Dave Porter and His Double: or, The Disapperarance of the Basswood Fortune

“Maybe Laura saw them and took them upstairs, thinking they wouldn’t be safe here,” suggested Roger.

“I hardly think that, Roger. However, as the coat and cap are not here, maybe I’d better ask her.”

Another search for the missing things followed, Dave looking through the parlor and the other rooms on the ground floor of the hotel, and even peeping into the restaurant, where a number of folks were at breakfast. Then he went upstairs and knocked softly on the door of the room which Laura and Jessie were occupying.

“Who is it?” asked his sister, in a somewhat sleepy tone of voice.

“It’s I, Laura,” answered her brother. “I want to know if you brought my cap and overcoat upstairs last night.”

“Why, no, Dave, I didn’t touch them. What is the matter–can’t you find them?”

“No, and I’ve hunted high and low,” he returned. “I don’t suppose any of the other girls or the doctor touched them?”

“I am quite sure they did not.” Laura came to the door and peeped out at him. “Are you boys all up already?”

“Yes, we went down-stairs a little while ago. We were going out to the barn, and that’s why I wanted my overcoat and cap. They seem to be gone, and I don’t know what to make of it;” and now Dave’s face showed increased anxiety.

“What’s the trouble?” came from Jessie, and then Laura closed the door again. Dave heard some conversation between all of the girls, and then between Laura and Mrs. Renwick. Then his sister came to the door once more.

“None of us touched your cap or overcoat, Dave,” she said. “Isn’t it queer? Do you suppose they have been stolen?”

“I hope not, Laura. I’m going down and see the hotel proprietor about it.”

The proprietor of the hostelry was not on hand, but his son, a young fellow of about Dave’s age, was behind the desk, and he listened with interest to what our hero had to say. Then he, too, instituted a search for the missing things.

“I can’t understand this any more than you can,” he announced, after this additional search had proved a failure. “I didn’t know we had any thieves around here. Are you sure you left the coat and cap on this rack?”

“Yes, I am positive,” announced Dave.

“I saw him do it, when I placed my own things on the same rack,” declared Ben.

“But you found your coat and cap all right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s mighty queer,” declared the young clerk, shaking his head. “I guess I’d better tell my father about this.”

The hotel proprietor was called, and he at once instituted a number of inquiries concerning the missing things. But all these proved of no avail. No one had taken Dave’s wearing apparel, and none of the hired help had seen any one else take the things or wear them.

“You should have taken your things up to your room last night,” declared the hotel proprietor, during the course of the search. “It’s a bad idea to leave things on a rack like this, with so many strangers coming and going all the time.”

He agreed to lend Dave a coat and a hat, and, donning these, the youth walked through the little shelter leading to the stables, accompanied by his chums.

“If those things are not recovered I think you can hold the hotel man responsible,” remarked Roger.

“Just what I think,” put in Ben. “That overcoat was a pretty nice one, Dave; and the cap was a peach.”

“I’ll see what can be done, in case the things don’t turn up,” returned our hero.

They found Washington Bones down among the stablemen, taking care of his horses.

“Well, Wash, what are the prospects for getting away this morning?” questioned Roger.

“Ain’t no prospects, so far as I kin see,” declared the colored driver. “This suah am one terrible sto’m. I neber seen the like befo’ aroun’ heah.”

“Then you don’t think we’re going to get back to Crumville to-day?” questioned Ben.

“No-sir. Why, if we was to try it we’d suah git stuck befo’ we got out ob dis town. Some ob de drifts is right to de top of de fust story ob de houses.” Washington Bones looked questioningly at Dave. “How did you like your trip outside las’ night?” he queried. “Must ha’ been some walkin’, t’rough sech deep snow.”

“My trip outside?” questioned Dave, with a puzzled look. “What do you mean, Wash? I didn’t go out last night.”

“You didn’t!” exclaimed the colored driver in wonder. “Didn’t I see you leavin’ de hotel las’ night ’bout half pas’ ’levin or a little later?”

“You certainly did not. I was in bed and sound asleep by half past eleven,” answered Dave.

