Dan, The Newsboy

This was true, and Tom resented it. He felt that Dan had no right to dress well.

"He ought not to spend so much money on dress when he has his mother to support," he said, provoked.

"It seems to me you take a great deal of interest in Mr. Mordaunt," said the young beauty, pointedly.

"Oh, no; he can do as he likes for all me, but, of course, when a boy in his position dresses as if he were rich one can't help noticing it."

"I am sure he can't be very poor, or he could not attend Dodworth's dancing-school. At any rate I like to dance with him, and I don't care whether he's poor or rich."

Presently Tom saw Dan dancing the polka with Julia Rogers, and with the same grace that he had exhibited in the other dances.

He felt jealous, for he fancied himself a favorite with Julia, because their families being intimate, he saw a good deal of her.

On the whole Tom was not enjoying the party. He did succeed, however, in obtaining the privilege of escorting Julia to supper.

Just in front of him was Dan, escorting a young lady from Fifth avenue.

"Mr. Mordaunt appears to be enjoying himself," said Julia Rogers.

"Yes, he has plenty of cheek," muttered Tom.

"Excuse me, Tom, but do you think such expressions suitable for such an occasion as this?"

"I am sorry you don't like it, but I never saw a more forward or presuming fellow than this Dan Mordaunt."

"I beg you to keep your opinion to yourself," said Julia Rogers, with dignity. "I find he is a great favorite with all the young ladies here. I had no idea he knew so many of them."

Tom gave it up. It seemed to him that all the girls were infatuated with a common newsboy, while his vanity was hurt by finding himself quite distanced in the race.

About twelve o'clock the two boys met in the dressing-room.

"You seemed to enjoy yourself," said Tom, coldly.

"Yes, thanks to your kind attentions," answered Dan, with a smile. "It is pleasant to meet old friends, you know. By the way, I suppose we shall meet at Miss Carroll's party."

"Are you to be invited?" asked Tom, in astonishment.

"So the young lady tells me," answered Dan, smiling.

"I suppose you'll be giving a fashionable party next," said Tom, with a sneer.

"Consider yourself invited if I do. Good-night, and pleasant dreams."

But Dan's dreams were by no means sweet that night.

When he reached home, it was to hear of a great and startling misfortune.

CHAPTER XXIX.

A NE'ER DO WELL

At half-past twelve Dan ascended the stairs to his mother's room. He had promised to come in and tell her how he had enjoyed himself at the party. He was in excellent spirits on account of the flattering attentions he had received. It was in this frame of mind that he opened the door. What was his surprise, even consternation, when his mother advanced to meet him with tearful eyes and an expression of distress.

"Oh, Dan, I am so glad you have got home!" she ejaculated.

"What is the matter, mother? Are you sick?" asked Dan.

"I am quite well, Dan; but Althea–"

And Mrs. Mordaunt burst into tears.

"What has happened to Althea? Is she sick?" asked Dan, alarmed.

"We have lost her, Dan."

"Lost her! You don't mean she is–"

He couldn't finish the sentence, but his mother divined what he meant.

"Not dead, thank God!" she said, "but she has disappeared—she has been stolen."

"You don't mean it, mother!" exclaimed Dan, startled and grieved. "Tell me about it."

Mrs. Mordaunt told what she knew, but that related only to the particulars of the abduction. We are in a position to tell the reader more, but it will be necessary to go back for a month, and transfer the scene to another continent.

In a spacious and handsomely furnished apartment at the West End of London sat the lady who had placed Althea in charge of the Mordaunts. She was deep in thought, and that not of an agreeable nature.

"I fear," she said to herself, "that trouble awaits me. John Hartley, whom I supposed to be in California, is certainly in London. I cannot be mistaken in his face, and I certainly saw him in Hyde Park to-day. Did he see me? I don't know, but I fear he did. If so, he will not long delay in making his appearance. Then I shall be persecuted, but I must be firm. He shall not learn through me where Althea is. He is her father, it is true, but he has forfeited all claim to her guardianship. A confirmed gambler and drunkard, he would soon waste her fortune, bequeathed her by her poor mother. He can have no possible claim to it; for, apart from his having had no hand in leaving it to her, he was divorced from my poor sister before her death."

