed it over.

"I'll drink with you on one condition," answered Pepper. "And that is that I get my price."

"All right; it's high, but you shall have it."

Without further ado Sam Pepper opened the flask and took a deep draught of the liquor inside.

"Phew! but that's pretty hot!" he murmured, as he smacked his lips. "Where did you get it?"

"At the club—the highest-priced stuff we have," answered Bulson. Then he placed the flask to his own lips and pretended to swallow a like portion to that taken by his companion, but touched scarcely a drop.

"It's vile—I sell better than that for ten cents," continued Pepper.

"Let us sit down and get to business," went on Bulson, leading the way into the unfinished building. "I want to make sure that you have everything I want. I am not going to pay five thousand dollars for a blind horse."

"I'm square," muttered Sam Pepper. "When I make a deal I carry it out to the letter."

"You have everything that proves the boy's identity?"

"Everything."

"Then sit down, and I'll count out the money."

"It's—rather—dark—in—here," mumbled Sam Pepper, as he began to stagger.

"Oh, no! it must be your eyesight."

"Hang—me—if I—can—see—at—all," went on Pepper, speaking in a lower and lower tone. "I—that is—Bulson, you—you have drugged me, you—you villain!" And then he pitched forward and lay in a heap where he had fallen.

Homer Bulson surveyed his victim with gloating eyes. "He never sold better knock-out drops to any crook he served," he muttered. "Now I shall see what he has got in his pockets."

Bending over his victim, he began to search Sam Pepper's pockets. Soon he came across a thick envelope filled with letters and papers. He glanced over several of the sheets.

"All here," he murmured. "This is a lucky strike. Now Sam Pepper can whistle for his money."

He placed the things he had taken in his own pocket and hurried to the street.

Nobody had noticed what was going on, and he breathed a long sigh of relief.

"He won't dare to give me away," he said to himself. "If he does he'll go to prison for stealing the boy in the first place. And he'll never be able to prove that I drugged him because nobody saw the act. Yes, I am safe."

It did not take Homer Bulson long to reach his bachelor apartments, and once in his rooms he locked the door carefully.

Then, turning up a gas lamp, he sat down near it, to look over the papers he had taken from the insensible Pepper.

"I'll destroy the letters," he said. He smiled as he read one. "So Uncle Mark offered five thousand for the return of little David, eh? Well, it's lucky for me that Sam Pepper, alias Pepperill Sampson, didn't take him up. I reckon Pepper was too cut up over his discharge, for it kept him from getting another fat job." He took up the will. "Just what I want. Now, if Uncle Mark makes another will, I can always crop up with this one, and make a little trouble for somebody."

He lit the letters one by one, and watched them turn slowly to ashes. Then he placed the other papers in the bottom of his trunk, among his books on poisons, and went to bed.

CHAPTER XXXII.

SOMEBODY WAITS IN VAIN

Mrs. Kennedy was busy at her stand, piling up some fruit, when a woman who was a stranger to her approached.

"Is this Mary Kennedy?" the newcomer asked.

"That's me name," answered the old woman. "But I don't know you, ma'am."

"My name is Mrs. Conroy. I'm a nurse. Mrs. Wardell sent me to you."

"Yes, I know Mrs. Wardell. But what is it you want, ma'am? I don't need a nurse now, though I did some time ago, goodness knows."

"I am not looking for a position," smiled Mrs. Conroy. "I am looking for a young lady named Gertrude Horton."

"Gertrude Horton! Who sint you?" questioned Mrs. Kennedy suspiciously.

"Her uncle, Mark Horton, sent me."

At this Mrs. Kennedy was more interested than ever.

"An' what does he want of the darling, Mrs. Conroy?"

"He wants her to return home."

"Heaven be praised fer that!"