Dan, The Newsboy

"Who else lives with you?" he asked, partly out of curiosity, but mainly to occupy the child's mind, so that she might not be fully conscious of the lapse of time.

"My brother Dan."

"How old is Dan?"

"I don't know. He is a good deal bigger than me."

"Do you like Dan?"

"Oh, yes; Dan is a nice boy. He buys me candy. He has gone to a party to-night."

"Has he?"

"And he won't be home till late. He told mamma so."

"I am glad of that," thought Hartley. "It is the better for my purpose."

"Dan is a smart boy. He earns lots of money."

"What does he do?"

"I don't know. He goes down town every morning, and he doesn't come home till supper time."

Hartley managed to continue his inquiries about Dan, but at last Althea became restless.

"Are we most there?" she asked.

"Yes, we are almost there."

"I don't see how mamma could have gone so far."

John Hartley looked out.

"I see how it is," he said. "The cab-driver lost the way, and that has delayed us."

This satisfied the child for a time. Meanwhile they reached the South Ferry, and Hartley began to consider in what way he could explain their crossing the water.

CHAPTER XXXII.

DONOVAN'S

After a moment's thought Hartley took a flask from his pocket, into which he had dropped a sleeping potion, and offered it to the child.

"Drink, my dear," he said; "it will do you good."

It was a sweet wine and pleasant to the taste. Althea drank considerable.

"What is it? It tastes good," she said.

"It is a cordial," answered Hartley.

"I like it. I will ask mamma to get some. How long is it? Are we most there?"

"Almost."

"I feel very sleepy," said Althea, drowsily, the potion having already begun to attack her.

"Lean back and shut your eyes. I will tell you when we have arrived."

The innocent and unsuspecting child did as she was directed. Her little head nodded. She struggled against the increasing drowsiness, but in vain. In five minutes she was fast asleep.

"There will be no further trouble," thought Hartley. "When she wakes up it will be morning. My plan has been a complete success."

It might have been supposed that some instinct of parental affection would have made it disagreeable to this man to kidnap his own child by such means, but John Hartley had never been troubled with a heart or natural affections. He was supremely selfish, and surveyed the sleeping child as coolly and indifferently as if he had never before set eyes upon her.

Two miles and a half beyond the South Ferry, in a thinly settled outlying district of Brooklyn, stood a three-story brick house, shabby and neglected in appearance, bearing upon a sign over the door the name

DONOVAN'SWines and Liquors

It was the nightly resort of a set of rough and lawless men, many of them thieves and social outlaws, who drank and smoked as they sat at small tables in the sand-strewn bar-room.

Hugh Donovan himself had served a term at Sing Sing for burglary, and was suspected to be indirectly interested in the ventures of others engaged in similar offenses, though he managed to avoid arrest.

John Hartley ordered the hackman to stop. He sprang from the carriage, and unceremoniously entered the bar-room. Donovan, a short, thickset man with reddish whiskers, a beard of a week's growth, and but one serviceable eye, sat in a wooden arm-chair, smoking a clay pipe. There were two other men in the room, and a newsboy sat dozing on a settee.

Donovan looked up, and his face assumed a look of surprise as he met the glance of the visitor, whom he appeared to know.

"Where did you come from, Mr. Hartley?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth.

"Hist! Come out here," said Hartley.

Donovan obeyed directions.

"Is your wife at home, Hugh?" asked Hartley.

"Yes, Mr. Hartley. She's up stairs."

"I have a job for her and for you."

"What is it now?"

"I have a child in that carriage. I want her taken care of for a few days or weeks."

"Shure, the old woman isn't a very good protector for a gal. She's drunk half the time."

"I can't help it. There are reasons—imperative reasons—why the girl should be concealed for a time, and I can think of no other place than this."

"Who is the girl?"

"It is my own child."

Donovan whistled.

"I see you are surprised. I have little time for explanation, but I may tell you that she has been kept from me by my enemies, who wanted to get hold of her money."

"Has she got money?" asked Donovan, with curiosity.

"She will have, sometime. She is her mother's heiress."

"Did the old lady leave it all away from you, then? Shure, it's hard."

"Of course it is. The least I can expect is to be made guardian of my own child. But we are wasting time. Is there no way of getting up stairs except by passing through the bar-room?"