At this point there was a knock at the door of the room.

"Come in," said the lady.

There entered a young servant-maid, who courtesied, and said:

"Mrs. Vernon, there is a gentleman who wishes to see you."

"Can it be Hartley?" thought the lady, with quick suspicion.

"Did he give his name?" she asked.

"Yes, mum; he said his name was Bancroft."

"Bancroft! I know no one of that name," mused the lady. "Well, Margaret, you may show him up, and you may remain in the anteroom within call."

Her eyes were fixed upon the door with natural curiosity, when her visitor entered.

Instantly her face flushed, and her eyes sparkled with anger.

"John Hartley!" she exclaimed.

The visitor smiled mockingly.

"I see you know me, Harriet Vernon," he said. "It is some time since we met, is it not? I am charmed, I am sure, to see my sister-in-law looking so well."

He sank into a chair without waiting for an invitation.

"When did you change your name to Bancroft?" demanded the lady, abruptly.

"Oh," he said, showing his teeth, "that was a little ruse. I feared you would have no welcome for John Hartley, notwithstanding our near relationship, and I was forced to sail under false colors."

"It was quite in character," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly; "you were always false. But you need not claim relationship. The slender tie that connected us was broken when my sister obtained a divorce from you."

"You think so, my lady," said the visitor, dropping his tone of mocking badinage, and regarding her in a menacing manner, "but you were never more mistaken. You may flatter yourself that you are rid of me, but you flatter yourself in vain."

"Do you come here to threaten me, John Hartley?"

"I come here to ask for my child. Where is Althea?"

"Where you cannot get at her," answered Mrs. Vernon, coldly.

"Don't think to put me off in that way," he said, fiercely. "I will know where she is."

"Don't think to terrify me, John Hartley," said the lady, contemptuously. "I am not so easily alarmed as your poor wife."

Hartley looked at her as if he would have assaulted her had he dared, but she knew very well that he did not dare. He was a bully, but he was a coward.

"You refuse, then, to tell me what you have done with my child?" he demanded, at length.

"I do."

"Take care, madam! A father has some rights, and the law will not permit his child to be kept from him."

"Does your anxiety to see Althea arise from parental affection?" she asked, in a sarcastic tone.

"Never mind what it springs from. I have a right to the custody of my child."

"I suppose you have a right to waste her fortune also at the gaming-table."

"I have a right to act as my child's guardian," he retorted.

"A fine guardian you would make!" she said, contemptuously.

"Why should I not?" he asked, sulkily.

"Why should you not, John Hartley? Do I need to answer the question? You ill-treated and abused her mother. You wasted half her fortune. Fortunately, she escaped from you before it was all gone. But you shortened her life, and she did not long survive the separation. It was her last request that I should care for her child—that I should, above all, keep her out of your clutches. I made that promise, and I mean to keep it."

"You poisoned my wife's mind against me," he said. "But for your cursed interference we should never have separated."

"You are right, perhaps, in your last statement. I certainly did urge my sister to leave you. I obtained her consent to the application for a divorce, but as to poisoning her mind against you, there was no need of that. By your conduct and your treatment you destroyed her love and forfeited her respect, and she saw the propriety of the course which I recommended."

"I didn't come here to be lectured. You can spare your invectives, Harriet Vernon. What is past is past. I was not a model husband, perhaps, but I was as good as the average."

"If that is the case, Heaven help the woman who marries!"

"Or the man that marries a woman like you!"

"You are welcome to your opinion of me. I am entirely indifferent to your good or bad opinion. Have you any more to say?"

"Any more to say! I have hardly begun. Is my daughter Althea with you?"

"I don't recognize your right to question me on this subject, but I will answer you. She is not with me."

"Is she in London?"

"I will even answer that question. She is not in London."

"Is she in England?"

"That I will not tell you. You have learned enough."

John Hartley did not answer immediately. He appeared to be occupied with some thought. When he spoke it was in a more conciliatory tone.

"I don't doubt that she is in good hands," he said. "I am sure you will treat her kindly. Perhaps you are a better guardian than I. I am willing to leave her in your hands, but I ought to have some compensation."

