Dan, The Newsboy

It was a considerable time before the ladder was found. Then the saloon-keeper emerged from his prison in a very bad humor.

"How did you get shut up there?" asked his liberator.

"What business is it of yours?" demanded Donovan, irritably.

"I wish I had left you there," said the customer, with justifiable indignation. "This is your gratitude for my trouble, is it?"

"Excuse me, but I'm so mad with that cursed boy. What'll you take? It's my treat."

"Come, that's talking," said the placated customer. "What boy do you mean?"

"Wait a minute," said Donovan, a sudden fear possessing him.

He rushed up stairs and looked for Althea.

His wife was lying on the floor, breathing heavily, but the little girl was gone.

"The boy's got her! What a cursed fool I have been!" exclaimed Donovan, sinking into a chair.

Then, in a blind fury with the wife who didn't prevent the little girl's recapture, he seized a pail of water and emptied it over the face of the prostrate woman.

Mrs. Donovan came to, and berated her husband furiously.

"Serves you right, you jade!" said the affectionate husband.

He went down stairs feeling better. He had had revenge on somebody.

It was certainly an unlucky day for the Donovans.

CHAPTER XL.

HARTLEY SURPRISED

After calling at Donovan's, on the day when Dan recovered Althea, John Hartley crossed the Courtlandt street ferry, and took a train to Philadelphia with Blake, his accomplice in the forged certificates. The two confederates had raised some Pennsylvania railway certificates, which they proposed to put on the Philadelphia market.

They spent several days in the Quaker City, and thus Hartley heard nothing of the child's escape.

Donovan did not see fit to inform him, as this would stop the weekly remittance for the child's board, and, moreover, draw Hartley's indignation down upon his head.

One day, in a copy of the New York Herald, which he purchased at the news-stand in the Continental Hotel, Hartley observed the arrival of Harriet Vernon at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

"I thought she would come," he said to himself, with a smile. "I have her in my power at last. She must submit to my terms, or lose sight of the child altogether."

"Blake," he said, aloud, "I must take the first train to New York."

"Why, what's up, partner?" asked Blake, in surprise. "Anything gone wrong?"

"On the contrary, I see a chance of making a good haul."

"How?"

"Not in our line. It's some private business of my own."

"All right. I wish you success. When will you return?"

"That I can't exactly say. I will write or telegraph you."

In the evening of the same day Mrs. Vernon sat in her room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. A servant brought up a card bearing the name of John Hartley.

"He is prompt," she said to herself, with a smile. "Probably he has not heard of Althea's escape from the den to which he carried her. I will humor him, in that case, and draw him out."

"I will see the gentleman in the parlor," she said.

Five minutes later she entered the ladies' parlor. Hartley rose to receive her with a smile of conscious power, which told Harriet Vernon that he was ignorant of the miscarriage of his plans.

"I heard of your unexpected arrival, Mrs. Vernon," he commenced, "and have called to pay my respects."

"Your motive is appreciated, John Hartley," she said, coldly. "I expected to see you."

"That's pleasant," he said, mockingly. "May I beg to apologize for constraining you to cross the Atlantic?"

"Don't apologize; you have merely acted out your nature."

"Probably that is not meant to be complimentary. However, it can't be helped."

"I suppose you have something to say to me, John Hartley," said Mrs. Vernon, seating herself. "Pray proceed."

"You are quite right. I wrote you that I had ferreted out your cunningly devised place of concealment for my daughter."

"You did."

He looked at her a little puzzled. She seemed very cool and composed, whereas he expected she would be angry and disturbed.

"We may as well come to business at once," he said. "If you wish to recover the charge of your ward, you must accede to my terms."

"State them."

"They are expressed in my letter to you. You must agree to pay me a thousand dollars each quarter."

"It strikes me you are exorbitant in your demands."

"I don't think so. At any rate, the money won't come out of you. It will come from my daughter's income."

"So you would rob your daughter, John Hartley?"

"Rob my daughter!" he exclaimed, angrily. "She will have enough left. Is she to live in luxury, and with thousands to spare, while I, her only living parent, wander penniless and homeless about the world."

