"Do you threaten me?" asked Squire Davenport, in alarm.

"Not at all; but I've got some business with you--some important
business."

"Then call to-morrow forenoon," said Davenport, anxious to get rid of
his ill-looking acquaintance.

"That won't do; I want to leave town tonight."

"That's nothing to me."

"It may be," said the tramp significantly.  "I want to speak to you
about the husband of the woman you called on to-night."

"The husband of Mrs. Barclay!  Why, he is dead!" ejaculated the
squire, in surprise.

"That is true.  Do you know whether he left any property?"

"No, I believe not."

"That's what I want to talk about.  You'd better see me to-night."

There was significance in the tone of the tramp, and Squire Davenport
looked at him searchingly.

"Why don't you go and see Mrs. Barclay about this matter?" he asked.

"I may, but I think you'd better see me first."

By this time they had reached the Squire's gate.

"Come in," he said briefly.

The squire led the way into a comfortable sitting room, and his rough
visitor followed him.  By the light of an astral lamp Squire Davenport
looked at him.

"Did I ever see you before?" he asked.

"Probably not."

"Then I don't see what business we can have together.  I am tired, and
wish to go to bed."

"I'll come to business at once, then.  When John Barclay died in
Chicago, a wallet was found in his pocket, and in that wallet was a
promissory note for a thousand dollars, signed by you.  I suppose you
have paid that sum to the widow?"

Squire Davenport was the picture of dismay.  He had meanly ignored the
note, with the intention of cheating Mrs. Barclay.  He had supposed it
was lost, yet here, after some years, appeared a man who knew of it.
As Mr. Barclay had been reticent about his business affairs, he had
never told his wife about having deposited this sum with Squire
Davenport, and of this fact the squire had meanly taken advantage.

"What proof have you of this strange and improbable story?" asked the
squire, after a nervous pause.

"The best of proof," answered the tramp promptly.  "The note was found
and is now in existence."

"Who holds it--that is, admitting for a moment the truth of your
story?"

"I do; it is in my pocket at this moment."

At this moment Tom Davenport opened the door of the apartment, and
stared in open-eyed amazement at his father's singular visitor.

"Leave the room, Tom," said his father hastily.  "This man is
consulting me on business."

"Is that your son, squire?" asked the tramp, with a familiar nod.
"He's quite a young swell."

"What business can my father have with such a cad?" thought Tom,
disgusted.

Tom was pleased, nevertheless, at being taken for "a young swell."




CHAPTER VIII
SQUIRE DAVENPORT'S FINANCIAL OPERATION


Squire Davenport was a thoroughly respectable man in the estimation of
the community.  That such a man was capable of defrauding a poor
widow, counting on her ignorance, would have plunged all his friends
and acquaintances into the profoundest amazement.

Yet this was precisely what the squire had done.

Mr. Barclay, who had prospered beyond his wife's knowledge, found
himself seven years before in possession of a thousand dollars in hard
cash.  Knowing that the squire had a better knowledge of suitable
investments than he, he went to him one day and asked advice.  Now,
the squire was fond of money.  When he saw the ample roll of bank
notes which his neighbor took from his wallet, he felt a desire to
possess them.  They would not be his, to be sure, but merely to have
them under his control seemed pleasant.  So he said:

"Friend Barclay, I should need time to consider that question.  Are
you in a hurry?"

"I should like to get the money out of my possession.  I might lose it
or have it stolen.  Besides, I don't want my wife to discover that I
have it."

"It might make her extravagant, perhaps," suggested the squire.

"No, I am not afraid of that; but I want some day to surprise her by
letting her see that I am a richer man than she thinks."

"Very judicious!  Then no one knows that you have the money?"

"No one; I keep my business to myself."

"You are a wise man.  I'll tell you what I will do, friend Barclay.
While I am not prepared to recommend any particular investment, I will
take the money and give you my note for it, agreeing to pay six per
cent. interest.  Of course I shall invest it in some way, and I may
gain or I may lose, but even if I do lose you will be safe, for you
will have my note, and will receive interest semi-annually."

The proposal struck Mr. Barclay quite favorably.

"I suppose I can have the money when I want it again?" he inquired.

"Oh, certainly!  I may require a month's notice to realize on
securities; but if I have the money in bank I won't even ask that."

"Then take the money, squire, and give me the note."

So, in less than five minutes, the money found its way into Squire
Davenport's strong box, and Mr. Barclay left the squire's presence
well satisfied with his note of hand in place of his roll of
greenbacks.

Nearly two years passed.  Interest was paid punctually three times,
and another payment was all but due when the unfortunate creditor died
in Chicago.  Then it was that a terrible temptation assailed Squire
Davenport.  No one knew of the trust his neighbor had reposed in
him--not even his wife.  Of course, if the note was found in his
pocket, all would be known.  But perhaps it would not be known.  In
that case, the thousand dollars and thirty dollars interest might be
retained without anyone being the wiser.

