Luke Walton

"I believe it is on La Salle Street, corner of Adams."

"Quite right. I shall introduce you to the paying teller as in my employ, as I may have occasion to send you there alone at times to deposit or draw money."

"I wish Harold was more like you," she said. "His mother's suggestion that I should take him with me as an escort would be just as disagreeable to him as to me."

"Is he attending school?" asked Luke.

"Yes. He is preparing for college, but he is not fond of study, and I doubt whether he ever enters. I think he must be about your age."

"I am nearly sixteen."

"Then he is probably a little older."

They entered the bank, and Mrs. Merton, going to the window of the paying teller, presented a check for a hundred dollars.

"How will you have it, Mrs. Merton?" asked the teller.

"In fives and tens. By the way, Mr. Northrop, please take notice of this boy with me. I shall occasionally send him by himself to attend to my business. His name is Luke Walton."

"His face looks familiar. I think we have met before."

"I have sold you papers more than once, Mr. Northrop," said Luke. "I stand on Clark Street, near the Sherman."

"Yes, I remember, now. We bank officials are apt to take notice of faces."

"Here, Luke, carry this money for me," said Mrs. Merton, putting a lady's pocketbook into the hand of her young escort. "You are less likely to be robbed than I."

Luke was rather pleased at the full confidence his new employer seemed to repose in him.

"I am now going up on State Street," said Mrs. Merton, as they emerged into the street. "You know the store of Marshall Field?"

"Oh, yes; everybody in Chicago knows that," said Luke.

In a few minutes they stood before the large store, and Mrs. Merton entered, followed by Luke.

Mrs. Merton went to that part of the establishment where woolens are sold, and purchased a dress pattern. To Luke's surprise, the salesman was the same one who had come to his assistance in the car the day previous when he was charged with stealing. The recognition was mutual.

"I believe we have met before," said the young man, with a smile.

"Yes, fortunately for me," answered Luke, gratefully.

"The two parties who were determined to find you guilty looked foolish when they ascertained the real character of your accuser."

"What is this, Luke? You didn't tell me of it," said Mrs. Merton.

The story was related briefly.

"I should like to meet that woman," said Mrs. Merton, nodding energetically. "I'd give her a piece of my mind. Luke, you may hand me ten dollars."

The goods were wrapped up and the change returned.

"Where shall I send the bundle, Mrs. Merton?" asked the salesman, deferentially.

"Luke will take it."

As they left the store Mrs. Merton said: "Did you think I was buying this dress for myself, Luke?"

"I thought so," Luke answered.

"No, I have dresses enough to last me a lifetime, I may almost say. This dress pattern is for your mother."

"For my mother?" repeated Luke, joyfully.

"Yes; I hope it will be welcome."

"Indeed it will. Mother hasn't had a new dress for over a year."

"Then I guessed right. Give it to her with my compliments, and tell her I give it to her for your sake. Now, I believe I will go home."

No present made to Luke could have given him so much pleasure as this gift to his mother, for he knew how much she stood in need of it.

When they reached the house on Prairie Avenue, they met Mrs. Tracy on the steps. She had been out for a short call.

"Did you have a pleasant morning, Aunt Eliza?" she asked, quite ignoring Luke.

"Yes, quite so. Luke, I won't trouble you to come in. I shall not need you to-morrow. The next day you may call at the same hour."

Luke turned away, but was called back sharply by Mrs. Tracy.

"Boy!" she said, "you are taking away my aunt's bundle. Bring it back directly."

"Louisa," said the old lady, "don't trouble yourself. That bundle is meant for Luke's mother."

"Something you bought for her?"

"Yes, a dress pattern."

"Oh!" sniffed Mrs. Tracy, eying Luke with strong disapproval.

CHAPTER XVI

THOMAS BROWNING AT HOME

In one of the handsomest streets in Milwaukee stood a private residence which was quite in harmony with its surroundings. It looked like the home of a man of ample means. It was luxuriously furnished, and at one side was a conservatory. It was apt to attract the attention of strangers, and the question was asked: "Who lives there?"

