Joe the Hotel Boy

ABOUT SOME MINING SHARES.

“How do you do, Mr. Ball?” said our hero, coolly.

“Eh, what’s that?” questioned Malone, in amazement.  Then he recognized Joe, and his face fell.

“I have often wondered what became of you,” went on our hero.  “Let me help you up.”

“I—­that is—­who are you, boy?” demanded Malone, getting to his feet and picking up his hat and his bundle.

“You ought to remember me.  I am Joe Bodley.  I used to work for Mr. Mallison, at Riverside.”

“Don’t know the man or the place,” said Pat Malone, coolly.  “You have made a mistake.”

“Then perhaps I had better call you Malone.”

“Not at all.  My name is Fry—­John Fry.”

“How often do you change your name, Mr. Fry.”

“Don’t get impudent!”

“I am not impudent,—­I am only asking a plain question.”

“I never change my name.”

At that moment Joe saw a policeman on the opposite side of the street and beckoned for the officer to come over.

“Hi! what’s the meaning of this!” ejaculated Pat Malone.

“Officer, I want this man locked up,” said Joe, and caught the rascal by the arm, that he might not run away.

“What’s the charge?” asked the bluecoat.

“He is wanted for swindling.”

“Boy, are you really crazy?”

“No, I am not.”

“Who are you?” asked the policeman, eyeing Joe sharply.

“My name is Joe Bodley.  I work at the Grandon House.  I will make a charge against this man, and I’ll bring the man who was swindled, too.”

“That’s fair talk,” said the policeman.  “I guess you’ll both have to go to the station with me.”

“I’m willing,” said Joe, promptly.

“I—­I cannot go—­I have a sick wife—­I must get a doctor,” stammered Pat Malone.  “Let me go.  The boy is mistaken.”

“You’ll have to go with me.”

“But my sick wife?”

“You can send for your friends and they can take care of her.”

“I have no friends—­we are strangers in Philadelphia.  I don’t want to go.”

Pat Malone tried to move on, but the policeman and Joe detained him, and in the end he was marched off to the police station.  Here Joe told what he knew and Malone’s record was looked up in the Rogues’ Gallery.

“You’ve got the right man, that’s sure,” said the desk sergeant to our hero.  “Now where can you find this Mr. Maurice Vane?”

“I have his address at the hotel,” answered our hero.  “If I can go I’ll get it and send Mr. Vane a telegram.”

“Bring the address here and we’ll communicate with Mr. Vane.”

Our hero agreed, and inside of half an hour a message was sent to Maurice Vane, notifying him of the fact that Pat Malone had been caught.  Mr. Vane had gone to New York on business, but came back to Philadelphia the next day.

When he saw that he was caught Pat Malone broke down utterly and made a full confession, telling in detail how the plot against Maurice Vane had been carried out.

“It was not my plan,” said he.  “Gaff Caven got the mining shares and he arranged the whole thing.”

“Where did you get the shares—­steal them?” demanded Maurice Vane, sharply.

“No, we didn’t steal them.  We bought them from an old miner for fifty dollars.  The miner is dead now.”

“Can you prove this?”

“Yes.”

“Then do so.”

“Why?”

“I don’t care to answer that question.  But if you can prove to me that you and Caven came by those shares honestly I won’t prosecute you, Malone.”

“I will prove it!” was the quick answer, and that very afternoon Pat Malone proved beyond a doubt that the shares had belonged to himself and Gaff Caven when they sold them to Maurice Vane.

“That is all I want of you,” said Maurice Vane.  “I shan’t appear against you, Malone.”

“Then those shares must be valuable after all?” queried the swindler.

“Perhaps they are.  I am having them looked up.  I am glad of this opportunity of proving that they are now my absolute property.”

“If Caven and I sold you good stocks we ought to be kicked full of holes,” grumbled Malone.

“That was your lookout, not mine,” returned Maurice Vane.  “Mind, I don’t say the shares are valuable.  But they may be, and if so I shall be satisfied with my bargain.”

“Humph! where do I come in?”

“You don’t come in at all—­and you don’t deserve to.”

“If I didn’t swindle you, you can’t have me held for swindling.”

“I don’t intend to have you held.  You can go for all I care.”

Maurice Vane explained the situation to the police authorities and that evening Pat Malone was allowed to go.  He threatened to have somebody sued for false imprisonment but the police laughed at him.

“Better not try it on, Malone,” said one officer.  “Remember, your picture is in our Rogues’ Gallery,” and then the rascal was glad enough to sneak away.  The next day he took a train to Baltimore, where, after an hour’s hunt, he found Gaff Caven.

“We made a fine mess of things,” he said, bitterly.  “A fine mess!”

“What are you talking about, Pat?” asked Caven.

“Do you remember the mining stocks we sold to Maurice Vane?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Well, he has got ’em yet.”

“All right, he can keep them.  We have his money too,” and Gaff Caven chuckled.

“I’d rather have the shares.”

“Eh?”

“I said I’d rather have the shares, Gaff.  We put our foot into it when we sold ’em.”

“Do you mean to say the shares are valuable?” demanded Gaff Caven.

“That’s the size of it.”

“Who told you this?”

“Nobody told me, but I can put two and two together as quick as anybody.”

“Well, explain.”

“I was in Philadelphia when I ran into that hotel boy, Joe Bodley.”

“What of that?”

“He had me arrested.  Then they sent for Mr. Maurice Vane, and Vane made me prove that the shares were really ours when we sold them to him.  I thought I’d go clear if I could prove that, so I went and did it.  Then Vane said he wouldn’t prosecute me, for the shares might be valuable after all.”

“But the mine is abandoned.”

“Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t.  I guess Mr. Maurice Vane knows what he is doing, and we were fools to sell out to him.”

“If that mine is valuable I’m going to have it!” cried Gaff Caven.  “He can have his money back!” and the rascal who had overreached himself began to pace the floor.

“Maybe he won’t take his money back.”

“Then I’ll claim the mine anyway, Pat—­and you must help me.”

“What can you do?”

“Go out to Montana, just as soon as the weather is fit, and relocate the mine.  If it’s any good we can find some fellows to help us hold it somehow.  I’m not going to let this slip into Maurice Vane’s hands without a struggle.”

“Talk is cheap, but it takes money to pay for railroad tickets,” went on Malone.

“I’ve got the dust, Pat.”

“Enough to fight Vane off if he should come West?”

“I think so.  I met a rich fellow last week and I got a loan of four thousand dollars.”

“Without security?” and Malone winked suggestively.

“Exactly.  Oh, he was a rich find,” answered Gaff Caven, and gave a short laugh.

“I’m willing to go anywhere.  I’m tired of things here.  It’s getting too warm for comfort.”

“Then let us start West next week—­after I can finish up a little business here.”

“I am willing.”

And so the two rascals arranged to do Maurice Vane out of what had become his lawful property.