Dan, The Newsboy

CHAPTER XXXV.

DAN DISGUISES HIMSELF

For several days Dan strolled about Harlem, using his eyes to good advantage. As a pretext he carried with him a few morning papers for sale. Armed with these he entered shops and saloons without exciting surprise or suspicion. But he discovered not a trace of the lost girl.

One day, as he was riding home in the Third avenue cars, there flashed upon his mind a conviction that he was on a wrong scent.

"Is it probable that the man who carried away Althea would give the right direction so that it could be overheard by a third party? No; it was probably meant as a blind, and I have been just fool enough to fall into the trap."

So Dan's eyes were partially opened.

Before the day was over they were wholly opened. He met John Hartley on Broadway toward the close of the afternoon.

"Well, have you heard anything of your sister?" he asked, with an appearance of interest.

"Not yet," answered Dan.

"That's a pity. Do you go up to Harlem every day?"

"Yes."

"Keep on, you will find her in time."

After they parted, Dan, happening to look back, detected a mocking glance in the face of his questioner, and a new discovery flashed upon him. Hartley was making a fool of him. He had sent him to Harlem, purposely misleading him.

"What can be his object?" thought Dan. "Can he have had anything to do with the abduction of Althea?"

This was a question which he could not satisfactorily answer, but he resolved to watch Hartley, and follow him wherever he went, in the hope of obtaining some clew. Of course he must assume some disguise, as Hartley must not recognize him.

Finally Dan decided upon this plan.

He hired a room on East Fourth street for a week, and then sought an Italian boy to whom he had occasionally given a few pennies, and with some difficulty (for Giovanni knew but little English, and he no Italian) proposed that the Italian should teach him to sing and play "Viva Garibaldi." Dan could play a little on the violin, and soon qualified himself for his new business.

At a second-hand shop on Chatham street he picked up a suit of tattered velvet, obtained a liquid with which to stain his skin to a dark brown, and then started out as an Italian street musician. His masquerade suit he kept in his room at East Fourth street, changing therefrom his street dress morning and evening. When in full masquerade he for the first time sang and played, Giovanni clapped his hands with delight.

"Will I do, Giovanni?" asked Dan.

"Yes, you do very well. You look like my brother."

"All right."

Giovanni was puzzled to understand why Dan took so much pains to enter upon a hard and unprofitable profession, but Dan did not enlighten him as to his motive.

He thought it most prudent to keep his secret, even from his mother. One day he met her on the sidewalk, and began to sing "Viva Garibaldi."

Mrs. Mordaunt listened without a suspicion that it was her own son, and gave him two pennies, which he acknowledged by a low bow, and "Grazia, signora."

"Poor boy! Do you earn much money?" she asked.

"I no understand English," said Dan.

"I hope his padrone does not beat him," said Mrs. Mordaunt to herself. "I hear these poor boys are much abused. I wonder if I can make him understand? Have you a padrone?" she asked.

"Si, signora, padrone," answered Dan.

"Does he beat you?"

"I no understand."

"It is no use; he doesn't understand English. Here is some more money for you," and she handed him a five-cent coin.

"Its a wise mother that knows her own child," thought Dan. "Hallo! there's Hartley. I'll follow him."

Hartley boarded a University Place car, and Dan jumped on also.

"I wonder where he's going?" thought our hero.

Italian boys so seldom ride that the conductor eyed Dan with some suspicion.

"Five cents," he demanded.

Dan produced the money.

"I thought you might be expecting to ride for nothing," said the conductor. "Seems to me you're flush for an Italian fiddler."

"No understand English," said Dan.

"And I don't understand your lingo."

A charitable lady inside the car chanced to see Dan, and it occurred to her that she would do him a service.

"Can you sing, my boy?" she asked.

"I sing a little," answered Dan.

"If the conductor doesn't object, you may sing while we are on our way. Here's ten cents for you."

Dan bowed and took the money.

"You can sing and play," said the conductor, good-naturedly.

Dan was not at all desirous of doing this, for Hartley sat only three feet from him, and he feared he might recognize him, but it would not be in character to refuse, so he began, and sang his one air, playing an accompaniment. Several of the passengers handed him small coins, among them Hartley.

"How well he sings!" said the charitable lady.

"I can't agree with you, ma'am," said Hartley. "I would rather give him money to stop."

