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Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune, a fiction by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 38. Abner Trimble's Plot |
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_ CHAPTER XXXVIII. ABNER TRIMBLE'S PLOT Just off First Street, in Portland, Ore., is a saloon, over which appears the name of the proprietor: "Abner Trimble." Two rough-looking fellows, smoking pipes, entered the saloon. Behind the bar stood a stout, red-faced man. This was Trimble, and his appearance indicated that he patronized the liquors he dispensed to others. "Glad to see you, Floyd," said Trimble. "That means a glass of whisky, doesn't it?" returned Floyd. "Well, not now. I want you to go up to the house again, to see my wife." "About the old matter?" "Yes; she isn't quite satisfied about the kid's death, and she won't make a will in my favor till she is. She wants to ask you a few questions." Floyd made a wry face. "She's as bad as a lawyer. I say, Abner, I'm afraid I'll get tripped up." "You must stick to the old story." "What was it?" "Don't you remember you said that the kid hired a boat to row in the harbor along with two other boys, and the boat was upset and all three were drowned?" "Yes, I remember. It's a smart yarn, isn't it?" grinned Floyd. "Yes, but you mustn't let her doubt it. You remember how you came to know about the drowning?" "No, I forget." Abner Trimble frowned. "Look here, Floyd. You'd better remember, or you won't get the money I promised you. You were out in a boat yourself, and saw the whole thing. You jumped into the water, and tried to save the kid, but it was no use. He went to the bottom--and that was the end of him!" "A very pretty story," said Floyd, complacently. "Won't I get somethin' for tryin' to save the kid's life?" "As like as not. I'll suggest it to the old lady myself." "When do you want me to go up to the house?" "Now. The lawyer's coming at four o'clock, and I want you to confirm Mrs. T. in her belief in the boy's death." "It's dry talkin', Abner," said Floyd, significantly. "Take a glass of sarsaparilla, then." "Sarsaparilla!" repeated Floyd, contemptuously. "That's only fit for children." "Lemon soda, then." "What's the matter with whisky?" "Are you a fool? Do you think Mrs. T. will believe your story if you come to her smelling of whisky?" "You're hard on me, Abner. Just one little glass." "You can put that off till afterward. Here, take some lemon soda, or I'll mix you a glass of lemonade." "Well, if I must," said Floyd, in a tone of resignation. "You can have as much whisky as you like afterward." "Then the sooner we get over the job the better. I'm ready now." "Here, Tim, take my place," said Abner Trimble, calling his barkeeper; "I'm going to the house for an hour. Now come along." Abner Trimble lived in a comfortable dwelling in the nicer portion of the city. It belonged to his wife when he married her, and he had simply taken up his residence in her house. He would have liked to have lived nearer the saloon, and had suggested this to his wife, but she was attached to her home and was unwilling to move. Trimble ushered his visitor into the sitting room and went up to see his wife. She was sitting in an armchair in the room adjoining her chamber, looking pale and sorrowful. "Well, Mary," said Trimble, "I've brought Floyd along to answer any questions relating to poor Edward's death." "Yes, I shall be glad to see him," answered his wife, in a dull, spiritless tone. "Shall I bring him up?" "If you like." Trimble went to the landing and called out: "You can come up, Floyd." Floyd entered the room, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands. He was not used to society, and did not look forward with much pleasure to the interview which had been forced upon him. "I hope I see you well, ma'am," he said, bobbing his head. "As well as I ever expect to be," answered Mrs. Trimble, sadly. "Your name is----" "Floyd, ma'am. Darius Floyd." "And you knew my poor son?" "Yes, ma'am, I knew him well. Ed and I was regular cronies." Mrs. Trimble looked at the man before her, and was mildly surprised. Certainly Edward must have changed, or he would not keep such company. But, prejudiced against her son as she had been by her husband's misrepresentations, she feared that this was only another proof of Edward's moral decadence. "You have been in New York recently?" "Yes; I was there quite a while." "And you used to see Edward?" "'Most every day, ma'am." "How was he employed?" This was not a question to which Mr. Floyd had prepared an answer. He looked to Mr. Trimble as if for a suggestion, and the latter nodded impatiently, and shaped his mouth to mean "anything." "He was tendin' a pool room, ma'am," said Floyd, with what he thought a lucky inspiration. "He was tendin' a pool room on Sixth Avenue." "He must indeed have changed to accept such employment. I hope he didn't drink?" "Not often, ma'am; just a glass of sarsaparilla or lemon soda. Them are my favorites." Abner Trimble turned aside to conceal a smile. He remembered Mr. Floyd's objecting to the innocent beverages mentioned, and his decided preference for whisky. "I am glad that he was not intemperate. You saw the accident?" "Yes, ma'am." "Please tell me once more what you can." "I took a boat down at the Battery to have a row one afternoon, when, after a while, I saw another boat comin' out with three fellers into it. One of them was your son, Edward." "Did you know Edward's companions?" "Never saw them before in my life. They was about as old as he. Well, by and by one of them stood up in the boat. I surmise he had been drinkin'. Then, a minute afterward, I saw the boat upset, and the three was strugglin' in the water. "I didn't take no interest in the others, but I wanted to save Edward, so I jumped into the water and made for him. That is, I thought I did. But it so happened in the confusion that I got hold of the wrong boy, and when I managed to get him on board my boat, I saw my mistake. It was too late to correct it--excuse my emotion, ma'am," and Mr. Floyd drew a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes; "but when I looked out and couldn't see either of the other young fellers, and realized that they were drowned, I felt awful bad." Mrs. Trimble put her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned. The picture drawn by Mr. Floyd was too much for her. "I wish I could see the young man whose life you saved," she said, after a pause, "Have you his name and address?" "No, ma'am; he didn't even thank me. I didn't get even the price of a glass of--sarsaparilla out of him." Mr. Floyd came near saying whisky, but bethought himself in time. "I have been much interested by your sad story, Mr. Floyd," said the sorrow-stricken mother. "You seem to have a good and sympathetic heart." "Yes, ma'am," replied Floyd; "that is my weakness." "Don't call it a weakness! It does you credit." Mr. Floyd exchanged a sly glance of complacency with Abner Trimble, who was pleased that his agent got off so creditably. He had evidently produced a good impression on Mrs. Trimble. "You see, my dear," he said, gently, "that there can be no doubt about poor Edward's death. I have thought, under the circumstances, that you would feel like making a will, and seeing that I was suitably provided for. As matters stand your property would go to distant cousins, and second cousins at that, while I would be left out in the cold. "I know, of course, that you are younger than myself and likely to outlive me, but still, life is uncertain. I don't care much for money, but I wouldn't like to die destitute, and so I asked Mr. Coleman, the lawyer, to come round. I think I hear his ring now. Will you see him?" "Yes, if you wish it. I care very little what becomes of the property now my boy is no more." Mr. Trimble went downstairs, and returned with a very respectable-looking man of middle age, whom he introduced as Mr. Coleman. _ |
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