It is only fair to say that Squire Davenport's face flushed with shame
as the unworthy thought came to him, but still he did not banish it.
He thought the matter over, and the more he thought the more unwilling
he was to give up this sum, which all at once had become dearer to him
than all the rest of his possessions.

"I'll wait to see whether the note is found," he said to himself.  "Of
course, if it is, I will pay it--" That is, he would pay it if he
were obliged to do it.

Poor Barclay was buried in Chicago--it would have been too expensive
to bring on the body--and pretty soon it transpired that he had left
no property, except the modest cottage in which his widow and son
continued to live.

Poor Mrs. Barclay!  Everybody pitied her, and lamented her straitened
circumstances.  Squire Davenport kept silence, and thought, with
guilty joy, "They haven't found the note; I can keep the money, and no
one will be the wiser!"

How a rich man could have been guilty of such consummate meaness I
will not undertake to explain, but "the love of money is the root of
evil," and Squire Davenport had love of money in no common measure.

Five years passed.  Mrs. Barclay was obliged to mortgage her house to
obtain the means of living, and the very man who supplied her with the
money was the very man whom her husband had blindly trusted.  She
little dreamed that it was her own money he was doling out to her.

In fact, Squire Davenport himself had almost forgotten it.  He had
come to consider the thousand dollars and interest fully and
absolutely his own, and had no apprehension that his mean fraud would
ever be discovered.  Like a thunderbolt, then, came to him the
declaration of his unsavory visitor that the note was in existence,
and was in the hands of a man who meant to use it.  Smitten with
sudden panic, he stared in the face of the tramp.  But he was not
going to give up without a struggle.

"You are evidently trying to impose upon me," he said, mentally
bracing up.  "You wish to extort money from me."

"So I do," said the tramp quietly.

"Ha!  you admit it?" exclaimed the squire.

"Certainly; I wouldn't have taken the trouble to come here at great
expense and inconvenience if I hadn't been expecting to make some
money."

"Then you have come to the wrong person; I repeat it, you've come to
the wrong person!" said the squire, straightening his back and eying
his companion sternly.

"I begin to think I have," assented the visitor.

"Ha!  he weakens!" thought Squire Davenport.  "My good man, I
recommend you to turn over a new leaf, and seek to earn an honest
living, instead of trying to levy blackmail on men of means."

"An honest living!"  repeated the tramp, with a laugh.  "This advice
comes well from you."

Once more the squire felt uncomfortable and apprehensive.

"I don't understand you," he said irritably.  "However, as you
yourself admit, you have come to the wrong person."

"Just so," said the visitor, rising.  "I now go to the right person."

"What do you mean?" asked Squire Davenport, in alarm.

"I mean that I ought to have gone to Mrs. Barclay."

"Sit down, sit down!" said the squire nervously.  "You mustn't do
that."

"Why not?" demanded the tramp, looking him calmly in the face.

"Because it would disturb her mind, and excite erroneous thoughts and
expectations."

"She would probably be willing to give me a good sum for bringing it
to her, say, the overdue interest.  That alone, in five years and a
half, would amount to over three hundred dollars, even without
compounding."

Squire Davenport groaned in spirit.  It was indeed true!  He must pay
away over thirteen hundred dollars, and his loss in reputation would
be even greater than his loss of money.

"Can't we compromise this thing?" he stammered.  "I don't admit the
genuineness of the note, but if such a claim were made, it would
seriously annoy me.  I am willing to give you, say, fifty dollars, if
you will deliver up the pretended note."

"It won't do, squire.  Fifty dollars won't do!  I won't take a cent
less than two hundred, and that is only about half the interest you
would have to pay."

"You speak as if the note were genuine," said the squire
uncomfortably.

"You know whether it is or not," said the tramp significantly.  "At
any rate, we won't talk about that.  You know my terms."

In the end Squire Davenport paid over two hundred dollars, and
received back the note, which after a hasty examination, he threw into
the fire.

"Now," he said roughly, "get out of my house, you--forger."

"Good-evening, squire," said the tramp, laughing and nodding to the
discomfited squire.  "We may meet again, some time."

"If you come here again, I will set the dog on you."

"So much the worse for the dog!  Well, good-night!  I have enjoyed my
interview--hope you have."

"Impudent scoundrel!" said the squire to himself.  "I hope he will
swing some day!"

But, as he thought over what had happened, he found comfort in the
thought that the secret was at last safe.  The note was burned, and
could never reappear in judgment against him.  Certainly, he got off
cheap.