And the answer would be: "Thomas Browning. He will probably be mayor some day."

Yes, this was the residence of Thomas Browning, formerly Thomas Butler, the man to whom the dead father of Luke Walton had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and children. How he fulfilled his trust, or, rather, did not fulfill it, we already know. But in Milwaukee, where Mr. Browning had become a leading citizen, it was not known. It was entirely inconsistent with what was believed to be his character. For Mr. Browning was president of one charitable society and treasurer of another. At the annual meetings of these societies he was always called upon to speak, and his allusions to the poverty and privations of those who were cared for by these societies never failed to produce an impression.

It was popularly supposed that he gave away large sums in charity. Indeed, he admitted the fact, but explained the absence of his name from subscription papers by saying: "All my gifts are anonymous. Instead of giving my name, I prefer to put down 'Cash,' so much, or 'A Friend,' such another sum. I don't wish to influence others, but it jars upon me to have my name ostentatiously paraded in the public prints."

Now, in all subscriptions there are donations ascribed to "Cash" and "A Friend," and whenever these occurred, it was generally supposed they represented Mr. Browning. But, to let the reader into a little secret, this was only a shrewd device of Mr. Browning's to have the reputation of a philanthropist at little or no expense, for, as a matter of fact, he never contributed at all to the charities in which he seemed to take such an interest!

In a pleasant room on the second floor sat the pseudo-philanthropist. The room was furnished as a library. At a writing table, poring over what looked like an account book, he looked the picture of comfort and respectability. A few well-chosen engravings adorned the walls. A pleasant light was diffused about the room from a chandelier suspended over the table.

Thomas Browning leaned back in his chair, and a placid smile overspread his naturally harsh features. He looked about him, and his thoughts somehow ran back to a time when he was very differently situated.

"Five years ago to-night," he said, "I was well-nigh desperate. I hadn't a cent to bless myself with, nor was the prospect of getting one particularly bright. How I lived, for a considerable time, I hardly know. I did have a notion at one time, when I was particularly down on my luck, of committing suicide, and so ending the struggle once for all. It would have been a great mistake!" he added after a pause. "I didn't foresee at the time the prosperous years that lay before me. Frederick Walton's money changed my whole life. Ten thousand dollars isn't a fortune, but it proved the basis of one. It enabled me to float the Excelsior Mine. I remember there were a hundred thousand shares at two dollars a share, all based upon a few acres of mining land which I bought for a song. With the ten thousand dollars, I hired an office, printed circulars, distributed glowing accounts of imaginary wealth, etc. It cost considerable for advertising, but I sold seventy thousand shares, and when I had gathered in the money I let the bottom fall out. There was a great fuss, of course, but I figured as the largest loser, being the owner of thirty thousand shares (for which I hadn't paid a cent), and so shared the sympathy extended to losers. It was a nice scheme, and after deducting all expenses, I made a clean seventy-five thousand dollars out of it, which, added to my original capital, made eighty-five thousand. Then I came to Milwaukee and bought this house. From that time my career has been upward and onward. My friends say some day I shall be mayor of the city. Well, stranger things have happened, and who knows but my friends may be right!"

At this moment a servant entered the library.

"Well, Mary, what is it?" asked the philanthropist.

"Please, sir, there's a poor woman at the door, and she would like to see you."

"Ah, yes, she wants relief from the Widows' and Orphans' Society, probably. Well, send her up. I am always at home to the poor."

"What a good man he is!" thought Mary. "It's strange he gives such low wages to the girls that work for him. He says it's because he gives away so much money in charities."

Mary ushered in, a moment later, a woman in a faded dress, with a look of care and sorrow on her thin features.

"Take a seat, madam," said Thomas Browning, urbanely. "Did you wish to see me?"

"Yes, sir. I am in difficulties, and have ventured to call upon you."

"I am glad to see you. I am always ready to see the unfortunate."

"Yes, sir; I know you have the reputation of being a philanthropist.

