Brave Tom Or The Battle That Won Part 12

"Great Heavens, no! I don't want to hire any boy."

And so it went, hour after hour, until the future, which had looked so beautiful in the morning, gradually became overcast with clouds, and the poor lad was forced to stop and rest from sheer weariness.

He kept it up bravely till night, when he started on his return to his lodgings. He found on inquiry that he was several miles distant, his wanderings having covered more ground than he supposed. He had made over thirty applications, and in no instance had he received one grain of encouragement. In more than one case he had been insulted and ordered from the store, followed by the intimation that he was some runaway or thief.

No wonder that Tom felt discouraged and depressed in spirits as he rode homeward in the street-car. He was so wearied that he dropped down in one corner, where he soon fell asleep, not waking until he had gone fully two miles beyond the point where he should have left the vehicle. This sleep so mixed him up that it was nearly ten o'clock when he reached his hotel, as we may call it.

He was hopeful that Jim would have a better story to tell; but to his amazement, he found that his friend, despite the lateness of the hour, had not yet come back. A s.h.i.+ver of alarm pa.s.sed over Tom, for he was certain that some dreadful evil had befallen him.

Most likely he had been waylaid and killed in some of the hundred different ways which the police reports show are adopted by the a.s.sa.s.sins of New York in disposing of their victims.

Chapter X.

Tom's anxiety for his comrade drove all thought of sleep from his eyes for the time; and he sat long in the hot, smoky air of the room down-stairs, in the hope that Jim would come.

It seemed to the watcher that there was an unusually large number of visitors in the house that evening. There was a great deal of drinking and carousing going on, and many of the men gathered there, he was sure, belonged to the lowest grades of society.

A half-dozen foreign nations were represented, and one had but to listen to the talk for a short while to learn that among them were many whom one might well fear to meet on a lonely road at night.

Tom might have felt some dread but for the fact that, rather strangely, these men showed little disposition to engage in any brawl, and no one seemed to notice him.

Late in the evening a couple of policemen came in and waited a while around the stove. They only spoke to the bartender, who treated them with the greatest consideration; but they scrutinized the lad with a curious look, which caused him to wonder whether they held any suspicion of wrong-doing on his part. They said nothing to him, however, and shortly after went out.

Tom's great alarm for Jim drove nearly every other thought from his mind.

Late as it was, he would have started out to search for him, could he have formed the least idea of the course to take; but, besides being a stranger in the city, he knew that a single man or a hundred might spend weeks in hunting for one in the metropolis, without the least probability of finding him.

It was near midnight when he concluded to make his way to the room, hoping that Jim would show up before morning.

The sounds of revelry below, mingled with shouts and the stamping of feet, together with the feverish condition of the lad, kept him awake another hour; but at last he fell into a light, uneasy sleep, haunted by all sorts of grotesque, awful visions.

Suddenly he awoke; in the dim light of his little room Tom saw the figure of a man standing by the bed.

"Who are you? What do you want?" whispered the terrified lad, struggling to rise to a sitting position.

"Mebbe ye doesn't know me, but I'm Patsey McConough, and it was mesilf that saw ye shtrike out so boldly last night and save the gal that had fallen overboard, and St. Patrick himself couldn't have done it any better than did yersilf."

"What do you mean by coming into my room this way?" asked Tom, whose fear greatly subsided under the words of the Irishman.

"I come up-stairs to wake ye, for I'm afeard ye are going to have trouble onless ye look mighty sharp."

"What do you mean?"

Patsey carefully closed and bolted the door behind him, and sat down on the edge of the bed, speaking in a low, guarded voice.

"There's a big crowd down-stairs, and Tim's grog is getting to their heads, and they're riddy for any sort of a job. There are a couple of Italian cut-throats, and though I can't understand much of their lingo, yet I cotched enough of the same to make me sartin they mean to rob ye."

"But would they dare try it in the house here?"

"Whisht now, there isn't anything they wouldn't thry, if they thought there was a chance of making a ha'pence at it. They've murdered men afore to-night, and they would just as lief slip up here and cut your wizen as they would ate a piece of macaroni. Whisht now, and I'll give ye the partic'lars and inshtruct ye what to do. It wouldn't be safe for ye to git up and go out, for they'll folly ye and garrote ye afore ye could raich a safe place. I would stay here and watch with ye, but that I've overstayed me time alriddy, and I'll catch thunder whin I git back home, 'cause I can't make the boss belave the raison why I staid. Here's a pistol,"

added the Irishman, shoving a five-shooter into the hand of the astonished lad, "and ivery barrel is loaded, and it niver misses fire, as the victims can tell ye as have been hit by the same. Do ye take this, bolt yer door, and if anybody comes poking in the room after I'm gone, just bore a hole through him, and then ax him if he ain't ashamed of himself to steal into a private apartment in that shtyle. Take me word for it, he won't come agin."

"I should think not," said Tom, who was dressing himself. "But I don't like the idea of shooting a man."

"Nor do I, but it's loikely to be a chice between shooting him or him shooting ye, and ye are at liberty to decide."

And with a few parting words of caution the Irishman took his departure, first pausing long enough to advise Tom to change his quarters if he was spared until the morrow, and suggesting that the wisest thing he could do was to get out of New York as speedily as he knew how.

As may well be imagined, Tom Gordon was not likely to fall asleep again that night, so, having fully dressed himself, he sat down on the edge of the bed to wait and watch.

A small transom over his door admitted enough light to discern objects with sufficient distinctness in the room, and he carefully shoved the bolt in place, feeling he was prepared for any emergency.

Even with such an exciting subject to occupy his thoughts, he could not fail to wonder and fear for his missing friend. He prayed Heaven to watch over the boy's footsteps and to prevent his wandering into any danger, while the feeling that the poor fellow was already beyond all human help weighed down the heart of Tom like a mountain of lead.

This suspense did not continue long when the watchful lad heard some one ascending the stairs--an action which might mean nothing or a great deal.

The room occupied by the boy was along a narrow hall, perhaps fifty feet in length, the apartment being half that distance from the head of the stairs.

It seemed to Tom that there was an attempt to smother the sound made by the feet, which plainly belonged to two people, though the effort was far from being a success.

"They may be going to their own room, after all"--

The heart of the lad gave a great bound, for at that instant the footsteps paused directly in front of his own door, and he could hear the men muttering to each other in low tones.

"They're looking for me," was the conclusion of the boy, who grasped his pistol more rigidly, and rose to the standing posture.

"If they want me, all they've got to do is to take me."

What was the amazement of the youth to see at this moment, while his eyes were fixed upon the door, the iron bolt slowly move back, without, so far as he could see, the least human agency.

This was a house, indeed, in which such characters were given every facility they could wish to ply their unholy vocation.

Immediately after the fastening went back, the latch was lifted, and the door swung noiselessly inward.

As it did so, a head, covered only with a ma.s.s of shock hair, which hung down like pieces of tarred rope, and with the lower part of the face veiled by a black, stringy beard, was thrust far enough within to show the shoulders. Directly behind appeared another face, placed on a shorter body, but none the less repellant in expression, and the two were forcing their way into the room, when they paused.

They seemed to conclude that it would be best to consider the matter further before rus.h.i.+ng in there.

Instead of seeing a boy sound asleep in bed, waiting for them to rob him of all his earthly possessions, they found themselves confronted by a wide-awake lad, with his revolver pointed straight at their villainous heads.

"Why don't you come in?" asked Tom, never lowering his weapon.

"Put him down!" said the foremost of the villains, in broken English, hoping to frighten the lad.

"I don't feel like doing it just now," was the reply, while the arm remained as fixed as a bar of iron.