"What do you mean?"

"Althea has a hundred thousand dollars, yielding at least five thousand dollars income. Probably her expenses are little more than one-tenth of this sum. While my child is rich I am poor. Give me half her income—say three thousand dollars annually—and I will give you and her no further trouble."

"I thought that was the object of your visit," said Mrs. Vernon, coldly. "I was right in giving you no credit for parental affection. In regard to your proposition, I cannot entertain it. You had one half of my sister's fortune, and you spent it. You have no further claim on her money."

"Is this your final answer?" he demanded, angrily.

"It is."

"Then I swear to you that I will be even with you. I will find the child, and when I do you shall never see her again."

Mrs. Vernon rang the bell.

Margaret entered.

"Margaret," she said, coldly, "will you show this gentleman out?"

John Hartley rose and bowed ironically.

"You are certainly very polite, Harriet Vernon," he said. "You are bold, too, for you are defying me, and that is dangerous. You had better reconsider your determination, before it is too late."

"It will never be too late; I can at any time buy you off," she said, contemptuously. "All you want is money."

"We shall see," he hissed, eying her malignantly.

"Margaret," said Mrs. Vernon, when her visitor had been shown out, "never admit that person again; I am always out to him."

"Yes, mum," said the girl. "I wonder who 'twas," she thought, curiously.

CHAPTER XXX.

HOW HARTLEY GOT A CLEW

John Hartley, when a young man, had wooed and won Althea's mother. Julia Belmont was a beautiful and accomplished girl, an heiress in her own right, and might have made her choice among at least a dozen suitors. That she should have accepted the hand of John Hartley, a banker's clerk, reputed "fast," was surprising, but a woman's taste in such a case is often hard to explain or justify. Her sister—now Mrs. Vernon—strenuously objected to the match, and by so doing gained the hatred of her future brother-in-law. Opposition proved ineffectual, and Julia Belmont became Mrs. Hartley. Her fortune amounted to two hundred thousand dollars. The trustee and her sister succeeded in obtaining her consent that half of this sum should be settled on herself, and her issue, should she have any.

This proved to be a wise precaution. John Hartley resigned his position immediately after marriage, and declined to enter upon any business.

"Why should I?" he said. "Julia and I have enough to live upon. If I am out of business I can devote myself more entirely to her."

This reasoning satisfied his young wife, and for a time all went well. But Hartley joined a fashionable club, formed a taste for gambling, indulged in copious libations, not unfrequently staggering home drunk, to the acute sorrow of his wife, and then excesses soon led to ill-treatment. The money, which he could spend in a few years, melted away, and he tried to gain possession of the remainder of his wife's property. But, meanwhile, Althea was born, and a consideration for her child's welfare strengthened the wife in her firm refusal to accede to this unreasonable demand.

"You shall have the income, John," she said—"I will keep none back; but the principal must be kept for Althea."

"You care more for the brat than you do for me," he muttered.

"I care for you both," she answered. "You know how the money would go, John. We should all be left destitute."

"That meddling sister of yours has put you up to this," he said, angrily.

"There was no need of that. It is right, and I have decided for myself."

"Your first duty is to your husband."

"I feel that in refusing I am doing my duty by you."

"It is a strange way—to oppose your husband's wishes. Women ought never to be trusted with money—they don't know how to take care of it."

"You are not the person to say this, John. In five years you have wasted one hundred thousand dollars."

"It was bad luck in investments," he replied.

"I am afraid you are right. Investing money at the gaming-table is not very profitable."

"Do you mean to insult me, madam?" exclaimed Hartley, furiously.

"I am only telling the sad truth, John."

He forgot himself and struck her.

She withdrew, flushed and indignant, for she had spirit enough to resent this outrage, and he left the house in a furious rage.

When Hartley found that there was no hope of carrying his point, all restraint seemed removed. He plunged into worse excesses, and his treatment became so bad that Mrs. Hartley consented to institute proceedings for divorce. It was granted, and the child was given to her. Hartley disappeared for a time. When he returned his wife had died of pneumonia, and her sister—Mrs. Vernon, now a widow—had assumed the care of Althea. An attempt to gain possession of the child induced her to find another guardian for the child. This was the way Althea had come into the family of our young hero.