"No, no," said Mr. Browning, modestly. "Don't mention it. I am fully aware of the flattering estimation which is placed on my poor services, but I really don't deserve it. It is, perhaps, as the President of the Widows' and Orphans' Charitable Society that you wish to speak to me."

"No, sir. It is as President of the Excelsior Mining Company that I wish to make an appeal to you."

"Oh!" ejaculated Browning, with a perceptible change of countenance.

"Of course you remember it, sir. I was a widow, with a small property of five thousand dollars left me by my late husband. It was all I had on which to support myself and two children. The banks paid poor interest, and I was in search of a profitable investment. One of your circulars fell into my hands. The shares were two dollars each, and it was stated that they would probably yield fifty per cent dividends. That would support me handsomely. But I didn't decide to invest until I had written a private letter to you."

She took it from the pocket of her dress, and offered it to Thomas Browning, but that gentleman waved it aside.

She continued: "You indorsed all that the circular contained. You said that within a year you thought he shares would rise to at least ten dollars. So I invested all the money I had. You know what followed. In six months the shares went down to nothing, and I found myself penniless."

"I know it, my good woman," said Thomas Browning. "I know it, to my cost. I myself had sixty thousand dollars invested in the stock. I lost it all."

"But you seem to be a rich man," said the poor woman, looking about her.

"I have made it out of other ventures. But the collapse of the mine was a sad blow to me. As the president, I might have had something from the wreck, but I did not. I suffered with the rest. Now, may I ask what I can do for you?"

"It was on account of your advice that I bought stock. Don't you think you ought to make up to me a part of the loss?"

"Impossible!" said Browning, sharply. "Didn't I tell you I lost much more heavily than you?"

"Then you can do nothing for me?"

"Yes; I can put you on the pension list of the Widows' and Orphans' Society. That will entitle you to receive a dollar a week for three months."

"I am not an object of charity, sir. I wish you good-night."

"Good-night. If you change your mind come to me."

"Very unreasonable, upon my word," soliloquized Thomas Browning.

At eleven o'clock Mr. Browning went to his bedchamber. He lit the gas and was preparing to disrobe, when his sharp ear detected the sound of suppressed breathing, and the point from which it proceeded. He walked quickly to the bed, bent over, and looked underneath. In an instant he had caught a man who had been concealed beneath it.

The intruder was a wretchedly dressed tramp. Browning allowed the man to get upon his feet, and then, facing him, demanded, sternly: "Why are you here? Did you come to rob me?"

CHAPTER XVII

A STRANGE VISITOR

"Did you come to rob me?" repeated Mr. Browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed.

There was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded – not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. Thomas Browning misinterpreted it. He thought the man was speechless from alarm.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded Browning, sternly.

The answer considerably surprised him.

"Why, pard, it's you, is it?" said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain.

"What do you mean by your impertinence?" asked the respectable Mr. Browning, angrily.

"Well, that's a good one! Who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?"

"What do you mean? Are you crazy, fellow?"

"No, I ain't crazy, as I know of, but I'm flabbergasted – that's what I am."

"Have done with this trifling and tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to the police?"

"I guess you won't do that, Tom Butler!" returned the burglar, coolly.

Browning stared in surprise and dismay at hearing his old name pronounced by this unsavory specimen of humanity.

"Who are you?" he demanded, quickly.

"Don't you know me?"

"No, I don't. I never saw you before. I don't associate with men of your class."

"Hear him now!" chuckled the tramp, in an amazed tone. "Why, Tom Butler, you an' me used to be pards. Don't you remember Jack King? Why, we've bunked together, and hunted for gold together, and almost starved together; but that was in the old days."

Browning looked the amazement he felt.

"Are you really Jack King?" he ejaculated, sinking back into an easy-chair, and staring hard at his unexpected visitor.

"I'm the same old coon, Tom, but I'm down at the heel, while you – do you really own this fine house, and these elegant fixin's?"

"Yes," answered Browning, mechanically.

"Well, you've fared better than I. I've been goin' down, down, till I've got about as far down as I can get."

