Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life

Several days passed, and, although he only returned to his uncle’s house at the hour of meals, he had the same report to bring on each occasion.

“I am afraid,” said the baker, “it will be as hard as finding a needle in a hay-stack, to hope to meet the one you seek, among so many faces.”

“There’s nothing like trying,” answered Jack, courageously. “I’m not going to give up yet awhile.”

He sat down and wrote the following note, home:—

“DEAR PARENTS:

“I arrived in Philadelphia safe, and am stopping at Uncle Abel’s. He received me very kindly. I have got track of Ida, though I have not found her yet. I have learned as much as this, that this Mrs. Hardwick—who is a double distilled she-rascal—probably has Ida in her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle’s. I am spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for her. If I do meet her, see if I don’t get Ida away from her. But it may take some time. Don’t get discouraged, therefore, but wait patiently. Whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line from your dutiful son

“JACK.”

In reply to this letter, or rather note, Jack received an intimation that he was not to cease his efforts as long as a chance remained to find Ida.

The very day after the reception of this letter, as Jack was sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him a form which at once reminded him of Mrs. Hardwick. Full of hope that this might be so, he bounded forward, and rapidly passed the suspected person, turned suddenly round, and confronted Ida’s nurse.

The recognition was mutual. Peg was taken aback by this unexpected encounter.

“Her first impulse was to make off, but the young man’s resolute expression warned her that this would prove in vain.

“Mrs. Hardwick!” said Jack.

“You are right,” said she, nodding, “and you, if I am not mistaken, are John Crump, the son of my worthy friends in New York.”

“Well,” ejaculated Jack, internally, “if that doesn’t beat all for coolness.”

“My name is Jack,” he said, aloud.

“Indeed! I thought it might be a nickname.”

“You can’t guess what I came here for,” said Jack, with an attempt at sarcasm, which utterly failed of its effect.

“To see your sister Ida, I presume,” said Peg, coolly.

“Yes,” said Jack, amazed at the woman’s composure.

“I thought some of you would be coming on,” said Peg, whose prolific genius had already mapped out her course.

“You did?”

“Yes, it was only natural. But what did your father and mother say to the letter I wrote them?”

“The letter you wrote them!”

“The letter in which I wrote that Ida’s mother had been so pleased with the appearance and manners of her child, that she could not resolve to part with her, and had determined to keep her for the present.”

“You don’t mean to say,” said Jack, “that any such letter as that has been written?”

“What, has it not been received?” inquired Peg, in the greatest apparent astonishment.

“Nothing like it,” answered Jack. “When was it written?”

“The second day after Ida’s arrival,” replied Peg, unhesitatingly.

“If that is the case,” returned Jack, not knowing what to think, “it must have miscarried.”

“That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!” remarked Peg, sympathizingly.

“It seemed as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida’s mother mean to keep her?”

“A month or six weeks,” was the reply.

“But,” said Jack, his suspicions returning, “I have been told that Ida has twice called at a baker’s shop in this city, and, when asked what her name was, answered Ida Hardwick.’ You don’t mean to say that you pretend to be her mother?”

“Yes, I do,” returned Peg, calmly.

“It’s a lie,” said Jack, vehemently. “She isn’t your daughter.”

“Young man,” said Peg, with wonderful self-command, “you are exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I pretended to be her mother. I do pretend; but I admit, frankly, that it is all pretence.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Jack, mystified.

“Then I will take the trouble to explain it to you. As I informed your father and mother, when in New York, there are circumstances which stand in the way of Ida’s real mother recognizing her as her own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert all suspicion, and prevent embarrassing questions being asked, while she remains in Philadelphia she is to pass as my daughter.”

This explanation was tolerably plausible, and Jack was unable to gainsay it, though it was disagreeable to him to think of even a nominal connection between Ida and the woman before him.

“Can I see Ida?” asked Jack, at length.

To his great joy, Peg replied, “I don’t think there can be any objection. I am going to the house now. Will you come now, or appoint some other time?”

