Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World. Alger Horatio Jr.

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СКАЧАТЬ you know, perhaps, that I am my uncle’s heir?”

      “Don’t be too sure of that.”

      “Look here, fellow,” said Curtis, thoroughly provoked, “I don’t know who you are nor what you mean, but let me inform you that your presence here is an intrusion, and the sooner you leave the house the better!”

      “I will leave it when I get ready.”

      Curtis started to his feet, and advanced to his visitor with an air of menace.

      “Go at once,” he exclaimed, angrily, “or I will kick you out of the door!”

      “What’s the matter with the window?” returned the stranger, with an insolent leer.

      “That’s as you prefer, but if you don’t leave at once I will eject you.”

      By way of reply, the rough visitor coolly seated himself in a luxurious easy-chair, and, looking up into the angry face of Waring, said:

      “Oh, no, you won’t.”

      “And why not, may I ask?” said Curtis, with a feeling of uneasiness for which he could not account.

      “Why not? Because, in that case, I should seek an interview with your uncle, and tell him–”

      “What?”

      “That his son still lives; and that I can restore him to his–”

      The face of Curtis Waring blanched; he staggered as if he had been struck; and he cried out, hoarsely:

      “It is a lie!”

      “It is the truth, begging your pardon. Do you mind my smoking?” and he coolly produced a common clay pipe, filled and lighted it.

      “Who are you?” asked Curtis, scanning the man’s features with painful anxiety.

      “Have you forgotten Tim Bolton?”

      “Are you Tim Bolton?” faltered Curtis.

      “Yes; but you don’t seem glad to see me?”

      “I thought you were–”

      “In Australia. So I was three years since. Then I got homesick, and came back to New York.”

      “You have been here three years?”

      “Yes,” chuckled Bolton. “You didn’t suspect it, did you?”

      “Where?” asked Curtis, in a hollow voice.

      “I keep a saloon on the Bowery. There’s my card. Call around when convenient.”

      Curtis was about to throw the card into the grate, but on second thought dropped it into his pocket.

      “And the boy?” he asked, slowly.

      “Is alive and well. He hasn’t been starved. Though I dare say you wouldn’t have grieved if he had.”

      “And he is actually in this city?”

      “Just so.”

      “Does he know anything of—you know what I mean.”

      “He doesn’t know that he is the son of a rich man, and heir to the property which you look upon as yours. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

      “Yes. What is he doing? Is he at work?”

      “He helps me some in the saloon, sells papers in the evenings, and makes himself generally useful.”

      “Has he any education?”

      “Well, I haven’t sent him to boarding school or college,” answered Tim. “He don’t know no Greek, or Latin, or mathematics—phew, that’s a hard word. You didn’t tell me you wanted him made a scholar of.”

      “I didn’t. I wanted never to see or hear from him again. What made you bring him back to New York?”

      “Couldn’t keep away, governor. I got homesick, I did. There ain’t but one Bowery in the world, and I hankered after that–”

      “Didn’t I pay you money to keep away, Tim Bolton?”

      “I don’t deny it; but what’s three thousand dollars? Why, the kid’s cost me more than that. I’ve had the care of him for fourteen years, and it’s only about two hundred a year.”

      “You have broken your promise to me!” said Curtis, sternly.

      “There’s worse things than breaking your promise,” retorted Bolton.

      Scarcely had he spoken than a change came over his face, and he stared open-mouthed behind him and beyond Curtis.

      Startled himself, Curtis turned, and saw, with a feeling akin to dismay, the tall figure of his uncle standing on the threshold of the left portal, clad in a morning gown, with his eyes fixed inquiringly upon Bolton and himself.

      CHAPTER III.

      AN UNHOLY COMPACT

      “Who is that man, Curtis?” asked John Linden, pointing his thin finger at Tim Bolton, who looked strangely out of place, as, with clay pipe, he sat in the luxurious library on a sumptuous chair.

      “That man?” stammered Curtis, quite at a loss what to say.

      “Yes.”

      “He is a poor man out of luck, who has applied to me for assistance,” answered Curtis, recovering his wits.

      “That’s it, governor,” said Bolton, thinking it necessary to confirm the statement. “I’ve got five small children at home almost starvin’, your honor.”

      “That is sad. What is your business, my man?”

      It was Bolton’s turn to be embarrassed.

      “My business?” he repeated.

      “That is what I said.”

      “I’m a blacksmith, but I’m willing to do any honest work.”

      “That is commendable; but don’t you know that it is very ill-bred to smoke a pipe in a gentleman’s house?”

      “Excuse me, governor!”

      And Bolton extinguished his pipe, and put it away in a pocket of his corduroy coat.

      “I was just telling him the same thing,” said Curtis. “Don’t trouble yourself any further, uncle. I will inquire into the man’s circumstances, and help him if I can.”

      “Very well, Curtis. I came down because I thought I heard voices.”

      John Linden slowly returned to his chamber, and left the two alone.

      “The governor’s getting old,” said Bolton. “When I was butler here, fifteen years ago, he looked like a young man. He СКАЧАТЬ