Dick Hamilton's Cadet Days; Or, The Handicap of a Millionaire's Son Part 5

"Your son would be much older than that now; wouldn't he, Captain Handlee?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I think he must have been injured in some way, and forgotten his name. Otherwise he would have written to me. But I know another way in which you could recognize him."

"How?"

"He was the best shot in his company. He was a sharpshooter, and one of the finest. So if you can get track of a soldier, who is a good shot, that may be my son, Corporal Bill. Will you try?"

"I will, Captain, I'll do my best."

"G.o.d bless you," said the veteran fervently. "And now I'll leave you.

I'd let you take this photograph, only it's--it's all I have to remember--my son by," and his voice choked.

"I don't believe I'll need that," answered d.i.c.k. "I'll speak to Major Webster, and see what I can do."

The old soldier, murmuring his thanks, left the house.

"Well," mused d.i.c.k, as he went to his room, "I'll soon be at Kentfield.

It'll be lonesome, at first, I expect, but the cadets will soon arrive.

And I'll try to find the captain's son.

"I wonder how I'll make out with the cadets? I don't see why I should have any trouble making friends, or becoming popular, no matter if I am a millionaire, and the son of one. Money ought not to make such a difference. Still, as dad says, I may find it a handicap."

He looked around the room where he had spent so many pleasant hours. It was an ideal boy's apartment, with everything the most exacting youth could desire.

"I think I'll make out all right," d.i.c.k mused on. "But if worst comes to worst, I have a plan up my sleeve which I think will work." His eyes sparkled, and it was evident that he had just thought of some scheme.

"That ought to do it," he said, speaking half aloud. "If I can't win any other way, I'll try that."

"Well, d.i.c.k," remarked his father, the next morning, "I suppose you are all ready to go to Kentfield?"

"Yes. I've got everything packed. What will be your address on the other side?"

"Oh, yes, I must leave you that. Here it is. You can forward me letters in care of my London bankers, and they will see that I get them. I may have to put in some time on the continent. By the way, d.i.c.k, I hear that Captain Handlee called to see you last night."

"Yes, he wants me to help him locate his missing son," and d.i.c.k told his father of the interview with the old soldier.

"Poor man," remarked Mr. Hamilton, shaking his head, "I fear there is little hope for him. I once aided him in making some inquiries, but they came to nothing."

"Do you know him?"

"Oh, yes, I have often aided him, and I would do more for him, but he is too proud to accept charity. He is rather odd at times, and does not remain at any employment long, or I could give him a good place. His whole mind is set on finding his son. If the missing corporal could be located it would be the making of Captain Handlee, for he would settle down then."

"I don't suppose I can help him."

"No, I'm afraid not. Still, do all you can. It is barely possible that Major Webster, or some of the officers who are stationed at Kentfield, may be able to put you on the track, but I doubt it. Well, I think I'll have to go down to the bank now. I'll see you to-night, and say good-bye in the morning."

Not long after Mr. Hamilton had left, and while d.i.c.k was in his room, packing some of his belongings, a maid who was new in the house came to inform him that a visitor was in the library.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"I don't know, but it's someone, Master d.i.c.k, who your dog doesn't like, for he's growling something fierce."

"I'll come down," said the young millionaire, and he hurried to the library. As he entered a tall, thin man, with a curious little bunch of whiskers on his chin, arose.

"Well, I must say, Nephew Richard," he began, in a rasping voice, "that this is a nice reception for me. Your horrible beast nearly bit me. The house is no place for dogs."

"I'm sorry that Grit annoyed you, Uncle Ezra," said d.i.c.k as he recognized the miserly man whom he had once visited.

"Hum!" grunted the old man. "If I hadn't stood on a chair he would have bit me, and then I'd get hydrophobia, and die. Your father would have had to pay damages, too."

"I'm glad no such thing as that happened, Uncle Ezra."

"Hum! Where's your father?"

"Down to the bank. I can telephone, and let him know that you are here."

"It isn't necessary. No need of wearing out the wires that way. I can wait. I hear he has some foolish notion of sending you to a military school."

"I am going to a military academy, Uncle Ezra, in accordance with my mother's wishes."

"Stuff and nonsense! A wicked waste of money! The ordinary schools were good enough for me, and they ought to be good enough for you. It's a sinful waste of money. Mortimer Hamilton ought to be ashamed of himself.

The money ought to go to the heathen. It's foolish."

"My father doesn't think so," replied d.i.c.k as quietly as he could, though he was fast becoming angry at the dictatorial tone of his crabbed uncle.

"Hum! Much he knows about it! The idea of putting such ideas into boys'

heads as fighting and killing. Hu!"

"But it might be useful in case of war."

"Stuff and nonsense! It's positively wicked, I tell you. I've come to remonstrate with Mortimer about it. If he has to go to Europe, which is another waste of money, he could leave you with me. I'd bring you up in the way you should go. There's no nonsense about me, nor my wife, either. If your father consents to having you come to my place, you'll learn more than you would at any military academy. Stuff and nonsense!

Don't talk to me! I know!"

d.i.c.k could not repress a shudder as he thought of his uncle's gloomy home in Dankville, a house amid a clump of fir trees, so dark, so quiet and so lonesome that it reminded him of a vault in the cemetery.

"I think my father has made up his mind to send me to the military academy," said the boy.

"Well, perhaps I can make him change his mind. He doesn't know what's good for boys."

How Uncle Ezra Larabee could understand what lads needed, never having had any sons of his own, was more than d.i.c.k could fathom, but he said nothing.

"I'll wait and see your father," went on the crabbed man.

"I can get my automobile and take you to the bank," suggested d.i.c.k.

"No, you might burst a tire, and that would cost something to fix."

d.i.c.k could hardly repress a smile at the idea of a possible injured tire standing in the way of an auto ride.

"What's that girl walking back and forth so much for in the next room?"