“I will go now by all means,” said Jack, eagerly. “Nothing should stand in the way of seeing Ida.”

A grim smile passed over the nurse’s face.

“Follow me, then,” she said. “I have no doubt Ida will be delighted to see you.”

“Dear Ida!” said Jack. “Is she well, Mrs. Hardwick?”

“Perfectly well,” answered Peg. “She has never been in better health than since she has been in Philadelphia.”

“I suppose,” said Jack, with a pang, “that she is so taken up with her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in New York.”

“If she did,” said Peg, sustaining her part with admirable self-possession, “she would not deserve to have friends at all. She is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to New York to those who have been so kind to her.”

“Really,” thought Jack; “I don’t know what to make of this Mrs. Hardwick. She talks fair enough, if her looks are against her. Perhaps I have misjudged her, after all.”

CHAPTER XIX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP

JACK and his guide paused in front of a three-story brick building of respectable appearance.

“Does Ida’s mother live here?” interrogated Jack.

“Yes,” said Peg, coolly. “Follow me up the steps.”

The woman led the way, and Jack followed.

The former rang the bell. An untidy servant girl made her appearance.

“We will go up-stairs, Bridget,” said Peg.

Without betraying any astonishment, the servant conducted them to an upper room, and opened the door.

“If you will go in and take a seat,” said Peg, “I will send Ida to you immediately.”

She closed the door after him, and very softly slipped the bolt which had been placed on the outside. She then hastened downstairs, and finding the proprietor of the house, who was a little old man with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long aquiline nose, she said to this man, who was a leading spirit among the coiners into whose employ she and her husband had entered, “I want you to keep this lad in confinement, until I give you notice that it will be safe to let him go.”

“What has he done?” asked the old man.

“He is acquainted with a secret dangerous to both of us,” answered Peg, with intentional prevarication; for she knew that, if it were supposed that she only had an interest in Jack’s detention, they would not take the trouble to keep him.

“Ha!” exclaimed the old man; “is that so? Then, I warrant me, he can’t get out unless he has sharp claws.”

“Fairly trapped, my young bird,” thought Peg, as she hastened away; “I rather think that will put a stop to your troublesome interference for the present. You haven’t lived quite long enough to be a match for old Peg. You’ll find that out by and by. Ha, ha! won’t your worthy uncle, the baker, be puzzled to know why you don’t come home to-night?”

Meanwhile Jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair, waiting impatiently for the coming of Ida, whom he was resolved to carry back with him to New York if his persuasions could effect it.

Impelled by a natural curiosity he examined, attentively, the room in which he was seated. It was furnished moderately well; that is, as well as the sitting-room of a family in moderate circumstances. The floor was covered with a plain carpet. There was a sofa, a mirror, and several chairs covered with hair-cloth were standing stiffly at the windows. There were one or two engravings, of no great artistic excellence, hanging against the walls. On the centre-table were two or three books. Such was the room into which Jack had been introduced.

Jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. Then he began to grow impatient.

“Perhaps Ida is out,” thought our hero; “but, if she is, Mrs. Hardwick ought to come and let me know.”

Another fifteen minutes passed, and still Ida came not.

“This is rather singular,” thought Jack. “She can’t have told Ida that I am here, or I am sure she would rush up at once to see her brother Jack.”

At length, tired of waiting, and under the impression that he had been forgotten, Jack walked to the door, and placing his hand upon the latch, attempted to open it.

There was a greater resistance than he had anticipated.

Supposing that it must stick, he used increased exertion, but the door perversely refused to open.

“Good heavens!” thought Jack, the real state of the case flashing upon him, “is it possible that I am locked in?”

To determine this he employed all his strength, but the door still resisted. He could no longer doubt.

He rushed to the windows. There were two in number, and looked out upon a court in the rear of the house. No part of the street was visible from them; therefore there was no hope of drawing the attention of passers-by to his situation.

Confounded by this discovery, Jack sank into his chair in no very enviable state of mind.