"His voice strikes me as very rich, and the Italian is such a beautiful language."

Hartley shrugged his shoulders.

"I have heard a good deal better performers even among the street boys," said Hartley.

"So have I," said Dan to himself. "He doesn't suspect me; I am glad of that."

Hartley remained in the car till it reached the Astor House, and so, of course, did Dan. In fact, Hartley was on his way to Brooklyn to pay another installment to the guardians of the little girl whom he had carried off. Dan, therefore, was in luck.

Hartley kept on his way to Fulton Ferry, Dan following at a prudent distance.

Had Hartley looked back, he would have suspected nothing, for he had not penetrated Dan's disguise, and would therefore have been quite at a loss to understand any connection between the street musician and himself.

They both boarded the same ferry-boat, and landed in Brooklyn together.

At this moment Hartley turned round, and his glance fell upon Dan.

"Hallo! you here?" he said, with surprise.

"Si, signor," answered Dan, bowing deferentially.

"What brings you to Brooklyn?"

"I sing, I play," said our hero.

"And you do both abominably."

"I no understand English," said Dan.

"It is lucky you don't, or you might not like my compliment."

"Shall I sing 'Viva Garibaldi?'" asked our hero, innocently.

"No—good heavens, no! I've had enough of your squeaking. Here, take this money, and don't sing."

"Si, signor," answered Dan, assuming a look of bewilderment.

Hartley prepared to board a car, which was not yet ready to start. Dan rapidly decided that it would not do for him to follow Hartley any farther. It would certainly arouse his suspicions. But must he abandon the pursuit? That would not do either. Looking about him, his eye fell on a bright-looking newsboy of about twelve.

"Do you want to make some money, Johnny?" he asked.

The boy surveyed him with astonishment.

"Did you speak to me, Garibaldi?" he asked, jocosely.

"Yes, but I am no Italian," said Dan, rapidly. "I am on the track of that man, but he suspects me. I will give you a dollar if you will jump on the car and find out where he goes."

"Where's the dollar?" asked the boy, cautiously.

"Here. Pay your expenses out of it, and I will pay you back when you report to me."

"Where will I find you?"

"Here. I will stay till you come back."

"It's a bargain."

"Hurry; the car is starting."

The newsboy ran, jumped on the car, and it moved on.

"It is the best thing I could do," thought Dan. "I hope the boy is sharp, and won't lose sight of him. I feel sure that he had something to do with carrying off poor little Althea."

For two hours Dan lingered near the ferry, playing occasionally by way of filling up the time. It seemed to be a good location, for he received from fifty to sixty cents from passers-by.

"When hard times come," thought Dan, "I shall know what to do. I will become an Italian street singer."

After two hours the newsboy jumped off an incoming car, and approached Dan.

"Did you find out where he went?" asked Dan, eagerly.

"Yes," answered the boy.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

DAN MAKES A DISCOVERY

Dan's eyes sparkled with joy at the success of his plan.

"Now tell me," he said, drawing the newsboy aside to a place where they would not be overheard.

"First give me my car fare."

"All right. Here's a quarter. Never mind the change."

"You've made a fortun' by fiddling, you have," said the newsboy, in surprise.

"I am not a fiddler. I am a detective."

The newsboy whistled.

"You're a young one."

"Never mind that. Go ahead with your story."

The newsboy described his following Hartley to Donovan's.

Hartley went in, and he directly afterward.

"What sort of a place is it?" asked Dan.

"It's a saloon."

"Perhaps he only went in for a drink," suggested Dan, uneasily.

"No, he didn't call for nothing to drink. I saw him take out some money and give to the man and the woman."

"What man and what woman?"

"They was the Donovans."

"How long did you stay?"

"Ten minutes. I axed old Donovan to buy a paper, and he wouldn't. Then I sat down for a minute, makin' believe I was tired. They looked at me, but I didn't appear to be noticin' 'em, and they let me stay."

"Did you see anything of a little girl?" asked Dan, eagerly.

"Yes, there was a little gal came in. The woman called her Katy."

Dan's spirits sank. It was Mrs. Donovan's daughter, he feared, not the child he was seeking.

"How did she look? How old was she?"

"About five or six years old."

He added a description of the little girl which quite revived Dan's hopes, for it answered in every respect to Althea.

"Did you hear the little girl say anything?"