"Yes, Mr. Hartley, we can go up the back way. Just take the child and follow me."

Hartley did so. At the rear of the house was a stair-way, up which he clambered, bearing the sleeping child in his arms.

Donovan pushed the door open, and disclosed a dirty room, with his better-half—a tall, gaunt woman—reclining in a rocking-chair, evidently partially under the influence of liquor, as might be guessed from a black bottle on a wooden table near by.

She stared in astonishment at her husband's companions.

"Shure, Hugh, who is it you're bringin' here?"

"It's a child, old woman, that you're to have the care of."

"Divil a bit do I want a child to worrit me."

"You'll be well paid, Mrs. Donovan," said John Hartley.

"Will I get the money, or Hugh?" asked the Celtic lady.

"You shall have half, Bridget," said her husband.

"Will you shwar it?" asked the lady, cautiously.

"Yes, I'll swear it."

"And how much will it be?"

"I will pay ten dollars a week—half to you, and half to your husband," said Hartley. "Here's a week's pay in advance," and he took out two five-dollar bills, one of which was eagerly clutched by Mrs. Donovan.

"I'll take care of her," said she, readily. "What's her name?"

"Althea."

"Shure that's a quare name. I niver heard the like."

"You needn't call her that. You can call her any name you like," said Hartley, indifferently. "Perhaps you had better call her Katy, as there may be a hue and cry after her, and that may divert suspicion."

"How old is the crathur?"

"Five or six—I forget which. Where shall I put her?"

"Put her in here," said Mrs. Donovan, and she opened the door of a small room, in which was a single untidy bed.

"She won't wake up till morning. I gave her a sleeping potion—otherwise she might have made a fuss, for she doesn't know me to be her father."

"Shure ye knew what to do."

"Now, Mrs. Donovan, I depend upon your keeping her safe. It will not do to let her escape, for she might find her way back to the people from whom I have taken her."

"I'll see to that, Mr. Hartley," said Donovan.

"Say nothing about me in connection with the matter, Donovan. I will communicate with you from time to time. If the police are put on the track, I depend on your sending her away to some other place of security."

"All right, sir."

"And now good-night. I shall go back to New York at once. I must leave you to pacify her as well as you can when she awakes. She is sure to make a fuss."

"I'll trate her like my own child," said Mrs. Donovan.

Had Hartley been a devoted father, this assurance from the coarse, red-faced woman would have been satisfactory, but he cared only for the child as a means of replenishing his pockets, and gave himself no trouble.

The hackman was still waiting at the door.

"It's a queer place to leave a child," thought he, as his experienced eye took in the features of the place. "It appears to be a liquor saloon. The gentleman can't be very particular. However, it is none of my business. I suppose it is all right."

"Driver, I am ready," said Hartley. "I'll go back with you."

"All right, sir."

"Go over Fulton Ferry, and leave me at your stand in Union Square."

The ride was a long one. Hartley threw himself back on the seat, and gave himself up to pleasant self-congratulation.

"I think this will bring Harriet Vernon to terms," he said. "She will find that she can't stand between me and my child. If she will make it worth my while, she shall have the child back, but I propose to see that my interests are secured."

The next morning Hartley stepped into an up-town hotel, and wrote a letter to his sister-in-law in London, demanding that four thousand dollars be sent him yearly, in quarterly payments, in consideration of which he agreed to give up the child, and abstain from further molestation.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

ALTHEA BECOMES KATY DONOVAN

The sleeping potion which had been administered to Althea kept her in sound sleep till eight o'clock the next morning. When her eyes opened, and she became conscious of her surroundings, she looked about her in surprise. Then she sat up in bed and gazed wildly at the torn wall paper and dirty and shabby furniture.

"Where am I?" she asked herself, in alarm. "Mamma, mamma!"

The door opened, and the red and inflamed face of Mrs. Hugh Donovan peered in.

"What is it yer want?" she asked.

"I want mamma," answered the child, still more frightened.

"Shure I'm your ma, child."

"No, you are not," said Althea. "I never saw you before."

"Didn't you, now? Maybe you've forgotten. I sent you away to board, but you've come home to live with your ma."

"You are telling stories. You are a bad woman," returned the child, ready to cry.