Thus much, that the reader may understand the position of affairs, and follow intelligently the future course of the story.

When John Hartley left the presence of his sister-in-law, he muttered maledictions upon her.

"I'll have the child yet, if only to spite her," he muttered, between his teeth. "I won't allow a jade to stand between me and my own flesh and blood. I must think of some plan to circumvent her."

This was not easy. He had absolutely no clew, and little money to assist him in his quest. But Fortune, which does not always favor the brave, but often helps the undeserving, came unexpectedly to his help.

At an American banker's he ran across an old acquaintance—one who had belonged to the same club as himself in years past.

"What are you doing here, Hartley?" he asked.

"Not much. Luck is against me."

"Sorry to hear it. By the way, I was reminded of you not long since."

"How is that?"

"I saw your child in Union Square, in New York."

"Are you sure of it?" asked Hartley, eagerly. "Are you sure it was my child?"

"Of course; I used to see it often, you know. She is a bright little thing."

"Do you know where she lives?" asked Hartley. "Did you follow her?"

"Don't you know where she lives?"

"No; her aunt is keeping the child from me. I am very anxious to find her."

"That accounts for it. She was with a middle-aged lady, who evidently was suspicious of me, for she did not bring out the child but once more, and was clearly anxious when I took notice of her."

"She was acting according to instructions, no doubt."

"Very probably."

"I wish you had learned more."

"So do I. Why do they keep you away from her?"

"Because she has money, and they wish to keep it in their hands," said Hartley, plausibly. "The aunt is a very mercenary woman. She is living here in London, doubtless on my little girl's fortune."

John Hartley knew that this was not true, for Mrs. Vernon was a rich woman; but it suited his purpose to say so, and the statement was believed by his acquaintance.

"This is bad treatment, Hartley," he said, in a tone of sympathy.

"Isn't it?"

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Try to find out where the child is placed, and get possession of her."

"I wish you success."

This information John Hartley felt to be of value. It narrowed his search, and made success much less difficult.

In order to obtain more definite information, he lay in wait for Mrs. Vernon's servant.

Margaret at first repulsed him, but a sovereign judiciously slipped into her hand convinced her that Hartley was quite the gentleman, and he had no difficulty, by the promise of a future douceur, in obtaining her co-operation.

"What is it you want, sir?" she asked. "If it's no harm you mean my missus–"

"Certainly not, but she is keeping my child from me. You can understand a father's wish to see his child, my dear girl."

"Indeed, I think it's cruel to keep her from you, sir."

"Then look over your mistress' papers and try to obtain the street and number where she is boarding in New York. I have a right to know that."

"Of course you have, sir," said the girl, readily.

So it came about that the girl obtained Dan's address, and communicated it to John Hartley.

As soon as possible afterward Hartley sailed for New York.

"I'll secure the child," he said to himself, exultingly, "and then my sweet sister-in-law must pay roundly for her if she wants her back."

All which attested the devoted love of John Hartley for his child.

CHAPTER XXXI.

ALTHEA'S ABDUCTION

Arrived in New York, John Hartley lost no time in ascertaining where Dan and his mother lived. In order the better to watch without incurring suspicion, he engaged by the week a room in a house opposite, which, luckily for his purpose, happened to be for rent. It was a front window, and furnished him with a post of observation from which he could see who went in and out of the house opposite.

Hartley soon learned that it would not be so easy as he had anticipated to gain possession of the little girl. She never went out alone, but always accompanied either by Dan or his mother.

Hartley was disappointed. If, now, Althea were attending school, there would be an opportunity to kidnap her. As it was, he was at his wits' end.

At last, however, opportunity favored him.

On the evening of the party Mrs. Mordaunt chanced to need some small article necessary to the work upon which she was engaged. She might indeed wait until the next day, but she was repairing a vest of Dan's, which he would need to wear in the morning, and she did not like to disappoint him.

"My child," she said, "I find I must go out a little while."

"What for, mamma?"

"I want to buy some braid to bind Dan's vest. He will want to wear it in the morning."

"May I go with you, mamma?"

"No, my child. You can be reading your picture-book till I come back. I won't be long."