"I might sympathize with you, if I did not know how you have misused the gifts of fortune, and embittered the existence of my poor sister. As it is, it only disgusts me."

"I don't want you sympathy, Harriet Vernon," he said, roughly. "I want four thousand dollars a year."

"Suppose I decline to let you have it?"

"Then you must take the consequences," he said, quickly.

"What are to be the consequences?" she asked, quietly.

"That you and Althea will be forever separated. She shall never see you again."

He looked at her intently to see the effect of his threat.

Harriet Vernon was as cool and imperturbable as ever.

"Have you been in New York for a week past?" she asked, as he thought, irrelevantly.

"Why do you ask?"

"I have a reason."

"No, I have not."

"So I thought."

"Why did you think so?"

"Because you don't appear to know what has happened."

"What has happened?" he asked, uneasily.

"Mr. Donovan can tell you. As for me, I bid you good-evening."

A wild fear took possession of him.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, hurriedly.

"I mean, John Hartley, that you are not as shrewd as you imagine. I mean that a boy has foiled you; and while you were doubtless laughing at his simplicity, he has proved more than a match for you. You have no claim upon me, and I must decline your disinterested proposal."

She left the room, leaving him crest-fallen and stupefied.

"Has Donovan betrayed me?" he muttered. "I will soon find out."

He started for Brooklyn immediately, and toward eleven o'clock entered the saloon at Donovan's.

"Where is the child?" he demanded, sternly.

The rubicund host turned pale.

"She's gone," he cried, "but I couldn't help it, Mr. Hartley. On my honor, I couldn't."

"How did it happen? Tell me at once."

The story was told, Donovan ending by invoking curses upon the boy who had played such a trick upon him.

"You're a fool!" said Hartley, roughly. "I am ashamed of you, for allowing a boy to get the best of you."

"That boy's a fox," said Donovan. "He's a match for the old one, he is. I'd like to break his neck for him."

"It's not too late. I may get hold of the girl again," mused Hartley, as he rose to go. "If I do, I won't put her in charge of such a dunderhead."

He left Donovan's and returned to New York, but he had hardly left the Fulton ferry-boat when he was tapped on the shoulder by an officer.

"I want you," he said.

"What for?" asked Hartley, nervously.

"A little financial irregularity, as they call it in Wall street. You may know something about some raised railroad certificates!"

"Confusion!" muttered Hartley. "Luck is dead against me."

CHAPTER XLI.

DAN IS ADOPTED

The morning papers contained an account of John Hartley's arrest, and the crime with which he was charged.

Harriet Vernon read it at the breakfast-table with an interest which may be imagined.

"I don't like to rejoice in any man's misfortune," she said to herself, "but now I can have a few years of peace. My precious brother-in-law will doubtless pass the next few years in enforced seclusion, and I can have a settled home."

Directly after breakfast, she set out for the humble home of her niece. She found all at home, for Dan was not to go back to business till Monday.

"Well, my good friend," she said, "I have news for you."

"Good news, I hope," said Dan.

"Yes, good news. Henceforth I can have Althea with me. The obstacle that separated us is removed."

Mrs. Mordaunt's countenance fell, and Dan looked sober. It was plain that Althea was to be taken from them, and they had learned to love her.

"I am very glad," faltered Mrs. Mordaunt.

"You don't look glad," returned Mrs. Vernon.

"You see we don't like to part with Althea," explained Dan, who understood his mother's feelings.

"Who said you were to part with the child?" asked Mrs. Vernon, bluntly.

"I thought you meant to take her from us."

"Oh, I see. Your mistake is a natural one, for I have not told you my plans. I mean to take a house up town, install Mrs. Mordaunt as my housekeeper and friend, and adopt this young man (indicating Dan), provided he has no objection."

"How kind you are, Mrs. Vernon," ejaculated Mrs. Mordaunt.

"No, I am selfish. I have plenty of money, and no one to care for, or to care for me. I have taken a fancy to you all, and I am quite sure that we can all live happily together. Althea is my niece, and you, Dan, may call me aunt, too, if you like. Is it a bargain?"