"It's a purty thing for a child to tell her ma she's lyin'."

"You're not my ma. You're an ugly woman. My ma hasn't got a red face."

"Hear till her now!" exclaimed Mrs. Donovan, indignantly. "Don't you go on talkin' that way, but get right up, or you sha'n't have any breakfast."

"Oh, send me back to my mother and Dan!" implored Althea.

"Dress yourself, and I'll see about it," said Mrs. Donovan.

Althea looked for her clothes, but could not find them. In their place she found a faded calico dress and some ragged undergarments, which had once belonged to a daughter of Mrs. Donovan, now at service.

"Those clothes are not mine," said Althea.

"Shure they are. What are yer talkin' about?"

"I had a pretty pink dress and a nice new skirt. Oh, where are they?"

"Shure you're dramin'. These was the clothes you took off last night," said Mrs. Donovan, with unblushing falsehood.

"I won't put this dress on," said the child, indignantly.

"Then you'll have to lay abed all day, and won't get nothing to eat," said the woman. "Maybe you'll like that now."

"What is your name?" asked Althea.

"Shure you're a quare child to ask your own mother's name. I'm Mrs. Donovan, and you're my Katy."

"I am not Katy. My name is Althea."

"That's a quare name intirely. Who put it into your head. I'm afraid you're gone crazy, Katy."

Althea was bewildered. Was it possible that she could be Katy Donovan, and that this red-faced woman was her mother? She began to doubt her own identity. She could not remember this woman, but was it possible that there was any connection between them?

"Are we in New York?" she asked, timidly.

"No, we are in Brooklyn."

"I used to live in New York with Mamma Mordaunt."

"Well, you're livin' in Brooklyn now with Mamma Donovan."

"I never saw you before."

"Shure I shouldn't have sent you away from me to have you come home and deny your own mother."

"Will you let me go to New York and see Mamma Mordaunt?" asked Althea, after a pause.

"If you're a good girl, perhaps I will. Now get up, and I'll give you some breakfast."

With a shudder of dislike Althea arrayed herself in the dirty garments of the real Katy Donovan, and looked at her image in the cracked mirror with a disgust which she could not repress.

Hartley had suggested that her own garments should be taken away in order to make her escape less feasible.

She opened the door, and entered the room in which Mrs. Donovan had set the table for breakfast.

As she came in at one door, Hugh Donovan entered at another.

"Come here, little gal," he said, with a grin.

Althea looked at him with real terror. Certainly Hugh Donovan was not a man to attract a child.

Althea at once thought of an ogre whom Dan had described to her in a fairy story, and half fancied that she was in the power of such a creature.

"I don't want to," said the child, trembling.

"Go to your father, Katy," said Mrs. Donovan. "He won't hurt you."

This her father! Althea shuddered at the idea, and she gazed as if fascinated at his one eye.

"Yes, come to your pa," said Donovan, jeeringly. "I like little gals—'specially when they're my own."

"I am not your child!" said Althea, alarmed.

"Yes, you be, and don't you deny it. Come and give your father a kiss."

The little girl began to cry in nervous terror, and Donovan laughed, thinking it a good joke.

"Well, it'll do after breakfast," he said. "Sit up, child, and we'll see what the ould woman has got for us."

Mrs. Donovan did not excel as a cook, but Althea managed to eat a little bread and butter, for neither of which articles the lady of the house was responsible. When the meal was over she said:

"Now, will you take me back to New York?"

"You are not going back at all," said Hugh. "You are our little girl, and you are going to live with us."

Althea looked from one to the other in terror. Was it possible they could be in earnest? She was forced to believe it, and was overwhelmed at the prospect. She burst into a tempest of sobs.

Men are less tolerant of tears than women.

Hugh Donovan's face darkened, and his anger was kindled.

"Stop that howlin' now!" he said.

Althea continued to cry hysterically.

"Stop it now, if you know what's best for yourself!"

Althea was terrified, but she could not at once control her emotion.

"Old woman, get the whip!" said Hugh, hoarsely.

From a drawer Mrs. Donovan drew out a riding whip. Her husband took it, and brandished it menacingly.

"Do you see that, now?" he said.

"Yes," said Althea, trembling, stopping short, as if fascinated.

"Then you'll feel it if you don't stop your howlin'."