"Yes, she told her mother she wanted to see Dan."

Dan's eyes glistened. It was Althea, after all.

"It's all right," he said. "You needn't tell me any more. You're a trump."

"Have you found out what you want to know?"

"Yes. Have you anything to do for the next two hours?"

"No."

"Then I'll pay you another dollar to go to the place with me. I think I could find it myself, but I can't take any chances. And don't say a word about what you have seen."

"I won't. Is this little gal your sister?"

"She is my adopted sister, and she has been stolen from us."

"Then I'd be willing to help you for nothing. I've got a little sister about her size. If anybody stole her, I'd mash him!"

"Come along, then."

The two boys boarded a car, and in forty minutes got out.

"That's the place," said the newsboy, pointing out Donovan's, only a few rods away.

"All right. You'd better leave me now, or you may be remembered, and that would lead them to suspect me. Here's your money, and thank you."

"I hope you'll find your sister."

"Thank you. If I do, it'll be through your help."

Dan did not at once enter Donovan's. He stopped in the street, and began to sing "Viva Garibaldi."

Two or three boys gathered about him, and finally a couple of men. One of them handed him a three-cent piece.

"Grazio, signor," said Dan, pulling off his hat.

"What part of Italy do you come from?" asked one of the men.

"Si, signor, I come from Italy," answered Dan, not considering it prudent to understand too well.

"Oh, he don't understand you. Come along."

"His hair doesn't look like that of most Italians."

"Pooh! I'd know him for an Italian boy anywhere."

At this moment the door of the saloon opened, and Dan, putting his violin under his arm, entered.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

DAN IS DISCOVERED

Donovan had two customers. One was an Irishman, the other a German. Both had evidently drank more than was good for them. Dan looked in vain for Althea. Mrs. Donovan had taken her up stairs.

"Well, boy, what do you want?" asked Donovan, rather roughly.

"Will you have yer musique?" asked Dan, uncertain whether he was talking as an Italian boy might be expected to.

"No; I don't want to hear any fiddle-scraping."

"Shure, let him play a little, Mister Donovan," said the Irishman.

"Just as you like," said Donovan, carelessly, "only I have no money for him."

"Faith, thin, I have. Here boy, play something."

Dan struck up his one tune—Viva Garibaldi—but the Irishman did not seem to care for that.

"Oh, bother ould Garibaldi!" he said. "Can't you play something else?"

"I wish I could," thought Dan. "Suppose I compose something."

Accordingly he tried to play an air popular enough at the time, but made bad work of it.

"Stop him! stop him!" exclaimed the German, who had a better musical ear than the Irishman. "Here, lend me your fiddle, boy."

He took the violin, and in spite of his inebriety, managed to play a German air upon it.

"Shure you bate the boy at his own trade," said the Irishman. "You must be dhry. What'll you have now?"

The German indicated his preference, and the Irishman called for whisky.

"What'll you have, Johnny?" he asked, addressing Dan.

"I no drink," answered our hero, shaking his head.

"Shure you're an Italian wonder, and it's Barnum ought to hire you."

"I no understand English," said Dan.

"Then you're a haythen," said Pat Moriarty.

He gulped down the whisky, and finding it more convenient to sit than to stand, fell back upon a settee.

"I wish Althea would come in," thought Dan.

At that moment a heavy fall was heard in the room overhead, and a child's shrill scream directly afterward.

"Something's happened to my wife," muttered Donovan. "She's drunk again."

He hurried up stairs, and the German followed. This gave Dan an excuse for running up, too.

Mrs. Donovan had been drinking more copiously than usual. While in this condition she imprudently got upon a chair to reach a pitcher from an upper shelf. Her footing was uncertain, and she fell over, pitcher in hand, the chair sharing in the downfall.

When her husband entered the room she was lying flat on her back, grasping the handle of the pitcher, her eyes closed, and her breathing stertorious. Althea, alarmed, stood over her, crying and screaming.

"The old woman's taken too much," said Donovan. "Get up, you divil!" he shouted, leaning over his matrimonial partner. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself, now?"

Mrs. Donovan opened her eyes, and stared at him vacantly.

"Where am I?" she inquired.

"On your back, you old fool, where you deserve to be."

"It's the whisky," murmured the fallen lady.

"Of course it is. Why can't you drink dacent like me? Shure it's a purty example you're settin' to the child. Ain't you ashamed to lie here in a hape before them gintlemen?"