Dan offered her his hand in a frank, cordial way, which she liked.

"So it is settled, then," she said, in a pleased voice. "I ought to warn you," she added, "that I have the reputation of being ill-tempered. You may get tired of living with me."

"We'll take the risk," said Dan, smiling.

Mrs. Vernon, whose habit it was to act promptly, engaged a house on Madison avenue, furnished it without regard to expense, and in less than a fortnight, installed her friends in it. Then she had a talk with Dan about his plans.

"Do you wish to remain in your place," she asked, "or would you like to obtain a better education first?"

"To obtain an education," said Dan, promptly.

"Then give notice to your employer of your intention."

Dan did so.

Mrs. Vernon in a second interview informed him that besides defraying his school expenses, she should give him an allowance of fifty dollars a month for his own personal needs.

"May I give a part of it to my mother?" asked Dan.

"No."

His countenance fell, but Mrs. Vernon smiled.

"You don't ask why I refuse," she said.

"I suppose you have a good reason," said Dan, dubiously.

"My reason is that I shall pay your mother double this sum. Unless she is very extravagant it ought to be enough to defray her expenses."

"How liberal you are, Mrs. Vernon!" exclaimed Dan, in fresh astonishment.

"Mrs. Vernon!"

"Aunt Harriet, I mean."

"That is better."

All these important changes in the position of the Mordaunts were unknown to their old friends, who, since their loss of property, had given them the cold shoulder.

One day Tom Carver, in passing the house, saw Dan coming down the steps quite as handsomely dressed as himself. His surprise and curiosity were aroused.

"Are you running errands?" he asked.

"No. What makes you think so?" returned Dan, smiling.

"I didn't know what else could carry you to such a house."

"Oh, that's easily explained," said Dan. "I live here."

"You live there!" ejaculated Tom.

"Yes."

"Oh, I see. You are in the employ of the family."

"Not exactly," said Dan. "I have nothing to do."

"Does your mother live there?"

"Yes."

"You don't mean to say she boards there?"

"We are living with my aunt."

"Is your aunt rich?" asked Tom, in a more deferential tone.

"I believe she is. At any rate she gives me a handsome allowance."

"You don't say so! How much does she give you?"

"Fifty dollars a month."

"And you don't have anything to do?"

"Only to study. I am going back to school."

"What a lucky fellow!" exclaimed Tom, enviously. "Why, my father only allows me three dollars a week."

"I could get along on that. I don't need as much as my aunt allows me."

"I say, Dan," said Tom, in the most friendly terms, "I'm awfully hard up. Could you lend me five dollars?"

"Yes," said Dan, secretly amused with the change in Tom's manner.

"You always were a good fellow!" said Tom, linking his arm in Dan's. "I'm very glad you're rich again. You must come to see me often."

"Thank you," said Dan, smiling, "but I'm afraid you have forgotten something."

"What do you mean?"

"You know I used to be a newsboy in front of the Astor House."

"That don't matter."

"And you might not care to associate with a newsboy."

"Well, you are all right now," said Tom, magnanimously.

"You didn't always think so, Tom."

"I always thought you were a gentleman, Dan. I am coming to see you soon. You must introduce me to your aunt."

"I suppose it's the way of the world," thought Dan. "It is lucky that there are some true friends who stick by us through thick and thin."

Mrs. Mordaunt had an experience similar to Dan's. Her old acquaintances, who, during her poverty never seemed to recognize her when they met, gradually awoke to the consciousness of her continued existence, and left cards. She received them politely, but rated their professions of friendship at their true value. They had not been "friends in need," and she could not count them "friends indeed."

CHAPTER XLII.

CONCLUSION

Six years rolled by, bringing with them many changes. The little family on Madison avenue kept together. Mrs. Vernon was never happier than now. She had a hearty love for young people, and enjoyed the growth and development of her niece Althea, and Dan, whom she called her nephew and loved no less.