"And you have become a burglar?"

"Well, a man must live, you know."

"You could work."

"Who would give such a lookin' man as I any work?"

"How did you get in?"

"That's my secret! You mustn't expect me to give myself away."

"And you had no idea whose house you were in?"

"I was told it belonged to a Mr. Browning."

"I am Mr. Browning – Thomas Browning."

"You! What has become of Butler?"

"I had good substantial reasons for changing my name – there was money in it, you understand."

"I'd like to change my own name on them terms. And now, Tom Butler, what are you going to do for me?"

Mr. Browning's face hardened. He felt no sympathy for the poor wretch with whom he had once been on terms of intimacy. He felt ashamed to think that they had ever been comrades, and he resented the tone of familiarity with which this outcast addressed him – a reputable citizen, a wealthy capitalist, a man whose name had been more than once mentioned in connection with the mayor's office.

"I'll tell you what I ought to do," he said, harshly.

"Well?"

"I ought to call a policeman, and give you in charge for entering my house as a burglar."

"You'd better not do that," he said without betraying alarm.

"Why not? Why should I not treat you like any other burglar?"

"Because – but I want to ask you a question."

"What did you do with that money Walton gave you on his deathbed?"

"What do you mean?" he faltered.

"Just what I say. What did you do with Walton's money?"

"I am at a loss to understand your meaning."

"No, you are not. However, I am ready to explain. On his deathbed Walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. Did you do it?"

"Who told you this?"

"It is unnecessary for me to say. It is enough that I know it. At the time you were poor enough. You might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. Now – it isn't so many years ago – I find you a rich man. Of course, I have my own ideas of how this came about."

"Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty?" demanded Browning, angrily.

"I don't accuse you of anything. I am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. I'm not an angel myself, Tom Butler, and I can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. I wish it had; I wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch I am now."

"Walton handed me some money," said Browning, cautiously – "not ten thousand dollars – and I handed it to his family."

"Where did they live?"

"In a country town," he answered, glibly.

"I was thinking I might run across Mrs. Walton some day," he said, significantly. "She would be glad to see me, as I knew her late husband in California."

"She is dead," said Browning, hastily.

"Dead! How long since?"

"She died soon after she heard of her husband's death. Died of grief, poor woman!"

"Were there no children?"

"Yes, there was a girl, but she was adopted by a relative in Massachusetts."

"I don't believe a word of it!" thought Jack King. "He wants to put me off the scent."

"Humph! And you gave the wife the money?"

"Of course."

"I may meet the girl some time; I might advertise for any of the family."

"Do you think they would be glad to see you?"

"They might help me, and I stand in need of help."

"There is no need of that. You are an old comrade in distress. I haven't forgotten the fact, though I pretended to, to try you. Here's a five-dollar bill. I'll let you out of the house myself. Considering how you entered it, you may count yourself lucky."

"That's all right, as far as it goes, Tom, but I want to remind you of a little debt you owe me. When you were out of luck at Murphy's diggings I lent you twenty-five dollars, which you have never paid back."

"I had forgotten it."

"I haven't. That money will come mighty convenient just now. It will buy me a better-looking suit, second hand, and make a different man of me. With it I can get a place and set up for a respectable human being."

"Here's the money," said Browning, reluctantly drawing the additional bills from his wallet. "Now that we are square, I hope you won't annoy me by further applications. I might have sent you out of the house under very different circumstances."

"You were always considerate, Tom," said the tramp, stowing away the bills in the pocket of his ragged vest. "May I refer to you if I apply for a situation?"

"Yes; but remember I am Thomas Browning. I prefer not to have it known that my name was ever Butler."

"All right! Now, if you'll do me the favor of showing me the door I'll leave you to your slumbers."

"It's very awkward, that man's turning up," muttered Browning, as he returned from letting out his unsavory visitor. "How could he have heard about Walton's money?"