“Well,” thought he, “this is a pretty situation for me to be in! I wonder what father would say if he knew that I was locked up like a prisoner. And then to think I let that treacherous woman, Mrs. Hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. Aunt Rachel was about right when she said I wasn’t fit to come alone. I hope she’ll never find out this adventure of mine; I never should hear the last of it.”

Jack’s mortification was extreme. His self-love was severely wounded by the thought that a woman had got the better of him, and he resolved, if he ever got out, that he would make Mrs. Hardwick suffer, he didn’t quite know how, for the manner in which she had treated him.

Time passed. Every hour seemed to poor Jack to contain at least double the number of minutes which are usually reckoned to that division of time. Moreover, not having eaten for several hours, he was getting hungry.

A horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. “The wretches can’t mean to starve me, can they?” he asked himself, while, despite his constitutional courage, he could not help shuddering at the idea.

He was unexpectedly answered by the sliding of a little door in the wall, and the appearance of the old man whose interview with Peg has been referred to.

“Are you getting hungry, my dear sir?” he inquired, with a disagreeable smile upon his features.

“Why am I confined here?” demanded Jack, in a tone of irritation.

“Why are you confined?” repeated his interlocutor. “Really, one would think you did not find your quarters comfortable.”

“I am so far from finding them comfortable that I insist upon leaving them immediately,” returned Jack.

“Then all you have got to do is to walk through that door.

“It is locked; I can’t open it.”

“Can’t open it!” repeated the old man, with another disagreeable leer; “perhaps, then, it will be well for you to wait till you are strong enough.”

Irritated by this reply, Jack threw himself spitefully against the door, but to no purpose.

The old man laughed in a cracked, wheezing way.

“Good fellow!” said he, encouragingly, “try it again! Won’t you try it again? Better luck next time.”

Jack throw himself sullenly into a chair.

“Where is the woman that brought me here?” he asked.

“Peg? Oh, she couldn’t stay. She had important business to transact, my young friend, and so she has gone; but don’t feel anxious. She commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as well treated as if she were here.”

This assurance was not very well calculated to comfort Jack.

“How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?” he asked, desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once.

“Really, my young friend, I couldn’t say. We are very hospitable, very. We always like to have our friends with us as long as possible.”

Jack groaned internally at the prospect before him.

“One question more,” he said, “will you tell me if my sister Ida is in this house?”

“Your sister Ida!” repeated the old man, surprised in his turn.

“Yes,” said Jack; believing, his astonishment feigned. “You needn’t pretend that you don’t know anything about her. I know that she is in your hands.”

“Then if you know so much,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders, “there is no need of asking.”

Jack was about to press the question, but the old man, anticipating him, pointed to a plate of food which he pushed in upon a shelf, just in front of the sliding door, and said: “Here’s some supper for you. When you get ready to go to bed you can lie down on the sofa. Sorry we didn’t know of your coming, or we would have got our best bed-chamber ready for you. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!”

Smiling disagreeably he slid to the door, bolted it, and disappeared, leaving Jack more depressed, if possible, than before.

CHAPTER XX. JACK IN CONFINEMENT

THE anxiety of Mr. Abel Crump’s family, when Jack failed to return at night, can be imagined. They feared that he had fallen among unscrupulous persons, of whom there is no lack in every large city, and that some ill had come to him. The baker instituted immediate inquiries, but was unsuccessful in obtaining any trace of his nephew. He resolved to delay as long as possible communicating the sad intelligence to his brother Timothy, who he knew would be quite (sic) overwhelwed by this double blow.

In the mean time, let us see how Jack enjoyed himself. We will look in upon him after he has been confined four days. To a youth as active as himself, nothing could be more wearisome. It did not add to his cheerfulness to reflect that Ida was in the power of the one who had brought upon him his imprisonment, while he was absolutely unable to help her. He did not lack for food. This was brought him three times a day. His meals, in fact, were all he had to look forward to, to break the monotony of his confinement. The books upon the table were not of a kind likely to interest him, though he had tried to find entertainment in them.