"Well," thought the tramp as he strode away from the squire's mansion,
"this has been a profitable evening.  I have two hundred dollars in my
pocket, and--I still have a hold on the rascal.  If he had only
examined the note before burning it, he might have made a discovery!"




CHAPTER IX
A PROSPECT OF TROUBLE


When Ben returned home from the Town Hall he discovered, at the first
glance, that his mother was in trouble.

"Are you disturbed because I came home so late?" asked Ben.  "I would
have been here sooner, but I went home with Rose Gardiner.  I ought to
have remembered that you might feel lonely."

Mrs. Barclay smiled faintly.

"I had no occasion to feel lonely," she said.  "I had three callers.
The last did not go away till after nine o'clock."

"I am glad you were not alone, mother," said Ben, thinking some of his
mother's neighbors might have called.

"I should rather have been alone, Ben.  They brought bad news--that
is, one of them did."

"Who was it, mother?  Who called on you?"

"The first one was the same man who took your money in the woods."

"What, the tramp!" exclaimed Ben hastily.  "Did he frighten you?"

"A little, at first, but he did me no harm.  He asked for some supper,
and I gave it to him."

"What bad news did he bring?"

"None.  It was not he.  On the other hand, what he hinted would be
good news if it were true.  He said that your father left property,
and that he was the only man that possessed the secret."

"Do you think this can be so?" said Ben, looking at his mother in
surprise.

"I don't know what to think.  He said he was a barkeeper in the hotel
where your poor father died, and was about to say more when a knock
was heard at the door, and he hurried away, as if in fear of
encountering somebody."

"And he did not come back?"

"No."

"That is strange," said Ben thoughtfully.  "Do you know, mother, I met
him on my way home, or rather, he came up behind me and tapped me on
the shoulder."

"What did be say?" asked Mrs. Barclay eagerly.

"He gave me back the bogus dollar he took from me saying, with a
laugh, that it would be of no use to him.  Then he said he might do me
a service sometime, and I would some day hear from him."

"Ben, I think that man took the papers from the pocket of your dying
father, and has them now in his possession.  He promised to sell me a
secret for money, but I told him I had none to give."

"I wish we could see him again, but he said he should leave town
to-night.  But, mother, what was the bad news you spoke of?"

"Ben, I am afraid we are going to lose our home," said the widow, the
look of trouble returning to her face.

"What do you mean, mother?"

"You know that Squire Davenport has a mortgage on the place for seven
hundred dollars; he was here to-night with a man named Kirk, some
connection of his wife.  It seems Kirk is coming to Pentonville to
live, and wants this house."

"He will have to want it, mother," said Ben stoutly.

"Not if the squire backs him as he does; he threatens to foreclose the
mortgage if I don't sell."

Ben comprehended the situation now, and appreciated its gravity.

"What does he offer, Mother?"

"A thousand dollars only--perhaps a little more."

"Why that would be downright robbery."

"Not in the eye of the law.  Ben, we are in the power of Squire
Davenport, and he is a hard man."

"I would like to give him a piece of my mind, mother.  He might be in
better business than robbing you of your house."

"Do nothing hastily, Ben.  There is only one thing that we can do to
save the house, and that is, to induce someone to advance the money
necessary to take up the mortgage."

"Can you think of anybody who would do it?"

Mrs. Barclay shook her head.

"There is no one in Pentonville who would be willing, and has the
money," she said.  "I have a rich cousin in New York, but I have not
met him since I was married; he thought a great deal of me once, but I
suppose he scarcely remembers me now.  He lived, when I last heard of
him, on Lexington Avenue, and his name is Absalom Peters."

"And he is rich?"

"Yes, very rich, I believe."

"I have a great mind to ask for a day's vacation from Mr. Crawford,
and go to New York to see him."

"I am afraid it would do no good."

"It would do no harm, except that it would cost something for
traveling expenses.  But I would go as economically as possible.  Have
I your permission, mother?"

"You can do as you like, Ben; I won't forbid you, though I have little
hope of its doing any good."

"Then I will try and get away Monday.  To-morrow is Saturday, and I
can't be spared at the store; there is always more doing, you know, on
Saturday than any other day."

"I don't feel like giving any advice, Ben.  Do as you please."

The next day, on his way home to dinner, Ben met his young rival of
the evening previous, Tom Davenport.

"How are you, Tom?" said Ben, nodding.

"I want to speak to you, Ben Barclay," said the young aristocrat,
pausing in his walk.

"Go ahead!  I'm listening," said Ben.

Tom was rather annoyed at the want of respect which, in his opinion,
Ben showed him, but hardly knew how to express his objections, so he
came at once to the business in hand.

"You'd better not hang around Rose Gardiner so much," he said
superciliously.