“Well now, don’t dat beat all!” cried the colored man, his eyes rolling in wonder. “I went outside jest to take a las’ look aroun’ befo’ turning in, and I seen a young fellow and a man leavin’ de hotel. Dey come right pas’ where a lantern was hung up on the porch, and when dat light struck on de young fellow’s face I thought suah as you’re bo’n it was you. Why, he looked like you, and he had on de same kind of cap and overcoat dat you was a-wearin’ yeste’day. I see you’ve got on something different to-day.”

“A fellow who looked like me and who had on my cap and my overcoat!” ejaculated Dave. He turned to his chums. “What do you make of that?”

“Maybe it was Ward Porton!” cried Roger.

“If it was, he must have run away and taken Dave’s cap and overcoat with him,” added Ben.

CHAPTER XIV

MOVEMENTS OF THE ENEMY

As my readers doubtless surmise, it was Ward Porton who had made off with Dave’s overcoat and cap.

Leaving the room which they occupied on the third floor locked, the young moving-picture actor and his disreputable companion had stolen down the two flights of stairs leading to the lower hallway. Fortunately for them, no one had been present, and it had been comparatively easy for Porton to find Dave’s things and put them on. Tim Crapsey already wore his own overcoat and hat.

“We might as well provide ourselves with rubbers while we are at it,” remarked Crapsey, as his gaze fell upon a number of such footwear resting near the rack, and thereupon each donned a pair of rubbers that fitted him.

Thus equipped they had stolen out of the hotel through a side hallway without any one in the building being aware of their departure.

“We’re going to have a fight of it to get to the railroad station,” muttered Ward Porton, as the fury of the storm struck both of them.

“It’s lucky I know the way,” croaked Tim Crapsey. And then, as they passed over the porch in the light of the lantern by which Washington Bones had seen Porton, the man went on: “Say, what’s the matter with us stoppin’ at some drinkin’ place and gittin’ a little liquor?”

“Not now,” interposed his companion, hastily. “We want to make our get-away without being seen if we possibly can.”

“Oh, nobody will know us,” grumbled Crapsey, who had a great fondness for liquor, “and the stuff may prove a life-saver if we git stuck some place in the snow.”

The realization that they might become snowbound on the way to Pepsico made Porton pause, and in the end he agreed to visit a drinking place several blocks away, which, by the light shining dimly through the window, they could see was still open.

“But now look here, Tim, you’re not going to overdo it,” said the former moving-picture actor, warningly. “If we are going to pull this stunt off you are going to keep perfectly sober. It’s one drink and no more!”

“But I’m goin’ to git a flask to take along,” pleaded the man.

“You can do that. But I give you fair warning that you’ve got to go slow in using the stuff. Otherwise we are going to part company. In such a game as we are trying to put over, a man has got to have his wits about him.”

Having procured a drink, and also a package of cigarettes and a flask of liquor, the two set off through the storm for the railroad station, a mile and a quarter away. It was a hard and tiresome journey, and more than once they had to stop to rest and figure out where they were. Twice Tim Crapsey insisted upon it that he must have a “bracer” from the flask.

“I’m froze through and through,” he declared.

“Well, I’m half frozen myself,” retorted Ward Porton, and when he saw the man drinking he could not resist the temptation to take some of the liquor himself.

“We’ll be in a fine pickle if we get to Pepsico and then find that the train isn’t coming through,” remarked the former moving-picture actor, when about three-quarters of the journey had been covered and they were resting in the shelter of a roadside barn.

“That’s a chance we’ve got to take,” returned his companion. “But I don’t think the train will be stormbound. Most of the tracks through here are on an embankment, and the wind would keep them pretty clear.”

It was after one o’clock when the pair finally gained the little railroad station at Pepsico. They found over a dozen men and several women present, all resting in the tiny waiting-room, trusting that the train would soon put in an appearance.

“The wires are down so they can’t tell exactly where the train is,” said one of the men, in reply to a question from Porton. “They are hoping, though, that it isn’t many miles away.”

From time to time one of the would-be passengers would go out on the tracks to look and listen, and at last one of these announced that a train was on the way.

“But I can’t tell whether it’s a passenger train or a freight,” he said.

“Let’s git on it even if it’s a freight,” said Tim Crapsey to Ward Porton. “She’ll take us to Crumville jest as well.”