Four days he had lived, or rather vegetated in this way. His spirit chafed against the confinement.

“I believe,” thought he, “I would sooner die than be imprisoned for a long term. Yet,” and here he sighed, “who knows what may be the length of my present confinement? They will be sure to find some excuse for retaining me.”

While he was indulging in these uncomfortable reflections, suddenly the little door in the wall, previously referred to, slid open, and revealed the old man who had first supplied him with food. To explain the motive of his present visit, it will be remembered that he was under a misapprehension in regard to the cause of Jack’s confinement. He naturally supposed that our hero was acquainted with the unlawful practises of the gang of coiners with which he was connected.

The old man, whose name was Foley, had been favorably impressed by the bold bearing of Jack, and the idea had occurred to him that he might be able to win him as an accomplice. He judged, that if once induced to join them, he would prove eminently useful. Another motive which led him to favor this project was, that it would be very embarrassing to be compelled to keep Jack in perpetual custody, as well as involve a considerable expense.

Jack was somewhat surprised at the old man’s visit.

“How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?” he inquired, impatiently.

“Don’t you find your quarters comfortable?” asked Foley.

“As comfortable as any prison, I suppose.”

“My young friend, don’t talk of imprisonment. You make me shudder. You must banish all thoughts of such a disagreeable subject.”

“I wish I could,” groaned poor Jack.

“Consider yourself as my guest, whom I delight to entertain.”

“But, I don’t like the entertainment.”

“The more the pity.”

“How long is this going to last? Even a prisoner knows the term of his imprisonment.”

“My young friend,” said Foley, “I do not desire to control your inclinations. I am ready to let you go whenever you say the word.”

“You are?” returned Jack, incredulously. “Then suppose I ask you to let me go immediately.”

“Certainly, I will; but upon one condition.”

“What is it?”

“It so happens, my young friend, that you are acquainted with a secret which might prove troublesome to me.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Jack, mystified.

“Yes; you see I have found it out. Such things do not escape me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” returned Jack, perplexed.

“No doubt, no doubt,”, said Foley, cunningly. “Of course, if I should tell you that I was in the coining business, it would be altogether new to you.”

“On my honor,” said Jack, “this is the first I knew of it. I never saw or heard of you before I came into this house.”

“Could Peg be mistaken?” thought Foley. “But no, no; he is only trying to deceive me. I am too old a bird to be caught with such chaff.”

“Of course, I won’t dispute your word, my young friend,” he said, softly; “but there is one thing certain; if you didn’t know it before you know it now.”

“And you are afraid that I shall denounce you to the police.”

“Well, there is a possibility of that. That class of people have a little prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody wants to do, making money.”

The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands at this joke, which he evidently considered a remarkably good one.

Jack reflected a moment.

“Will you let me go if I will promise to keep your secret?” he asked.

“How could I be sure you would do it?”

“I would pledge my word.”

“Your word!” Foley snapped his fingers in derision. “That is not sufficient.”

“What will be?”

“You must become one of us.”

“One of you!”

Jack started in surprise at a proposition so unexpected.

“Yes. You must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that it will be for your own interest to keep silent. Otherwise we cannot trust you.”

“And suppose I decline these terms,” said Jack.

“Then I shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my guest.”

Foley smiled disagreeably.

Jack walked the room in perturbation. He felt that imprisonment would be better than liberty, on such terms. At the same time he did not refuse unequivocally, as possibly stricter watch than ever might be kept over him.

He thought it best to temporize.

“Well, what do you say?” asked the old man.

“I should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal,” said Jack. “It is of so important a character that I do not like to decide at once.”

“How long do you require?”

“Two days,” returned Jack. “If I should come to a decision sooner, I will let you know.”

“Agreed. Meanwhile can I do anything to promote your comfort? I want you to enjoy yourself as well as you can under the circumstances.”

“If you have any interesting books, I wish you would send them up. It is rather dull staying here with nothing to do.”