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Ben quickly.

"You forced your attentions on her last evening at the Town Hall."

"Who told you so?"

"I saw it for myself."

"I thought Rose didn't tell you so."

"It must be disagreeable to her family to have a common grocer's boy
seen with her."

"It seems to me you take a great deal of interest in the matter, Tom
Davenport.  You talk as if you were the guardian of the young lady.  I
believe you wanted to go home with her yourself."

"It would have been far more suitable, but you had made her promise to
go with you."

"I would have released her from her promise at once, if she had
expressed a wish to that effect.  Now, I want to give you a piece of
advice."

"I don't want any of your advice," said Tom loftily.  "I don't want
any advice from a store boy."

"I'll give it to you all the same.  You can make money by minding your
own business."

"You are impudent!" said Tom, flushing with anger.  "I've got
something more to tell you.  You'll be out on the sidewalk before
three months are over.  Father is going to foreclose the mortgage on
your house."

"That remains to be seen!" said Ben, but his heart sank within him as
he realized that the words would probably prove true.




CHAPTER X
BEN GOES TO NEW YORK


Pentonville was thirty-five miles distant from New York, and the fare
was a dollar, but an excursion ticket, carrying a passenger both ways,
was only a dollar and a half.  Ben calculated that his extra expenses,
including dinner, might amount to fifty cents, thus making the cost of
the trip two dollars.  This sum, small as it was, appeared large both
to Ben and his mother.  Some doubts about the expediency of the
journey suggested themselves to Mrs. Barclay.

"Do you think you had better go, Ben?" she said doubtfully.  "Two
dollars would buy you some new stockings and handkerchiefs."

"I will do without them, mother.  Something has got to be done, or we
shall be turned into the street when three months are up.  Squire
Davenport is a very selfish man, and he will care nothing for our
comfort or convenience."

"That is true," said the widow, with a sigh.  "If I thought your going
to New York would do any good, I would not grudge you the money--"

"Something will turn up, or I will turn up something," said Ben
confidently.

When he asked Mr. Crawford for a day off, the latter responded: "Yes,
Ben, I think I can spare you, as Monday is not a very busy day.  Would
you be willing to do an errand for me?"

"Certainly Mr. Crawford, with pleasure."

"I need a new supply of prints.  Go to Stackpole & Rogers, No. ----
White Street, and select me some attractive patterns.  I shall rely
upon your taste."

"Thank you, sir," said Ben, gratified by the compliment.

He received instructions as to price and quantity, which he carefully
noted down.

"As it will save me a journey, not to speak of my time, I am willing
to pay your fare one way."

"Thank you, sir; you are very kind."

Mr. Crawford took from the money drawer a dollar, and handed it to
Ben.

"But I buy an excursion ticket, so that my fare each way will be but
seventy-five cents."

"Never mind, the balance will go toward your dinner."

"There, mother, what do you say now?" said Ben, on Saturday night.
"Mr. Crawford is going to pay half my expenses, and I am going to buy
some goods for him."

"I am glad he reposes so much confidence in you, Ben.  I hope you
won't lose his money."

"Oh, I don't carry any.  He buys on thirty days.  All I have to do is
to select the goods."

"Perhaps it is for the best that you go, after all," said Mrs.
Barclay.  "At any rate, I hope so."

At half-past seven o'clock on Monday morning Ben stood on the platform
of the Pentonville station, awaiting the arrival of the train.

"Where are you going?" said a voice.

Ben, turning, saw that it was Tom Davenport who had spoken.

"I am going to New York," he answered briefly.

"Has Crawford discharged you?"

"Why do you ask?  Would you like to apply for the position?" asked Ben
coolly.

"Do you think I would condescend to be a grocer's boy?" returned Tom
disdainfully.

"I don't know."

"If I go into business it will be as a merchant."

"I am glad to hear it."

"You didn't say what you were going to New York for?"

"I have no objection to tell you, as you are anxious to know; I am
going to the city to buy goods."

Tom looked not only amazed, but incredulous.

"That's a likely story," said he, after a pause.

"It is a true story."

"Do you mean to say Crawford trusts you buy goods for him?"

"So it seems."

"He must be getting weak-headed."

"Suppose you call and give him that gratifying piece of information."

Just then the train came thundering up, and Ben jumped aboard.  Tom
Davenport looked after him with a puzzled glance.

"I wonder whether that boy tells the truth," he said to himself.  "He
thinks too much of himself, considering what he is."

It never occurred to Tom that the remark would apply even better to
him than the boy he was criticising.  As a rule we are the last to
recognize our own faults, however quick we may be to see the faults of
others.

Two hours later Ben stood in front of the large dry-goods jobbing
house of Stackpole & Rogers, in White Street.