Driven from Home: Carl Crawford's Experience

Stark’s disappointment.

Philip Stark went back to the hotel with the tin box under his arm.  He would like to have entered the hotel without notice, but this was impossible, for the landlord’s nephew was just closing up.  Though not late for the city, it was very late for the country, and he looked surprised when Stark came in.

“I am out late,” said Stark, with a smile.

“Yes.”

“That is, late for Milford.  In the city I never go to bed before midnight.”

“Have you been out walking?”

“Yes.”

“You found it rather dark, did you not?”

“It is dark as a pocket.”

“You couldn’t have found the walk a very pleasant one.”

“You are right, my friend; but I didn’t walk for pleasure.  The fact is, I am rather worried about a business matter.  I have learned that I am threatened with a heavy loss—­an unwise investment in the West—­and I wanted time to think it over and decide how to act.”

“I see,” answered the clerk, respectfully, for Stark’s words led him to think that his guest was a man of wealth.

“I wish I was rich enough to be worried by such a cause,” he said, jokingly.

“I wish you were.  Some time I may be able to throw something in your way.”

“Do you think it would pay me to go to the West?” asked the clerk, eagerly.

“I think it quite likely—­if you know some one out in that section.”

“But I don’t know anyone.”

“You know me,” said Stark, significantly.

“Do you think you could help me to a place, Mr. Stark?”

“I think I could.  A month from now write to me Col.  Philip Stark, at Denver, Colorado, and I will see if I can find an opening for you.”

“You are very kind, Mr.—­I mean Col.  Stark,” said the clerk, gratefully.

“Oh, never mind about the title,” returned Stark, smiling good-naturedly.  “I only gave it to you just now, because everybody in Denver knows me as a colonel, and I am afraid a letter otherwise addressed would not reach me.  By the way, I am sorry that I shall probably have to leave you to-morrow.”

“So soon?”

“Yes; it’s this tiresome business.  I should not wonder if I might lose ten thousand dollars through the folly of my agent.  I shall probably have to go out to right things.”

“I couldn’t afford to lose ten thousand dollars,” said the young man, regarding the capitalist before him with deference.

“No, I expect not.  At your age I wasn’t worth ten thousand cents.  Now—­but that’s neither here nor there.  Give me a light, please, and I will go up to bed.”

“He was about to say how much he is worth now,” soliloquized the clerk.  “I wish he had not stopped short.  If I can’t be rich myself, I like to talk with a rich man.  There’s hope for me, surely.  He says that at my age he was not worth ten thousand cents.  That is only a hundred dollars, and I am worth that.  I must keep it to pay my expenses to Colorado, if he should send for me in a few weeks.”

The young man had noticed with some curiosity the rather oddly-shaped bundle which Stark carried under his arm, but could not see his way clear to asking any questions about it.  It seemed queer that Stark should have it with him while walking.  Come to think of it, he remembered seeing him go out in the early evening, and he was quite confident that at that time he had no bundle with him.  However, he was influenced only by a spirit of idle curiosity.  He had no idea that the bundle was of any importance or value.  The next day he changed his opinion on that subject.

Phil Stark went up to his chamber, and setting the lamp on the bureau, first carefully locked the door, and then removed the paper from the tin box.  He eyed it lovingly, and tried one by one the keys he had in his pocket, but none exactly fitted.

As he was experimenting he thought with a smile of the night clerk from whom he had just parted.

“Stark,” he soliloquized, addressing himself, “you are an old humbug.  You have cleverly duped that unsophisticated young man downstairs.  He looks upon you as a man of unbounded wealth, evidently, while, as a matter of fact, you are almost strapped.  Let me see how much I have got left.”

He took out his wallet, and counted out seven dollars and thirty-eight cents.

“That can hardly be said to constitute wealth,” he reflected, “but it is all I have over and above the contents of this box.  That makes all the difference.  Gibbon is of opinion that there are four thousand dollars in bonds inside, and he expects me to give him half.  Shall I do it?  Not such a fool!  I’ll give him fifteen hundred and keep the balance myself.  That’ll pay him handsomely, and the rest will be a good nestegg for me.  If Gibbon is only half shrewd he will pull the wool over the eyes of that midget of an employer, and retain his place and comfortable salary.  There will be no evidence against him, and he can pose as an innocent man.  Bah! what a lot of humbug there is in the world.  Well, well, Stark, you have your share, no doubt.  Otherwise how would you make a living?  To-morrow I must clear out from Milford, and give it a wide berth in future.  I suppose there will be a great hue-and-cry about the robbery of the safe.  It will be just as well for me to be somewhere else.  I have already given the clerk a good reason for my sudden departure.  Confound it, it’s a great nuisance that I can’t open this box!  I would like to know before I go to bed just how much boodle I have acquired.  Then I can decide how much to give Gibbon.  If I dared I’d keep the whole, but he might make trouble.”

Phil Stark, or Col.  Philip Stark, as he had given his name, had a large supply of keys, but none of them seemed to fit the tin box.

“I am afraid I shall excite suspicion if I sit up any longer,” thought Stark.  “I will go to bed and get up early in the morning.  Then I may succeed better in opening this plaguy box.”

He removed his clothing and got into bed.  The evening had been rather an exciting one, but the excitement was a pleasurable one, for he had succeeded in the plan which he and the bookkeeper had so ingeniously formed and carried out, and here within reach was the rich reward after which they had striven.  Mr. Stark was not troubled with a conscience—­that he had got rid of years ago—­and he was filled with a comfortable consciousness of having retrieved his fortunes when they were on the wane.  So, in a short time he fell asleep, and slept peacefully.  Toward morning, however, he had a disquieting dream.  It seemed to him that he awoke suddenly from slumber and saw Gibbon leaving the room with the tin box under his arm.  He awoke really with beads of perspiration upon his brow—­awoke to see by the sun streaming in at his window that the morning was well advanced, and the tin box was still safe.

“Thank Heaven, it was but a dream!” he murmured.  “I must get up and try once more to open the box.”

The keys had all been tried, and had proved not to fit.  Mr. Stark was equal to the emergency.  He took from his pocket a button hook and bent it so as to make a pick, and after a little experimenting succeeded in turning the lock.  He lifted the lid eagerly, and with distended eyes prepared to gloat upon the stolen bonds.  But over his face there came a startling change.  The ashy blue hue of disappointment succeeded the glowing, hopeful look.  He snatched at one of the folded slips of paper and opened it.  Alas! it was valueless, mere waste paper.  He sank into a chair in a limp, hopeless posture, quite overwhelmed.  Then he sprang up suddenly, and his expression changed to one of fury and menace.

“If Julius Gibbon has played this trick upon me,” he said, between his set teeth, “he shall repent it—­bitterly!”