Dan is now a young man. He completed his preparation for college, and graduated with high honors. He is no less frank, handsome, and self-reliant than when as a boy he sold papers in front of the Astor House for his mother's support. He looks forward to a business life, and has accepted an invitation to go abroad to buy goods in London and Paris for his old firm. He was, in fact, preparing to go when a mysterious letter was put in his hands. It ran thus:

"Mr. Daniel Mordaunt:—I shall take it as a great favor if you will come to the St. Nicholas Hotel this evening, and inquire for me. I am sick, or I would not trouble you. Do not fail. I have to speak to you on a matter of great importance.

"John Davis."

"John Davis!" repeated Dan. "I don't know of any one of that name. Do you, mother?"

"I cannot think of any one," said Mrs. Mordaunt. "I hope you won't go, Dan," she added, anxiously; "it may be a trap laid by a wicked and designing man."

"You forget that I am not a boy any longer, mother," said Dan, smiling. "I think I can defend myself, even if Mr. Davis is a wicked and designing person."

Nevertheless Mrs. Mordaunt saw Dan depart with anxiety. To her he was still a boy, though in the eyes of others an athletic young man.

On inquiring for Mr. Davis at the hotel, Dan was ushered into a room on the third floor. Seated in an arm-chair was an elderly man, weak and wasted, apparently in the last stages of consumption. He eyed Dan eagerly.

"You are Daniel Mordaunt?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Son of Lawrence Mordaunt?"

"Yes. Did you know my father?"

The old man sighed.

"It would have been well if he had not known me, for I did him a great wrong."

"You!—John Davis!" said Dan, trying to connect the name with his father.

"That is not my real name. You see before you Robert Hunting, once your father's book-keeper."

Dan's handsome face darkened, and he said, bitterly:

"You killed my father!"

"Heaven help me, I fear I did!" sighed Davis—to call him by his later name.

"The money of which you robbed him caused him to fail, and failure led to his death."

"I have accused myself of this crime oftentimes," moaned Davis. "Don't think that the money brought happiness, for it did not."

"Where have you been all these years?"

"First, I went to Europe. There I remained a year. From Europe I went to Brazil, and engaged in business in Rio Janeiro. A year since I found my health failing, and have come back to New York to die. But before I die I want to make what reparation I can."

"You cannot call my father back to me," said Dan, sadly.

"No; but I can restore the money that I stole. That is the right word—stole. I hope you and your mother have not suffered?"

"We saw some hard times, but for years we have lived in comfort."

"I am glad of that. Will you bring a lawyer to me to-morrow evening? I want to make restitution. Then I shall die easier."

"You might keep every dollar if you would bring my father back."

"Would that I could! I must do what I can."

The next evening Davis transferred to Dan and his mother property amounting to fifty thousand dollars, in payment of what he had taken, with interest, and in less than a month later he died, Dan taking upon himself the charge of the funeral. His trip to Europe was deferred, and having now capital to contribute, he was taken as junior partner into the firm where he had once filled the position of office-boy.

Tom Carver is down in the world. His father had failed disastrously, and Tom is glad to accept a minor clerkship from the boy at whom he once sneered.

Julia Rogers has never lost her preference for Dan. It is whispered that they are engaged, or likely soon to be, and Dan's assiduous attentions to the young lady make the report a plausible one.

John Hartley was sentenced to a term of years in prison. Harriet Vernon dreaded the day of his release, being well convinced that he would seize the earliest opportunity to renew his persecutions. She had about made up her mind to buy him off, when she received intelligence that he was carried off by fever, barely a month before the end of his term. It was a sad end of a bad life, but she could not regret him. Althea was saved the knowledge of her father's worthlessness. She was led to believe that he had died when she was a little girl.

And now the curtain must fall. Dan, the young detective, has entered upon a career of influence and prosperity. The hardships of his earlier years contributed to strengthen his character, and give him that self-reliance of which the sons of rich men so often stand in need. A similar experience might have benefited Tom Carver, whose lofty anticipations have been succeeded by a very humble reality. Let those boys who are now passing through the discipline of poverty and privation, take courage and emulate the example of "Dan, the Detective."

THE END