IF I were to follow up my own inclinations I should much prefer to stay in the company of Brandon Tarr and of his two good friends, the honest, hearty old seaman, Caleb Wetherbee, and the jovial, philanthropic ship owner, Adoniram Pepper. And I feel sure that the reader, too, would much prefer to remain with them.
But, for the sake of better understanding that which is to follow, I shall be obliged for a short time to request the company of the reader in entirely different scenes, and among rather disreputable characters.
Mr. Alfred Weeks, who had been in receipt of so many favors in times past from the firm of Adoniram Pepper & Co., is the first person who will receive our attention.
Weeks was “an effect of a cause.” He was of the slums, his ancestry came from the slums; he was simply, by accident of education (compulsory education, by the way) once removed from the usual “gutter snipe” of the city streets.
Who his parents were, he could not, for the life of him, have told. I do not mean to suggest for an instant that Weeks was not to be pitied; but that he was deserving of pity I deny. He had been saved from the debasing influences of the reform school in his youth by a philanthropic gentleman (who might have been the twin of Adoniram Pepper), and sent to a Western State where he was clothed, fed, and educated by a kind hearted farmer, whom he repaid by theft and by finally running away.
Then he went from one thing to another, and from place to place, and you may be sure that neither his morals nor his habits improved during the progression. Finally at twenty-five, he drifted back to the metropolis, and quickly found his old level again—the slums. Here he likewise discovered many of the acquaintances of his youth, for he had been a boy of twelve when he had been sent West.
Among these old friends he was known as “Sneaky” (a very appropriate appellation, as we have seen), “Alfred Weeks” being the name given him by his Western benefactor. The fellow was a most accomplished hypocrite and it was by the exercise of this attribute that he had obtained the situation as Adoniram Pepper’s clerk, and kept it for ten years, despite many of his evil deeds coming to the knowledge of the shipping merchant.
Not one of the three persons who had been in the office that afternoon when his presence in the wardrobe was discovered, realized how thoroughly bad at heart Weeks was, or how dangerous an enemy they had made. Even Caleb Wetherbee did not fully recognize it.
But they had made an enemy, and within twenty-four hours that enemy was at work to undermine and thwart their plans.
Weeks had overheard enough of the story of the Silver Swan and her valuable cargo to make it an easy matter for him to decide on a line of action which might lead to his own benefit, as well as to the compassing of his much desired revenge.
He solaced his wounded feelings the evening after his dismissal from the ship owner’s office by a trip to his favorite resort—the Bowery Theater—where he again drank in the highly colored sentences and romantic tableaux of that great drama “The Buccaneer’s Bride.” Unfortunately, however, he was forced to remain standing during the play for obvious reasons; the seats of the theater were not cushioned.
The next forenoon he adorned himself in the height of Bowery style, and strolled down past the scene of his former labors and on toward that rendezvous known as the New England Hotel. He had his plans already mapped out, and the first thing to do was to join forces with Jim Leroyd, whom he knew very well by reputation, at least, as did a great many others among the denizens of lower New York.
But as he strolled along Water Street he discovered something which slightly changed his plans. Perhaps, to be exact, I should say that he discovered somebody.
On the opposite side of the thoroughfare was a weazen faced old man, with bowed shoulders, and not altogether steady feet. He was dressed in rusty black clothes of a pattern far remote from the present day.
Evidently he was quite confused by his surroundings and by the crowd which jostled him on the walk.
“What a chance for a ‘bunco man,’” exclaimed the festive Alfred, under his breath. “That’s country, sure enough. I wonder how it ever got here all alone,” and the philanthropic ex-clerk crossed the street at once and fell into the old man’s wake.
Despite his countrified manner, however, there was an air of shrewd, suspicious intelligence about the man of the rusty habiliments. Fortunately for the success of his further plans, Weeks did not seek to accost him at once.
Had he done so he would have aroused the countryman’s suspicions. The latter had come warned and forearmed against strangers who sought his acquaintance.