“You shall have something to do as soon as you please, my young friend. As to books, we are not very bountifully supplied with that article. We ain’t any of us college graduates, but I will see what I can do for you in that way. I’ll be back directly.”

Foley disappeared, but soon after returned, laden with one or two old magazines, and a worn copy of the “Adventures of Baron Trenck.”

It may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this singular book. Baron Trenck was several times imprisoned for political offences, and this book contains an account of the manner in which he succeeded, in some cases after years of labor, in breaking from his dungeon. His feats in this way are truly wonderful, and, if not true, at least they have so very much similitude that they find no difficulty in winning the reader’s credence.

Such was the book which Foley placed in Jack’s hands. He must have been in ignorance of the character of the book, since it was evident to what thoughts it would lead the mind of the prisoner.

Jack read the book with intense interest. It was just such a one as he would have read with avidity under any circumstances. It gratified his taste for adventure, and he entered heart and soul into the Baron’s plans, and felt a corresponding gratification when he succeeded. When he completed the perusal of the fascinating volume, he thought, “Why cannot I imitate Baron Trenck? He was far worse off than I am. If he could succeed in overcoming so many obstacles, it is a pity if I cannot find some means of escape.”

He looked about the room in the hope that some plan might be suggested.

CHAPTER XXI. THE PRISONER ESCAPES

TO give an idea of the difficulties of Jack’s situation, let it be repeated that there was but one door to the room, and this was bolted on the outside. The room was in the second story. The only two windows looked out upon a court. These windows were securely fastened. Still a way might have been devised to break through them, if this would at all have improved his condition. Of this, however, there seemed but little chance. Even if he had succeeded in getting safely into the court, there would have been difficulty and danger in getting into the street.

All these considerations passed through Jack’s mind, and occasioned him no little perplexity. He began to think that the redoubtable Baron Trenck himself might have been puzzled, if placed under similar circumstances.

At length this suggestion occurred to him: Why might he not cut a hole through the door, just above or below the bolt, sufficiently large for him to thrust his hand through, and slip it back? Should he succeed in this, he would steal down stairs, and as, in all probability, the key would be in the outside door, he could open it, and then he would be free.

With hope springing up anew in his heart, he hastened to the door and examined it. It was of common strength. He might, perhaps, have been able to kick it open, but of course this was not to be thought of, as the noise would at once attract the attention of those interested in frustrating his plans.

Fortunately, Jack was provided with a large, sharp jack-knife. He did not propose, however, to commence operations at present. In the daytime he would be too subject to a surprise. With evening, he resolved to commence his work. He might be unsuccessful, and subjected, in consequence, to a more rigorous confinement; but of this he must run the risk. “Nothing venture, nothing have.”

Jack awaited the coming of evening with impatience. The afternoon had never seemed so long.

It came at last—a fine moonlight night. This was fortunate, for his accommodating host, from motives of economy possibly, was not in the habit of providing him with a candle.

Jack thought it prudent to wait till he heard the city clocks pealing the hour of twelve. By this time, as far as he could see from his windows, there were no lights burning, and all who occupied the building were probably asleep.

He selected that part of the door which he judged to be directly under the bolt, and began to cut away with his knife. The wood was soft, and easy of excavation. In the course of half an hour Jack had cut a hole sufficiently large to pass his hand through, but found that, in order to reach the bolt, he must enlarge it a little. This took him fifteen minutes longer.

His efforts were crowned with success. As the city clock struck one Jack softly drew back the bolt, and, with a wild throb of joy, felt that freedom was half regained. But his (sic) embarassments were not quite at an end. Opening the door, he found himself in the entry, but in the darkness. On entering the house he had not noticed the location of the stairs, and was afraid that some noise or stumbling might reveal to Foley the attempted escape of his prisoner. He took off his boots, and crept down-stairs in his stocking feet. Unfortunately he had not kept the proper bearing in his mind, and the result was, that he opened the door of a room on one side of the front door. It was used as a bedroom. At the sound of the door opening, the occupant of the bed, Mr. Foley himself, called out, drowsily, “Who’s there?”