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Five Hundred Dollars; or, Jacob Marlowe's Secret, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 20. Bert Is Placed In An Embarrassing Position |
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_ CHAPTER XX. BERT IS PLACED IN AN EMBARRASSING POSITION Bert regarded his employer with surprise. "Your wallet?" he repeated. "Yes," answered Silas Wilson impatiently. "I had it in my pocket when I was at work here. I didn't think about it till just now, after Mr. Dexter had left me. Then I found that my pocket was empty." "I haven't seen it, but you may have dropped it somewhere." "Just help me look for it. Has anybody been here?" "No; at least not in the field. Percy Marlowe passed in his buggy, and----" "Never mind about that. Help me look for the wallet." The rows of corn were of considerable length, and there were a good many of them. At least ten minutes elapsed before anything was seen of the missing article, and dark suspicions of his young assistant entered the mind of Mr. Wilson. But at last Bert's sharp eyes espied a faded leather wallet between two hills in one of the rows which the farmer had hoed. "Is this it?" he asked, holding it up in his hand. "Yes!" exclaimed Silas delighted. "Where did you find it?" "Just here." Mr. Wilson opened it, anxious to see whether the contents were intact. "It's all safe," he said, with a sigh of relief. "Was there much money in it?" asked Bert. "Yes; two dollars and sixty-seven cents. It's a narrow escape! Suppose a dishonest person had found it?" "It would have been terrible!" said Bert, successfully checking his disposition to laugh. "I'm much obliged to you, Bert, for findin' it. I suppose you don't want any reward?" "Oh, no! I am working for you, you know, and it wasn't my own time I was using." "That's true! Still, I am willin' to give you two cents to encourage you to be honest." "Thank you, Mr. Wilson; but I don't need any reward for that." "You're a good boy, and if you stay with me I'll make a man of you." "Thank you." Bert was privately of opinion that if he remained till the age of twenty-one in Silas Wilson's employ, boarding at his table, he would grow into a very thin, under-sized man indeed. Supper was a less substantial meal than dinner in the Wilson household, consisting of bread and butter and tea, with the addition of a plate of doughnuts, which were so tough and hard that it occurred to Bert that they would make very good base-balls if they had been of the right shape. After supper he went home for an hour. "Don't you feel very tired, Bert?" asked his mother. "Yes, mother, but I feel still more hungry. If you've got anything left from supper I think I can dispose of it." "Certainly, Bert; but didn't you eat supper at Mr. Wilson's?" "Mother, they don't know what good living is there. I'd rather have one of your suppers than a dozen of Mr. Wilson's. I begin to think that the board part won't be worth over fifty cents for three days. I am sure it won't cost them any more." "I wish you were going to sleep here, Bert. I shall feel lonely." "So do I, but I shall only be away two nights. Silas Wilson promises to make a man of me if I'll stay, but I'd rather grow to manhood somewhere else." Bert returned to the farm-house, and about half-past eight went to bed. He knew he must be early astir, and he felt fatigued by his day of labor in the field. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson went to bed at this hour. The farmer was not fond of reading, nor indeed was there anything in the house to read, for neither he nor his wife had a literary taste. Once he took an agricultural paper for a year at a cost of two dollars, but whenever the paper arrived he groaned in spirit over the cost, and deplored his extravagance in subscribing for it. The room assigned to Bert was over the kitchen, which was in the ell part. The roof was sloping, and, toward the eaves, very low. There was one window near the bed which he occupied. Bert went to sleep in ten minutes, and slept soundly for three or four hours. Then something roused him, and he opened his eyes. What he saw startled him. By the bright moonlight he perceived a man climbing in at the window. To say that Bert was perfectly calm would not be true. He was very much startled, as I think almost any boy, or man either, would have been under the circumstances. "It is a burglar!" thought Bert in excitement. "What can I do?" Some one evidently had heard of Silas Wilson's miserly disposition, and judged that there would be a good chance to secure booty in the farm house. Bert, though he did not admire Mr. Wilson, felt that it was his duty to protect him from being plundered, if possible. He knew that he was in some personal peril, but he was naturally a brave boy, and his spirit rose to the occasion. He waited until the supposed burglar was in the room, and then, sitting up in bed, asked stoutly: "Who are you? What brings you here?" The man turned swiftly toward the bed, and fixed his eyes on Bert, but did not immediately speak. "If you are a burglar," continued Bert, emboldened by the man's hesitation, "you had better get out of the window again, or I shall call Mr. Wilson." "No, don't call him, at least not yet," said the intruder, sinking into a chair a few feet from the bed. "Are you working here?" "Yes." "Who are you?" This seemed a singular question. What could his name matter to a burglar? However, Bert answered mechanically, "My name is Bert Barton." "The widow Barton's boy?" "Yes; how do you know that?" demanded Bert, in bewilderment. "Don't you know me?" was the unexpected rejoinder. He drew nearer to the bed, and Bert gazed at him earnestly, but no light dawned upon him. "No, I don't know you," he said, shaking his head. "I am Silas Wilson's son," said the stranger. "Phineas Wilson?" Now Bert remembered that eight years before, the farmer's son, a man grown, had left Lakeville, and, so far as he knew, had not been heard of since. He had contracted a habit of drinking and had tired of farm work. Moreover, when he left, he had taken fifty dollars of his father's money with him, which had led to bitter feelings on the part of the farmer, who appeared to mourn the loss of his money more than that of his son. And this was the young man who had crept into his father's house like a thief in the night. "Why did you get into my window?" asked Bert. "Why didn't you come to the door?" "I--didn't know if I would be welcome. I wanted to ask. Do you know how my father feels toward me?" "No; I have only been here one day. He ought to be glad to see his son." "I took some money with me when I went away," said Phineas hesitating. "Father's very fond of money." "Yes," assented Bert. "And he would find it hard to forget that." "Why didn't you come back before?" "I didn't dare to come till I could bring the money. I have got it with me, but not a dollar more. If you want to know what brings me back, look in my face and see for yourself." The moon came out from behind a cloud, and by its light Bert saw that the young man's face was thin and ghastly. "I am sick," he said; "irregular hours and whiskey have done their work. I am afraid I have got to pass in my checks." "What does that mean--die?" "Yes." "Don't give up!" said Bert, feeling his sympathies go out toward this prodigal son. "You are young. It takes a good deal to kill a young man." "You're a good fellow, Bert. That's your name, isn't it? Will you do me a favor?" "To be sure I will." "I am famished. I haven't had anything to eat for twenty-four hours. Can you slip downstairs and fetch me something to eat--no matter what--and a glass of milk?" Bert hesitated. He could get what was required in the pantry, but suppose the farmer or his wife should wake up! It would make his position a very awkward one. "Hadn't you better go down yourself?" he asked. "I can hardly stand, I am so tired. Besides, I don't know where mother keeps things." "I will try," said Bert; and he slipped on his pantaloons, and went softly downstairs. _ |
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