So Mrs. Mordaunt put on her street dress, and left the house in the direction of Eighth avenue, where there was a cheap store at which she often traded.

No sooner did Hartley see her leave the house, as he could readily do, for the night was light, than he hurried to Union Square, scarcely five minutes distant, and hailed a cab-driver.

"Do you want a job, my man?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Can you hold your tongue?"

"Yes, sir, if necessary."

"It is necessary."

"There is nothing wrong, sir, I hope."

"Certainly not. My child has been kidnapped during my absence in Europe. With your help I mean to recover her."

"All right, sir."

"She is in the custody of some designing persons, who keep possession of her on account of a fortune which she is to inherit. She does not know me to be her father, we have been so long separated; but I feel anxious to take her away from her treacherous guardians."

"You are right, sir. I've got a little girl of my own, and I understand your feelings. Where shall we go?"

Hartley gave the proper address. Fifteen minutes afterward the cab drew up before Mrs. Brown's door, and Hartley, springing from it, rang the bell. It so happened that Mrs. Brown was out, and a servant answered the bell. She looked inquiringly at the visitor.

"A lady lives here with a little girl," he said, quickly.

"Yes, sir; Mrs. Mordaunt."

"Precisely; and the little girl is named Althea."

"You are right, sir."

"Mrs. Mordaunt has been run over by a street-car, and been carried into my house. She wishes the little girl to come at once to her."

"Is she much hurt?" asked Nancy, anxiously.

"I am afraid her leg is broken; but I can't wait. Will you bring the little girl down at once?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I'll lose no time."

Nancy went up stairs two steps at a time, and broke into Mrs. Mordaunt's room breathless.

"Put on your hat at once, Miss Althea," she said.

"What for?" asked the child, in surprise.

"Your ma has sent for you."

"But she said she was coming right back."

"She's hurt, and she can't come, and she has sent for you. Don't cry, my dear."

"But how shall I know where to go, Nancy?"

"There's a kind gentleman at the door with a carriage. Your ma has been taken to his home."

The little girl began to cry once more.

"Oh! I'm afraid mamma's been killed," she said.

"No, she hasn't, or how could she send for you?"

This argument tended to reassure Althea, and she put on her little shawl and hat, and hurried down stairs.

Hartley was waiting for her impatiently, fearing that Mrs. Mordaunt would come back sooner than was anticipated, and so interfere with the fulfillment of his plans.

"Is mamma very much hurt?" asked Althea, anxiously.

"So she calls this woman mamma," said Hartley to himself.

"Not very badly, but she cannot come home to-night. Get into the carriage, and I will tell you about it as we are riding to her."

He hurried the little girl into the carriage, and taking a seat beside her, ordered the cabman to drive on.

He had before directed him to drive to the South Ferry.

"How did mamma get hurt?" asked the child.

"She was crossing the street," said Hartley, "when she got in the way of a carriage and was thrown down and run over."

The child began to cry.

"Oh, she will die!" she exclaimed, sobbing.

"No, she will not die. The carriage was not a heavy one, luckily, and she is only badly bruised. She will be all right in a few days."

John Hartley was a trifle inconsistent in his stories, having told the servant that Mrs. Mordaunt had been run over by a street-car; but in truth he had forgotten the details of his first narrative, and had modified it in the second telling. However, Nancy had failed to tell the child precisely how Mrs. Mordaunt had been hurt, and she was not old enough to be suspicious.

"Where is mamma?" was the little girl's next question.

"She is at my house."

"Where is your house?"

"Not far from here," answered Hartley, evasively.

"Then I shall soon see mamma."

"Is she your mamma?" asked Hartley.

"No, not my own mamma, but I call her so. I love her dearly."

"Where is your own mamma?"

"She is dead."

"Do you remember her?"

"A little."

"Have you a papa?"

"My papa is a very bad man. He treated poor mamma very badly."

"Who told you this?" demanded Hartley, frowning. "Was it Mrs. Mordaunt?"

"No; it was auntie."

"I thought this was some of Harriet Vernon's work," said Hartley to himself. "It seems like my amiable sister-in-law. She might have been in better business than poisoning my child's mind against me."