This called Althea's attention to the German and Dan. In spite of Dan's disguise, she recognized him with a cry of joy.

"Oh, Dan! have you come to take me away?" she exclaimed, dashing past Donovan, and clasping her arms round the supposed Italian.

"Hillo! what's up?" exclaimed Donovan, looking at the two in surprise.

"Oh, it's my brother Dan," exclaimed Althea. "You'll take me away, won't you, Dan? How funny you look! Where did you get your fiddle?"

"So that's your game, my young chicken, is it?" demanded Donovan, seizing our hero roughly by the shoulder. Then pulling off Dan's hat, he added: "You're no more Italian than I am."

Dan saw that it would be useless to keep up the deceit any longer. He looked Donovan full in the face, and said, firmly:

"You are right, Mr. Donovan, I have come here for my sister."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

UNPLEASANT QUARTERS

Donovan's red face turned fairly purple with rage.

"Well, I'll be blowed!" he said, adding an oath or two. "You're a bold little pup! You dare to insult me! Why, I could crush you with my little finger."

"I have not insulted you," said Dan. "I have only come for my sister."

"I don't know anything about your sister. So you can go about your business."

"That little girl is my adopted sister," said Dan, pointing to Althea. "Ask her if she doesn't know me."

"That is my daughter, Katy Donovan," said the saloon keeper.

"No, I am not," said Althea, beginning to cry. "I want to go away with my brother Dan."

"Shut up, you little jade!" said Donovan, roughly. "Mrs. Donovan," (by this time she was on her feet, looking on in a dazed sort of way), "is not this our little Katy?"

"Shure it is," she answered.

"You see, young man, you're mistaken. You can leave," and Donovan waved his hand triumphantly.

"That's too thin, Mrs. Donovan!" said Dan, provoked. "That don't go down. I can bring plenty of proof that Althea was until a week since living with my mother."

"That for your proof!" said Donovan, contemptuously snapping his fingers.

"I know who stole her, and who brought her to this house," continued Dan.

Donovan started. The boy knew more than he had expected.

"The same man has been here to-day," added Dan.

"You lie!" retorted Donovan, but he looked uneasy.

"You know that I tell the truth. How much does he pay you for taking care of the girl?"

"Enough of this!" roared the saloon keeper. "I can't waste my time talkin' wid you. Will you clear out now?"

"No, I won't, unless Althea goes with me," said Dan, firmly.

"You won't, then! We'll see about that," and Donovan, making a rush, seized Dan in his arms, and carried him down stairs, despite our hero's resistance.

"I'll tache you to come here insultin' your betters!" he exclaimed.

Dan struggled to get away, but though a strong boy, he was not a match for a powerful man, and could not effect his deliverance. The Irishman already referred to was still upon the settee.

"What's up, Donovan?" he asked, as the saloon-keeper appeared with his burden. "What's the lad been doin'?"

"What's he been doin', is it? He's been insultin' me to my face—that's what the Donovans won't stand. Open the trap-door, Barney."

"What for?"

"Don't trouble me wid your questions, but do as I tell you. You shall know afterward."

Not quite willingly, but reluctant to offend Donovan, who gave him credit for the drinks, Barney raised a trap-door leading to the cellar below.

There was a ladder for the convenience of those wishing to ascend and descend, but Donovan was not disposed to use much ceremony with the boy who had offended him. He dropped him through the opening, Dan by good luck falling on his feet.

"That's the best place for you, you young meddler!" he said. "You'll find it mighty comfortable, and I wish you much joy. I won't charge you no rint, and that's an object in these hard times—eh, Barney?"

"To be sure it is," said Barney; "but all the same, Donovan, I'd rather pay rint up stairs, if I had my choice!"

"He hasn't the choice," said Donovan triumphantly. "Good-by to you!" and he let the trap fall.

"What's it all about now, Donovan?" asked Barney.

"He wanted to shtale my Katy," said Donovan.

"What, right before your face?" asked Barney, puzzled.

"Yes, shure! What'll you take to drink?" asked Donovan, not caring to go into particulars.