“All right, provided we can get aboard.”

Slowly the train puffed in and proved to be a freight. On the rear, however, was a passenger car, hooked on at the last station.

“The regular passenger train is stalled in the cut beyond Breckford,” announced the conductor of the freight, “and there’s no telling when she’ll get out. If you folks want to risk getting through, get aboard;” and at this invitation all those waiting at the station lost no time in boarding the mixed train. Then, with a great deal of puffing and blowing, the locomotive moved slowly away from Pepsico, dragging the long line of cars, some full and some empty, behind it.

Long before Crumville was reached it became a question as to whether the train would get through or not. The snow was coming down as thickly as ever, and the wind whistled with increased violence.

“I don’t believe we’ll get much farther than Crumville,” announced the conductor, when he came through to collect tickets. “We should have passed at least two trains coming the other way. But nothing has come along, and that would seem to show that the line is blocked ahead of us.”

As a matter of fact, the mixed train did not get even as far as Dave’s home town. Running was all right so long as the tracks were up on the embankment, but as soon as they reached the level of the surrounding country the snow became so deep that several times the train had to be backed up so that a fresh start might be made. Then, when they came to a cut not over three feet deep, just on the outskirts of the town, the engineer found it utterly impossible to get any farther.

“We’ll have to have a snow-plough to get us out,” he declared, “or otherwise we’ll have to remain here until the storm clears away.”

By listening to the conversation of some of the people in the car, Porton and Crapsey learned that it was only a short distance to the town, and they followed several men and a woman when they left the train to finish the journey on foot.

“I know where we are now,” said Porton, presently, as he and his companion struck a well-defined road leading past the Wadsworth jewelry works. “We’ll be right in Crumville in a little while more.”

Ward Porton knew very well that he must not show himself in Crumville any more than was necessary. Consequently, as soon as they came within sight of the town proper, he suggested that they look around for some place where they might remain until daybreak.

“Right you are,” answered Tim Crapsey. And a little later, coming to a large barn, they tried the door, and, finding it unlocked, entered and proceeded to make themselves comfortable in some hay, using several horse blankets for coverings.

Here both of them, being thoroughly exhausted, fell sound asleep and did not awaken until it was daylight.

“Now we’ve got to lay our plans with great care,” announced Ward Porton. “We can’t go at this in any haphazard way. Even though it may prove comparatively easy to get our hands on those miniatures, it will be another story to get away with them in such a storm as this, with the railroad and every other means of communication tied up.”

“This storm is jest the thing that’s goin’ to help us,” answered Crapsey. “With all the telegraph and telephone wires down the authorities won’t be able to send out any alarm. And with the snow so deep, if we git any kind of a start at all it will be next to impossible for ’em to follow us up.”

A discussion of ways and means followed that lasted the best part of an hour. Then, with money provided by Porton, and with many an admonition that he must not for the present drink another drop, Tim Crapsey was allowed to depart for Crumville.

“And you be very careful of how you go at things,” warned Porton.

Tim Crapsey had a delicate mission to perform. First of all he was to size up matters around the homes of the Wadsworths and the Basswoods, and then he was to do what he could to hire a cutter and a fast horse at the local livery stable. This done, he was to procure something to eat both for himself and for his companion.

As time went by Ward Porton, on the alert for the possible appearance of the owner of the barn, became more and more anxious, and twice he went out in the roadway to see if his companion was anywhere in sight.

“It would be just like him to go off and get full of liquor,” muttered the young man, with a scowl. “I really ought to part company with him. But when he is perfectly sober he certainly is a slick one,” he continued meditatively.

To pass the time the young man made a thorough search of the overcoat which he had stolen from Dave. He had already discovered a fine pair of gloves and had worn them. Now, in an inner pocket, he located a card-case containing half a dozen addresses, some postage stamps, and some of Dave’s visiting cards. There were also two cards which had been blank, and on each of these, written in Dave’s bold hand, was the following:

Signature of David Porter, Crumville

“Hello! what’s this?” mused the former moving-picture actor, as he gazed at the written cards. Then suddenly his face brightened. “Oh, I see! It’s one of those cards that I heard about–the kind he has been distributing among the storekeepers in an effort to catch me. Say, one of these may come in handy when I go for those miniatures!” he continued.