Althea gazed at him horror-stricken.

"I thought you'd come to your senses," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "Kape her safe, old woman, till she knows how to behave."

In silent misery the little girl sat down and watched Mrs. Donovan as she cleared away the table, and washed the dishes. It was dull and hopeless work for her. She thought sorrowfully of Mrs. Mordaunt and Dan, and wished she could be with them again. Should she never, never see them? The thought so saddened her that she burst into a low moan, which at once drew the attention of Mrs. Donovan.

"Are you at it again?" she said.

"I can't help it," moaned Althea.

"Ye can't, can't ye? See here, now," and the woman displayed the whip with which her husband had threatened the child. "I'll give ye something to cry for."

"Oh, don't—don't beat me!" entreated Althea.

"Then kape quiet!"

"May I go out into the street?" asked the little girl.

"Ye want to run away," said Mrs. Donovan, suspiciously.

"No, I don't. I mean I won't unless you let me."

"I won't trust ye."

"Must I stay here all the time?" asked Althea, with her little heart sinking at the thought.

"No, Katy, you may go wid me when I go to the market," answered Mrs. Donovan. "Shure, if you'll be a good gal, I'll give you all the pleasure I can."

Althea waited half an hour, and then was provided with a ragged sun-bonnet, with which, concealing her sad face, she emerged from the house, and walked to a small market, where Mrs. Donovan obtained her supplies for dinner.

Troubled as she was, Althea looked about her with a child's curiosity on her way through the strange streets. It served to divert her from her sorrow.

"Who's that little girl, Mrs. Donovan?" asked an acquaintance.

"Shure it's my little Katy," said the woman, with a significant wink which prevented further questioning.

Althea wished to deny this, but she did not dare to. She had become afraid of her new guardians. Oh, if she could only see Dan! She felt sure that he would take her away from these wicked people, but how was Dan to know where she was. The poor child's lips quivered, and she could hardly refrain from crying.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

ANOTHER LITTLE GAME

It was so late when Dan heard of Althea's disappearance that he felt it necessary to wait till morning before taking any steps toward her recovery.

"I'll find her, mother," he said, confidently. "Do not lie awake thinking of her, for it won't do any good."

"How can I help it, Dan? I didn't know how much I loved the dear child till I lost her."

"You have not lost her, mother."

"I am not so hopeful as you, Dan. I fear that I shall never see her again."

"I am sure we shall. Now, mother, I am going to bed, but I shall be up bright and early in the morning, and then to work."

"You won't have any time, Dan. You must go to the store."

"I shall take a week's vacation. I will write a note to Mr. Rogers, telling him my reasons, and he will be sure not to object. If Althea is to be found, I will find her within a week."

Dan's confidence gave Mrs. Mordaunt some courage, but she could not feel as sanguine of success as Dan.

In the morning Dan sought out Nancy, and took down her account of how the little girl had been spirited away.

"So she went away in a carriage, Nancy?"

"Yes, Master Dan."

"Can you tell me what sort of a looking man it was that took her away?"

"Shure I couldn't. I was struck dumb, you see, wid hearing how your mother broke her leg, and I didn't think to look at him sharp."

"You can tell if he was an old man or a young one."

"He was naythur. He was betwixt and betwane."

"Very tall or very short?"

"Naythur. He was jist middlin'."

"Well, that's something. Now, what kind of a carriage was it?"

"Jist a hack like them at the square."

"You wouldn't remember the driver?"

"No; shure they all look alike to me."

Dan made more inquiries, but elicited nothing further that was likely to be of service to him.

After a little reflection he decided to go to Union Square and interview some of the drivers waiting for passengers there.

He did so, but the driver who had actually been employed by Hartley was absent, and he learned nothing. One driver, however, remembered carrying a gentleman and child to a house on Twenty-seventh street, between Eighth and Ninth avenues.

Dan thought the clew of sufficient importance to be followed up. His courage rose when, on inquiring at the house mentioned, he learned that a child had actually been brought there.

"May I see the child, madam?" he asked.

"If you like," answered the lady, in surprise.

She appeared in a short time with a boy of about Althea's age.

Dan's countenance fell.

"It is a little girl I am inquiring after," he said.