Barney indicated his choice with alacrity, and, after drinking, was hardly in a condition to pursue his inquiries.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

DAN DISCOMFITS THE DONOVANS

Dan found himself at first bewildered and confused by his sudden descent into the cellar. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to get an idea of his surroundings. It was a common cellar with an earthen floor. Ranged along one side was a row of kegs, some containing whisky, others empty. Besides, there were a few boxes and odds and ends which had been placed here to get them out of the way.

"Not a very cheerful-looking place," thought Dan, "though I do get it rent free."

He sat down on a box, and began to consider his position. Was there any way of escape? The walls were solid, and although there was a narrow window, consisting of a row of single panes, it was at the top of the cellar, and not easily accessible. He might indeed reach it by the ladder, but he would have to break the glass and crawl through, a mode of escape likely to be attended by personal risk.

"No, that won't do," thought Dan. "At any rate, I won't try it till other things fail."

Meanwhile Donovan, in the bar-room above, was in high good humor. He felt that he had done a sharp thing, and more than once chuckled as he thought of his prisoner below. Indeed he could not forbear, after about half an hour, lifting the trap and calling down stairs:

"Hallo, there!"

"Hallo!" said Dan, coolly.

"What are you doin'?"

"Sitting on a box."

"How do you like it?" chuckled Donovan.

"Come down and see."

"You're an impudent jackanapes!" retorted Donovan, wrathfully. "You'll get enough of it before you're through."

"So will you," answered Dan, boldly.

"I'll take the risk," chuckled Donovan. "Do you know what you remind me of?"

"Suppose you tell me."

"You're like a rat in a trap."

"Not exactly," answered Dan, as a bright thought dawned upon him.

"Why not?"

"Because a rat can do no harm, and I can."

It occurred to Donovan that Dan might have some matches in his pocket, and was momentarily alarmed at the thought that our hero might set the house on fire.

"Have you matches with you?" he asked.

"No," answered Dan.

"If you had," said the saloon-keeper, relieved, "it would do you no good to set a fire. You would only burn yourself up."

"I don't mean to set the house on fire," said Dan, composedly.

"Then you may do your worst. You can't scare me."

"Can't I?" returned Dan, rising from his seat on the box.

"What are you going to do?" asked Donovan, following with his glance the boy's motion.

"I'll tell you," said Dan. "I'm going to take the spigot out of them whisky-kegs, and let the whisky run out on the floor."

"Don't you do it!" exclaimed the saloon-keeper, now thoroughly frightened.

"Then let me up."

"I won't."

"All right. You must take the consequences."

As he spoke Dan dextrously pulled the spigot from a keg, and Donovan, to his dismay, heard the precious liquid—precious in his eyes—pouring out upon the floor.

With an exertion he raised the trap-door, hastily descended the ladder, and rushed to the keg to replace the spigot.

Meanwhile Dan ran up the ladder, pulled it after him, and made his late jailer a captive.

"Put down the ladder, you young rascal!" roared Donovan, when, turning from his work, he saw how the tables had been turned.

"It wouldn't be convenient just yet," answered Dan, coolly.

He shut the trap-door, hastily lugged the ladder to the rear of the house (unobserved, for there were no customers present), then dashed up stairs and beckoned to Althea to follow him. There was no obstacle, for Mrs. Donovan was stupefied by liquor.

Putting on her things, the little girl hastily and gladly obeyed.

As they passed through the saloon, Donovan's execrations and shouts were heard proceeding from the cellar.

"What's that, Dan?" asked Althea, trembling.

"Never you mind, Althea," said Dan. "I'll tell you later."

The two children hurried to the nearest horse-car, which luckily came up at the moment, and jumped on board.

Dan looked back with a smile at the saloon, saying to himself:

"I rather think, Mr. Donovan, you've found your match this time. I hope you'll enjoy the cellar as much as I did."

In about an hour and a half Dan, holding Althea by the hand, triumphantly led her into his mother's presence.

"I've brought her back, mother," he said.

"Oh, my dear, dear little girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Mordaunt, joyfully. "I thought I should never, never see you again. How did you find her, Dan?"

But we will not wait to hear a twice-told tale. Rather let us return to Donovan, where the unhappy proprietor is still a captive in his own cellar. Here he remained till his cries attracted the attention of a wondering customer, who finally lifted the trap-door.

"What are you doin' down there?" he asked, amazed.

"Put down the ladder and let me up first of all."

"I don't see any ladder."

"Look round, then. I suppose the cursed boy has hidden it."