At last he heard a noise outside, and looking in that direction saw Tim Crapsey approaching in a somewhat dilapidated cutter, drawn, however, by a powerful-looking bay horse.

“Had a fierce time gittin’ this horse,” announced the man, as he came to a halt beside the barn. “The livery stable man didn’t want to let him go out, and I had to tell him a long yarn about somebody bein’ sick and my havin’ to git a doctor. And I had to offer him double price, too!” and at his own ruse the man chuckled hoarsely.

He had brought with him some sandwiches and doughnuts, and also a bottle of hot coffee, and on these both made a somewhat limited breakfast, the man washing the meal down with another drink from his flask.

“I kept my word–I didn’t drink a drop when I was in town,” he croaked. “But say, this is mighty dry work!”

“You keep a clear head on your shoulders, Tim,” warned Porton. “Some day, drink is going to land you in jail or in the grave.”

“Not much!” snorted the man. “I know when to stop.” But Porton knew that this was not true.

Another conference was held, and Crapsey told of having taken a look around, both at the Wadsworth place and the Basswood home.

“There is no one at the Basswood place but Mr. and Mrs. Basswood; and I understand the man is sick in bed,” he said. “All the telephone wires are out of commission, but to make sure that the Basswoods couldn’t telephone I cut the wire that runs into his real estate office–and I also cut the wire up at the Wadsworth house.”

“Good for you, Tim!” returned Ward Porton, and then he told of having found the two cards, each containing Dave’s signature.

“That’s fine!” cried the man. “That ought to help you a great deal when you ask for the miniatures.”

“I hope it does,” answered Ward Porton, thoughtfully. “Now let us go; the sooner we get at this affair the better.” And then both left the barn, entered the cutter, and drove rather slowly in the direction of the Basswood home.

CHAPTER XV

THE RETURN TO CRUMVILLE

“If Ward Porton got my cap and overcoat he must have been staying at this hotel,” said Dave, after the announcement made by Ben. “Let us interview the proprietor without delay.”

He and his chums hurried back into the hotel and there met not only the proprietor but also his son.

“See here, have you anybody staying here who looks like me?” demanded our hero of both of them.

“Sure, we’ve got a fellow who looks like you,” declared the hotel-keeper’s son before his father could speak. “It’s a Mr. Jones. He has a room up on the third floor. He’s here with an older man named Brown.”

“I wish you would take me up to their room!” cried Dave, quickly.

“Why! what’s the matter now?”

“I want to find out whether that fellow is still here. If he is I want him placed under arrest.” And then Dave related a few of the particulars concerning Ward Porton and his doings.

“That certainly is a queer story,” remarked the hotel proprietor. “I’ll go upstairs with you.”

He led the way, followed by Dave and his chums. The youths were much astonished to see him halt at the door next to their own.

“They don’t seem to be there, or otherwise they are sleeping pretty soundly,” remarked the hotel proprietor, after he had knocked on the door several times.

“I guess you had better unlock the door,” suggested Dave. “I rather think you will find the room empty.”

A key was secured from one of the maids and the door was opened. The proprietor gave one look into the apartment.

“Gone!” he exclaimed. “Say! do you think they have run away?”

“That’s just exactly what I do think,” answered Dave. “And that fellow who looks like me most likely took my cap and overcoat.”

“And you say his name is Porton? He signed our register as William Jones.”

“Here’s his hat and coat,” announced Phil, opening the door to a closet. “Pretty poor clothing he left you in return for yours, Dave,” continued the shipowner’s son, after an inspection.

The hotel proprietor was very wrathy, declaring that Porton and his companion owed him for three days’ board.

“They’re swindlers, that’s what they are!” he cried. “Just wait till I land on them! I’ll put them in jail sure!”

“I’d willingly give you that board money just to get my hands on Ward Porton,” announced Dave. He turned to his chums. “This sure is the limit! First he goes to the stores and gets a lot of things in my name and then he steals my hat and overcoat right from under my nose!”

“Yes, and that isn’t the worst of it,” declared Roger. “There is no telling where he has gone; and even if you knew, in this awful storm it would be next to impossible to follow him.”