CHAPTER XVIII

HOW JACK KING FARED

Jack King left the house with the money Browning had unwillingly given him. He sought a cheap lodging and the next morning proceeded to make himself respectable. When he had donned some clean linen, a suit of clothes which he bought cheap at a second-hand store, taken a bath, and called into requisition the services of a barber, it would have been hard to recognize him as the same man who had emerged from under the bed of the well-known philanthropist, a typical tramp and would-be burglar.

Jack King counted over the balance of his money, and found that he had nine dollars and thirty-seven cents left.

"This won't support me forever," he reflected. "I must get something to do."

While sauntering along, he fell in with an old acquaintance named Stone.

"What are you up to, King?" he asked.

"Looking for a job."

"You are my man, then. I am keeping a cigar store at the Prairie Hotel, but I have some business calling me away from the city for six weeks or two months. Will you take my place?"

"What are the inducements?"

"Board and lodging and five dollars a week."

"Agreed."

"Come over, then, and I will show you the place."

The hotel was a cheap one, not far from the railway station, and though comfortable, was not patronized by fastidious travelers.

"When do you want me to take hold?" he asked.

"To-morrow."

"All right."

"Come around at ten o'clock. I want to leave Milwaukee in the afternoon."

King could not help reflecting about the extraordinary prosperity of his old comrade, Tom Butler, now Thomas Browning, Esq.

"What does it mean?" he asked himself. "He seemed very uneasy when I asked him about Walton's money. I believe he kept it himself. I wish I knew. If I could prove it, it would be a gold mine for me. I must make inquiries, and, if possible, find out Walton's family."

"Do you know anything of Thomas Browning?" he asked Stone.

"The philanthropist? Yes. What of him?"

"I called on him last evening."

Jack did not think it best to mention the circumstances of his visit.

"Indeed! How did you know him?"

"In California."

"I suppose he laid the foundation of his fortune there."

"Is he so rich, then?"

"Yes, probably worth a quarter of a million."

This was an exaggeration, but rich men's wealth is generally overstated.

"How does he stand in the city?"

"First-class. He has been mentioned for mayor. I shouldn't be surprised if he might get the office some day."

"He has certainly been very lucky."

"I should say so. Was he rich in California?"

"Not when I knew him. At one time there he had to borrow money of me. He paid me back last evening."

"He is on the top of the ladder now, at any rate."

"His respectability would suffer a little," thought Jack King, "if I could prove that he had appropriated Walton's money. I must think the matter over, and secure some information if I can."

The next Sunday evening he called at the house of the philanthropist, and sent in his name.

Thomas Browning went himself to the door. He was afraid King might be wearing the same disreputable suit in which he had made his former visit. But to his relief his visitor looked quite respectable.

"Do you wish to see me?" he asked.

"Yes; but only for a social call. I am not acquainted in Milwaukee, and it does me good to see an old friend and comrade."

"I have not much time to spare, but come in!"

They went into the philanthropist's library, formerly described.

"Have you found anything to do?" asked Browning.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

King answered the question.

"It is not much," he added, "but will do for the present."

"At any rate, it is considerably better than entering a house at night and hiding under the bed," said Browning, dryly.

"So it is," answered King, smiling. "You must make allowance for my destitute condition. I little thought that I was in the house of an old friend. I have been asking about you, Tom Butler – I beg pardon, Mr. Browning – and I find that you stand very high in Milwaukee."

A shade of annoyance showed itself on the philanthropist's face when King referred to him under his former name, but when his high standing was referred to he smiled complacently.

"Yes," he said, "I have been fortunate enough to win the good opinion of my fellow-citizens."

"Some one told me that you would probably run for mayor some day."

"It may be. I have been sounded on the subject."

"The worst of running for office is that if a man has ever done anything discreditable it is sure to be brought out against him."

"I hope you don't mean to imply that I have ever done anything discreditable," said Browning, sharply.

"Oh, dear, no! How could I think such a thing? But sometimes false charges are brought. If you had ever betrayed a trust, or kept money belonging to another, of course, it would hurt you."

"Certainly it would," said the philanthropist, his voice betraying some nervousness, "but I am glad to say that my conscience is clear on that point."