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Luke Walton, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 17. A Strange Visitor |
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_ CHAPTER XVII. A STRANGE VISITOR "Did you come to rob me?" repeated Mr. Browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed. There was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded--not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. Thomas Browning misinterpreted it. He thought the man was speechless from alarm. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?" demanded Browning, sternly. The answer considerably surprised him. "Why, pard, it's you, is it?" said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain. "What do you mean by your impertinence?" asked the respectable Mr. Browning, angrily. "Well, that's a good one! Who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?" "What do you mean? Are you crazy, fellow?" "No, I ain't crazy, as I know of, but I'm flabbergasted--that's what I am." "Have done with this trifling and tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to the police?" "I guess you won't do that, Tom Butler!" returned the burglar, coolly. Browning stared in surprise and dismay at hearing his old name pronounced by this unsavory specimen of humanity. "Who are you?" he demanded, quickly. "Don't you know me?" "No, I don't. I never saw you before. I don't associate with men of your class." "Hear him now!" chuckled the tramp, in an amazed tone. "Why, Tom Butler, you an' me used to be pards. Don't you remember Jack King? Why, we've bunked together, and hunted for gold together, and almost starved together; but that was in the old days." Browning looked the amazement he felt. "Are you really Jack King?" he ejaculated, sinking back into an easy-chair, and staring hard at his unexpected visitor. "I'm the same old coon, Tom, but I'm down at the heel, while you--do you really own this fine house, and these elegant fixin's?" "Yes," answered Browning, mechanically. "Well, you've fared better than I. I've been goin' down, down, till I've got about as far down as I can get." "And you have become a burglar?" "Well, a man must live, you know." "You could work." "Who would give such a lookin' man as I any work?" "How did you get in?" "That's my secret! You mustn't expect me to give myself away." "And you had no idea whose house you were in?" "I was told it belonged to a Mr. Browning." "I am Mr. Browning--Thomas Browning." "You! What has become of Butler?" "I had good substantial reasons for changing my name--there was money in it, you understand." "I'd like to change my own name on them terms. And now, Tom Butler, what are you going to do for me?" Mr. Browning's face hardened. He felt no sympathy for the poor wretch with whom he had once been on terms of intimacy. He felt ashamed to think that they had ever been comrades, and he resented the tone of familiarity with which this outcast addressed him--a reputable citizen, a wealthy capitalist, a man whose name had been more than once mentioned in connection with the mayor's office. "I'll tell you what I ought to do," he said, harshly. "Well?" "I ought to call a policeman, and give you in charge for entering my house as a burglar." "You'd better not do that," he said without betraying alarm. "Why not? Why should I not treat you like any other burglar?" "Because--but I want to ask you a question." "What did you do with that money Walton gave you on his deathbed?" "What do you mean?" he faltered. "Just what I say. What did you do with Walton's money?" "I am at a loss to understand your meaning." "No, you are not. However, I am ready to explain. On his deathbed Walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. Did you do it?" "Who told you this?" "It is unnecessary for me to say. It is enough that I know it. At the time you were poor enough. You might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. Now--it isn't so many years ago--I find you a rich man. Of course, I have my own ideas of how this came about." "Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty?" demanded Browning, angrily. "I don't accuse you of anything. I am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. I'm not an angel myself, Tom Butler, and I can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. I wish it had; I wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch I am now." "Walton handed me some money," said Browning, cautiously--"not ten thousand dollars--and I handed it to his family." "Where did they live?" "In a country town," he answered, glibly. "I was thinking I might run across Mrs. Walton some day," he said, significantly. "She would be glad to see me, as I knew her late husband in California." "She is dead," said Browning, hastily. "Dead! How long since?" "She died soon after she heard of her husband's death. Died of grief, poor woman!" "Were there no children?" "Yes, there was a girl, but she was adopted by a relative in Massachusetts." "I don't believe a word of it!" thought Jack King. "He wants to put me off the scent." "Humph! And you gave the wife the money?" "Of course." "I may meet the girl some time; I might advertise for any of the family." "Do you think they would be glad to see you?" "They might help me, and I stand in need of help." "There is no need of that. You are an old comrade in distress. I haven't forgotten the fact, though I pretended to, to try you. Here's a five-dollar bill. I'll let you out of the house myself. Considering how you entered it, you may count yourself lucky." "That's all right, as far as it goes, Tom, but I want to remind you of a little debt you owe me. When you were out of luck at Murphy's diggings I lent you twenty-five dollars, which you have never paid back." "I had forgotten it." "I haven't. That money will come mighty convenient just now. It will buy me a better-looking suit, second hand, and make a different man of me. With it I can get a place and set up for a respectable human being." "Here's the money," said Browning, reluctantly drawing the additional bills from his wallet. "Now that we are square, I hope you won't annoy me by further applications. I might have sent you out of the house under very different circumstances." "You were always considerate, Tom," said the tramp, stowing away the bills in the pocket of his ragged vest. "May I refer to you if I apply for a situation?" "Yes; but remember I am Thomas Browning. I prefer not to have it known that my name was ever Butler." "All right! Now, if you'll do me the favor of showing me the door I'll leave you to your slumbers." "It's very awkward, that man's turning up," muttered Browning, as he returned from letting out his unsavory visitor. "How could he have heard about Walton's money?" _ |
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