All went below, and there they continued to discuss the situation. In the midst of the talk the girls came down, accompanied by Dr. Renwick and his wife.

“Oh, Dave! you don’t mean to tell me that that horrid Ward Porton has been at more of his tricks!” cried Laura.

“Isn’t it perfectly dreadful!” put in Jessie. “And to think he was right in this hotel with us and we never knew it!”

“That’s what makes me so angry,” announced Dave. “If only I had clapped my eyes on him!” he added regretfully.

“Well, there’s no use of crying over spilt milk,” declared Roger. “He is gone, and so are Dave’s overcoat and his cap, and that is all there is to it.”

“Speaking of milk puts me in mind of breakfast,” put in Phil. “Now that the others are downstairs don’t you think we had better have something to eat?”

All were agreeable, and soon they were seated at a large table in the dining room, in company with the doctor and Mrs. Renwick. Here, while eating their breakfast, they discussed the situation from every possible standpoint, but without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion.

“Porton must have seen us when we came up to the rooms,” said Dave to his chums. “He probably heard me speak about leaving my cap and overcoat downstairs, and he just took a fiendish delight in walking off with them and leaving his old duds behind. Oh, he certainly is a peach!”

Had there been the slightest let-up in the blizzard, Dave and his chums would have gone out on a hunt around the town for Porton and his unknown companion. But with the wind blowing almost a hurricane, and the snow coming down as thickly as ever, Dr. Renwick told them that they had better remain indoors.

“It isn’t likely that they stayed anywhere around here, fearing detection,” said the physician. “They probably put a good distance between themselves and this hotel. And to go out in such a storm as this might make some of you sick.”

“Oh, well, what of that? We have a doctor handy,” answered Dave, whimsically. “Just the same, I guess we had better remain where we are,” he added, with a deep sigh.

It was not until the following morning that the wind died down and the snow ceased to fall. In the meantime, the young folks did what they could to entertain themselves, the girls playing on the piano in the hotel parlor, and the boys later on taking them to the bowling alleys next door and initiating them into the mysteries of the game. Dave was a good bowler and so was Roger, each being able occasionally to make a score of two hundred. But Ben and Phil could not do much better than one hundred, while none of the girls got over eighty.

“Now that the snow has stopped falling, I suppose we had better try to get back to Crumville,” said Laura to her brother.

“Yes, we ought to get back,” put in Jessie. “I suppose our folks are dreadfully worried about us.”

“It was too bad that you couldn’t send some sort of word,” came from Belle. “If you could only do that we could stay here until the roads were well broken.”

“In the West we don’t pretend to go out in such a storm,” remarked Cora Dartmore. “But, of course, our distances are greater, and we have so few landmarks that it is an easy thing to get lost.”

“I don’t think we are going to get away from here in any great hurry,” replied Dave. “It is true the snow has stopped coming down and the sun is breaking through the clouds; but I am quite sure the drifts on the road between here and Crumville are much higher than we can manage, even with the powerful horses we have. We’ll have to wait until the roads are more or less broken.”

Our hero was right about not getting away. They went down to the stables and interviewed Washington Bones and several of the other drivers present, and all agreed that it would not be possible to get very far beyond the town limits. This news made the young folks chafe considerably, but there was nothing to be done; so for another day they had to content themselves as best they could. During that time the boys did their best to send some message to Crumville, but without success, for all of the telephone and telegraph wires were still down and nothing had been done to mend them.

The next morning, however, things looked a little brighter. The weather continued to improve, and several horse teams, as well as an ox team, came through on the road from the direction of Crumville.

“The road ain’t none too good so far as I could see,” announced one of the drivers to Dave. “But if you take your time and watch where you’re going, maybe you can get through.”

“Oh, let us try it anyway!” cried Laura, who was present. “If we find we can’t make it we can come back here, or else stop at some other place along the way.”

It was finally agreed that they should make the effort, and they started about ten o’clock. The sun was shining with dazzling brilliancy on the snow, and with no wind blowing it was considerably warmer than it had been on the journey to Lamont. All of the young folks were in good humor, Dave for the time being dismissing from his mind the trouble occasioned by the loss of his cap and overcoat.