As they went along, the old man ahead and Weeks in the rear, the latter discovered that the countryman was seeking for something. He went along slowly, with his eyes fixed on the signs on either side, studying each new one as it came in view with apparent interest.
Finally he stopped on the corner of a cross street and looked about him at the rushing, hurried life in perplexity. Now was Mr. Week’s chance.
He strolled slowly along toward the old fellow, the only person without an apparent object, in that whole multitude.
As the ex-clerk expected, the countryman accosted him.
“Say, mister,” he said, in his harsh, cracked voice, which rose plainly above the noise of the street, “kin you tell me the whereabouts of the New England Hotel?”
“Whew!” thought Mr. Weeks. “Pretty shady locality for a respectable farmer. Wonder what the old fellow wants there?”
Then aloud he said:
“I’m going along there myself, sir; it is several blocks yet.”
“Wal, ’t seems ter me,” snarled the other, taking his place by the side of Weeks, “thet this ’ere street hain’t got no end, nor no numbers ter speak of. I looked in one o’ them things over at the hotel—a d’rectory I b’lieve the clerk called it—but I don’t see as it helped me any.”
“It’s pretty hard for a stranger to find his way about New York, that’s a fact.”
The old fellow flashed a sudden look at his companion, which was not lost on the sly Weeks. The farmer had “read up” on “bunco men” and their ways, and expected that the polite stranger would suggest showing him about the city a little.
But Weeks didn’t; he wasn’t that kind.
Finding that the fellow seemed totally uninterested as to whether he found his way about the metropolis or not, the countryman gained a little confidence in his new acquaintance.
“New York streets hain’t much like Providence streets,” he said. “Ye kin find yer way ’round them; but I defy any one ter know whether they’re goin’ straight here, or not.”
Mr. Weeks smiled and nodded, but let the other do most of the talking. He went on the principle that if you give a fool rope enough he’ll hang himself; and although the old fellow thought himself exceedingly shrewd, and took pains to dodge the real object of his visit to New York, in seeking to be pleasant to his new acquaintance he “gave the whole thing dead away,” as the astute Alfred mentally expressed it.
“Ye see,” said the old man. “I’m down here a-lookin for my nevvy, Brandon, who’s run away from me. Nothing else would ha’ got me down here right in the beginnin’ of the spring work.”
Weeks started slightly, but otherwise showed no signs of special interest; but as the old fellow ran on about the terrible state he expected his affairs would be in because of his absence, Mr. Alfred Weeks did some pretty tall thinking.
“Brandon is no common name,” so the ex-clerk communed with himself. “I bet there hasn’t been two Brandons come to New York within the past few days—both from Rhode Island, too.
“This is the old uncle I heard the young chap mention. He’s down here after the boy, eh? But I’m betting there’s something else behind it. Now, let’s see; what does he want at the New England Hotel?
“Leroyd, so young Tarr said, had been up to Rhode Island to see him.” Weeks thought, continuing his train of reasoning. “Passed himself off to him, at least, as old Wetherbee. Oh, Jim’s a keen one, he is! Now Leroyd’s at the hotel—at least, he has been. What is this old scarecrow going there for?
“There’s a great big rat in the toe of this stocking,” Mr. Weeks assured himself. “This uncle is an old scamp, that’s my opinion.” (Mr. Weeks knew a scamp when he saw one—excepting when he looked in the glass.) “I’d wager a good deal that he and Jim understand each other pretty well.
“Probably Jim has let the old fellow into the fact that there’s treasure aboard that brig, hoping to get him to back him in an attempt to find it. By the cast in the old man’s eye, I reckon he’s always on the lookout for the almighty dollar. Now, he and Jim are going to try and hitch horses together, I bet. And am I in this? I betcher! with both feet!”
With this elegant expression, Mr. Weeks drew up before the uninviting resort known as the New England Hotel.