Home > Authors Index > Horatio Alger > Tin Box > This page
The Tin Box, a novel by Horatio Alger |
||
Chapter 39. How Congreve Succeeded |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXXIX. HOW CONGREVE SUCCEEDED Philip would not have felt flattered if he had been able to read the thoughts of his friend James Congreve, when the latter was riding away from the village where he had been boarding, toward the great city. "That's the last I shall ever see of the young snob, I hope," he said to himself. "I've got all I can out of him, and now I wash my hands of him. I wish him joy of waiting for me to-night. It'll be many a long day before he sees me or the balance of the bonds." James Congreve settled back in his seat, bought a paper from the paper boy on the train, and began to read in a very comfortable frame of mind. From time to time he put his hand on the inside pocket in which he had placed the bonds, to make sure of their safety, for no one knew better than he that there were dishonest persons to be met with who were willing to appropriate valuables belonging to others. It was some time since he had been so well off as he would be when he had converted these bonds into money. Indeed, all the summer long he had been short of funds, or he would not have spent so long a time in a country village, which to him was dull and afforded him a small field for his peculiar talents. Arriving in New York, Congreve took his way to Wall Street. Here it was that he expected to get rid of the bonds, or, rather, exchange them for greenbacks. In this street brokers' and bankers' offices abound, and all negotiable securities readily find a purchaser. He stepped into an office nearly opposite the opening of New Street, and, approaching the counter, said, as he drew out his bonds: "What are you paying for government sixes?" "Let me see the date," said the clerk. He spread open the bonds, and then answered: "One hundred and fifteen and three-eighths." "Very well," replied Congreve. "I will sell them." The clerk took them and stepped to the desk, to make an entry of the purchase. "What name?" he asked, turning to Congreve. "John Baker," said Congreve, with momentary hesitation. For obvious reasons, he thought it best not to mention his own name, as trouble might possibly come from the possession of the bonds. "Shall I give you a check?" was the next question. "I would prefer the money," answered Congreve. "Go to the cashier's window, and he will attend to you." "Not much trouble about that," thought Congreve, complacently, when he was startled by a voice at his elbow. "How are you, Congreve?" Looking around hastily, he saw a hand extended, and recognized a young man who had at one time been a fellow-boarder with him in Fourteenth Street. It is safe to say that James Congreve wished him anywhere else at that most unfortunate time. "Hush!" said he, in a subdued whisper; "I will speak to you outside." He hoped the clerk had not heard the name by which he had been addressed; but he hoped in vain. The latter, pausing in his writing, came to the counter and said: "Didn't this gentleman call you Congreve?" "Yes," admitted Congreve, uneasily. "You just gave your name as John Baker." "Oh, no! That is, I didn't say my name was John Baker. That is the gentleman for whom I am selling the bonds." "Then they do not belong to you?" "No." "Where does Mr. Baker live?" "In New Haven," answered Congreve, glibly, for he had a ready invention. "We do not care to buy," said the clerk, coldly, for there was something in Congreve's manner which made him suspicious. "Really," said Congreve, laughing in a constrained manner, "you appear to be very cautious." "We have to be." "Shall I tell Mr. Baker it will be necessary for him to come to New York in person to dispose of his bonds? He is my uncle, and I simply am doing him a favor in disposing of them." "Very possibly; but I think we won't purchase them." "Oh, well! I can carry them elsewhere," said Congreve, raging inwardly. His acquaintance, whose recognition had interfered with his plans, followed him to the door, in rather a perplexed frame of mind. "Where have you been all summer, Congreve?" he asked, thinking it best to ignore the scene which he had just witnessed. "None of your business," answered Congreve, sharply. "What does this mean?" asked the young man, in astonishment. "It means, sir, that I do not wish to keep up my acquaintance with you. Didn't you know any better than to blurt out my name just now, and so get me into trouble?" "If you are ashamed to appear under your real name, I don't care to know you," answered the young man, with spirit. "So, good-morning to you, Mr. Congreve, or Mr. Baker, or whatever else you call yourself." "Good riddance," said Congreve. "There's something wrong about that fellow," said Tom Norcross to himself, as he looked after Congreve, while the latter was crossing the street. "I don't believe he came by those bonds honestly. His manner was certainly very suspicious." Congreve entered another banking house, and here he had no difficulty in disposing of his bonds. He came out with two hundred and thirty dollars in his pocket, and feeling less irritable than before. "So that's done," he said to himself, "and I am well provided with money for the present. Now I must make up for lost time, and try to enjoy myself a little. I was nearly moped to death in that dull country village, with no better company than a young snob. Now to see life!" First of all, Congreve installed himself at a fashionable boarding house uptown. Then he purchased a seat for the evening's performance at Wallack's Theater, and then sought out some of his old companions in haunts where he knew they were likely to be found. He had a few games of cards, in which his luck varied. He rose from the card table a loser in the sum of twenty-five dollars. "That is unlucky," thought Congreve. "However, I've got two hundred dollars left. I must be more cautious, or my money won't last long." Still, he felt in tolerably good spirits when he went to the theater, and enjoyed the performance about as much as if his pleasures were bought with money honestly earned. It so happened that the clerk at the first banking house who had refused to purchase the bonds sat two rows behind him, and easily recognized his customer of the morning. "I suspect Mr. Baker, alias Congreve, has disposed of his bonds," he thought to himself. "I am really curious to know whether he had any right to sell them." From time to time this thought came back to the clerk, till he formed a resolution quietly to follow Congreve, after the close of the performance, and ascertain where he lived. Congreve, seated in front, was not aware of the presence of the clerk, or he might have taken measures to defeat his design. When James Congreve left the theater, he was at first inclined to stop at Delmonico's on the way uptown, and indulge in a little refreshment; but he felt somewhat fatigued with his day's travel, and, after a moment's indecision, concluded instead to return at once to his boarding place. "He lives in a nice house," said the clerk to himself. "Let me notice the number. I may find it desirable to know where to find him." To anticipate matters a little, word came to New York in the afternoon of the next day that two bonds, the numbers of which were given, had been stolen from Colonel Ross, and search was made for the young man who was suspected of having negotiated them. The clerk, who, previous to returning the bonds to Congreve, had taken down the numbers, at once identified them as the ones referred to, and gave information to the police. The result was that just as Congreve was sitting down to supper on the evening of the second day, he was informed that a man wished to see him at the door. On answering the call, he saw before him a small man, of quiet manner, dressed in a sober suit of black. "You name is Congreve, I believe?" he said, politely, "Yes, sir," answered James, in a hesitating tone. "Then I must trouble you to go with me." "I have just sat down to supper." "I am really sorry to disturb you, but you are charged with selling two stolen bonds in Wall Street yesterday." "There is some mistake," said Congreve, hurriedly. "Colonel Ross sent me the bonds by his son, with a request that I would sell them for him." "Glad to hear it," said the detective, laconically. "Then you will be able to clear yourself. Meanwhile, you must come with me." And James Congreve spent the night in a boarding house by no means fashionable. _ |
||