"Then why didn't you say so?" demanded the woman, sharply. "You would have saved me some trouble."

"I beg your pardon, madam."

"I begin to think I am not as good a detective as I thought," said Dan to himself. "I am on a false scent, that is sure."

So Dan returned to Union Square.

When he had been asking questions of the cab-drivers he had not been unobserved. John Hartley, who knew Dan by sight, laughed in his sleeve as he noted our hero's inquiries.

"You may be a smart boy, my lad," he said to himself, "but I don't think you'll find the child. I have a great mind to give you a hint."

He approached Dan, and observed, in a friendly way:

"Are you in search of your little sister?"

"Yes, sir," returned Dan, eagerly. "Can you tell me anything about her?"

"I am not sure, but possibly I may. I occupy a room directly opposite the house in which you board."

"Did you see Althea carried away?" asked Dan, eagerly.

"Yes; I was sitting at my window when I saw a hack stop at your door. The door-bell was rung by a man who descended from the hack, and shortly afterward your sister came out, and was put into the carriage."

"What was the man's appearance, sir? The servant could not tell me."

"So much the better," thought Hartley, with satisfaction.

"He was a little taller than myself, I should say," he answered, "and I believe his hair was brown"—Hartley's was black. "I am sorry I can't remember more particularly."

"That is something. Thank you, sir. I wish I knew where the cab went."

"I think I can tell you that. I came down into the street before the cab drove away, and I heard the gentleman referred to say, in a low voice, 'Drive to Harlem.'"

"Thank you, sir," said Dan, gratefully. "That puts me on the right track. I shall know where to search now."

"I wish I could tell you more," said Hartley, with a queer smile.

"Thank you, sir."

"If you find your little sister, I should be glad if you would let me know," continued Hartley, chuckling inwardly.

"I will, sir, if you will let me know your name and address."

"My name is John Franklin, and I live in the house directly opposite yours, No. —."

"All right, sir; I will note it down."

John Hartley looked after Dan with a smile.

"My dear young friend," he said to himself, "it goes to my heart to deceive you, you are so innocent and confiding. I wish you much joy of your search in Harlem. I think it will be some time before I receive intelligence of your success. Still I will keep my room here, and look after you a little. I am really afraid your business will suffer while you are wandering about."

John Hartley had already written to London, and he was prepared to wait three weeks or more for an answer to his proposition. Meanwhile he had one source of uneasiness. His funds were getting low, and unless Harriet Vernon responded favorably to his proposal, he was liable to be seriously embarrassed. He had on previous similar occasions had recourse to the gaming-table, but Fortune did not always decide in his favor. He did not dare to hazard the small sum he had on hand, lest want of success should imperil the bold scheme for obtaining an income at his child's expense.

At this critical point in his fortunes he fell in with a Western adventurer, who, by a sort of freemasonry, recognizing Hartley's want of character, cautiously sounded him as to becoming a partner in a hazardous but probably profitable enterprise. It was to procure some genuine certificates of stock in a Western railway for a small number of shares, say five or ten, and raise them ingeniously to fifty and a hundred, and then pledge them as collateral in Wall street for a corresponding sum of money.

John Hartley, if an honest man, would have indignantly declined the overtures; but he was not endowed with Roman virtue. He made a cautious investigation to ascertain how great was the danger of detection, and how well the enterprise would pay. The answer to the second question was so satisfactory that he made up his mind to run the necessary risk. Blake and he came to a definite understanding, and matters were put in train. Certificates were readily obtained, and by the help of a skillful accomplice, who did the work for a specified sum, were ingeniously raised tenfold.

Then Blake, assuming the dress and manners of a thriving business man from Syracuse, negotiated a loan, pledging the raised certificate as collateral. The private banker put it away among his securities without a doubt or suspicion, and Blake and Hartley divided a thousand dollars between them.

John Hartley was very much elated by his success. The pecuniary assistance came just in the nick of time, when his purse was very low.

"It's a good thing to have more than one string to your bow," he thought. "Not but that my little game in getting hold of the child is likely to pay well. Harriet Vernon will find that I have the whip-hand of her. She must come to my terms, sooner or later."

At that very moment Harriet Vernon was embarking at Liverpool on a Cunard steamer. She had received the letter of her brother-in-law, and decided to answer it in person.