The Boy Broker Part 12

CHAPTER X.

SOMETHING ABOUT HERBERT RANDOLPH.

Had our young hero been more wary, he would not have so easily fallen a victim to the deceit of the genial stranger whom he met on the Bowery.

He should have been more cautious, and less ready to a.s.sume friendly relations with a stranger. His lack of prudence in this respect was almost inexcusable, inasmuch as he had been warned by Bob Hunter to look out for himself. Moreover, his suspicions should have been excited by the two young fellows he saw on Wall Street, who appeared to be shadowing him.

But none of these prudential thoughts seemed to occur to young Randolph.

In Vermont, he spoke to every one with a frank, open confidence. He had always done so from his earliest recollections. Others in his locality did the same. Unrestrained social intercourse was the universal custom of the people. Habit is a great power in one's life. It guided our hero on this fatal night, and he talked freely and confidentially with his new acquaintance.

"Have you ever been in one of these Bowery museums?" asked the genial young man, after they had chatted for a little time.

"No, I have not," replied Herbert, in a hesitating manner that implied his desire to enter.

This young man was the same one whose boots Bob Hunter blackened when he was acting the detective, otherwise Peter Smartweed.

The latter smiled at the readiness with which young Randolph caught at the bait.

"Well, you have missed a treat," said he, with a.s.sumed surprise.

"I suppose so," replied Herbert, feeling that his education had been neglected.

"They have some wonderful curiosities in some of these museums,"

continued the young confidence scamp.

"So I should think, from the looks of these pictures."

"But this is the poorest museum on the Bowery. There are some great curiosities in some of them, and a regular show."

"Have you been in all of them?" asked Herbert.

"Oh, yes, dozens of times. Why, I can go into one of the museums whenever I like, without paying a cent, and it is the best one in New York."

"Can you?" said Herbert, with surprise. "I wish I could go in free."

"I can fix that for you all right," said Peter, magnanimously. "I often take a friend in with me."

"And it doesn't cost you anything?"

"No, not a cent. If you like, we will stroll down the Bowery, and drop in for a little while. By the way, I remember now that a new curiosity, a three headed woman, is on exhibition there."

"A three headed woman!" exclaimed Herbert; "she must be a wonderful sight!"

"So she is. Come on, let's go and see her. It is not down very far. You have nothing to do, I suppose?"

"No, only to pa.s.s the time away for an hour or so."

"Very well, then, you can't pa.s.s it in any more agreeable way than this, I am sure."

"You are very kind," replied Herbert, as they moved off in the direction of the supposed museum. He had no thought of danger, as he walked along with his new friend, happy in antic.i.p.ation of the pleasure before him.

Could he, however, have realized that he was the victim of a shrewd confidence game, that every step he now took was bringing him nearer to the trap that had been set for him by cruel, unscrupulous villains, how his whole being would have revolted against the presence of the unprincipled fellow beside him, who was now coolly leading him on to his ruin.

Presently they turned up a side street, and soon stopped before a low, ugly building.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A SURPRISE FOR FELIX MORTIMER.]

"The museum is on the next street," remarked young Smartweed, as he rang the bell three times. "We have to walk through this court, to reach it by the back pa.s.sage."

Still Herbert's suspicions slumbered.

And now the catch to the door was pulled back, and our unfortunate hero and his companion pa.s.sed in. The hallway was ominously dark. They groped their way forward till a second door was reached, and here the leader knocked three times, then paused for a moment and knocked once more.

After a brief interval three more knocks precisely like the first were given, and then the door opened.

The two stepped quickly into the room, and Herbert's arms were instantly seized by some one from behind the door, and drawn backward by an effort to fasten the wrists together behind him. Quicker than thought, young Randolph wrested his arms from the grip that was upon them, and, turning like a flash, planted a solid blow upon the jaw of his a.s.sailant--a blow which sent him, with a terrified yell, sprawling to the floor.

Then it was that he recognized, in the prostrate figure, Felix Mortimer, and a sickening sense of the awful truth dawned upon him. He was trapped!

The genial friend whom he had met on the Bowery now showed his real character, and before Herbert could further defend himself, he was pounced upon by him and a villainous looking man with a scraggy red beard and most repulsive features. They threw a thick black cloth over his head, and, after binding his hands firmly together, thrust him into a dark vault, or pen, in the cellar.

Our hero realized now most fully his helpless and defenseless position--a position that placed him entirely at the mercy of his enemies; if mercy in any degree dwelt in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the cruel band of outlaws in whose den he was now a prisoner.

CHAPTER XI.

IMPRISONED AT THE FENCE.

"This is a fine beginning to a city career--short but brilliant," said young Randolph to himself, bitterly, as he mused upon his deplorable situation.

"Fool that I was! It's all plain enough to me now," he continued, after a half hour's deep thought, in which he traced back, step by step, his experiences since landing in the big city. "I ought to have recognized him at once--the villain! He is the very fellow I saw across the street with his pal, as I left the bank. I thought he looked familiar, but I've seen so many people in this great town that I'm not surprised at my miss. Mighty bad miss, though; one that has placed me in a box trap, and under ground at that."

Herbert was right in his conclusions. The fellow who had so cleverly played the confidence game upon him was the same one who awaited his appearance in Wall Street, and afterwards shadowed him up Broadway.

"This must all be the work of that young villain Mortimer," continued Herbert, still reasoning on the subject. "I ought to have been sharper; Bob told me to look out for him. If I had had any sense, I could have seen that he meant to be revenged upon me. I knew it, and yet I didn't want to admit, even to myself, that I was at all uneasy. He must have been the same one that pointed me out to this confidence fellow on Wall Street. He was probably made up with false side whiskers and mustache, so that I wouldn't recognize him.

"Well," said he, starting up suddenly from his reverie, "how is all this reasoning about how I came to get into this trap going to help me to get out of it? That is what I want to know;" and he commenced exploring his dark, damp cell, in search of some clew that would aid him in solving the problem.

He was not alarmed about his personal safety. Up to this time, happily, no such thought had entered his mind. He sanguinely looked upon his imprisonment as merely temporary.

In this opinion, however, he erred greatly. The same rural credulity that made him the victim of Peter Smartweed, now led him to suppose that the unscrupulous rascals who held him a prisoner would soon release him. He looked upon the matter as simply one of revenge on the part of Mortimer. He little realized his true situation, and did not even dream of the actual significance of his imprisonment. He therefore felt a sense of genuine consolation when he thought of the well deserved blow he had delivered upon his enemy's jaw; and several times, as he prowled around the cell, he laughed heartily, thinking of Mortimer's ridiculous appearance as he lay stretched upon the floor.

Herbert Randolph was full of human nature, and human nature of the best sort--warm blooded, natural, sensible. There was nothing pale and attenuated about him. He was full of spirits, was manly, kind and generous, and yet he could appreciate heartily a point honorably gained on the enemy. Thus instead of giving himself up to despair and grief, he tried to derive all the comfort possible out of his situation.

His cell was dark as night. He could not see his own hands, and the dampness and musty odor, often noticeable in old cellars, added much to his discomfort. He found that the cell was made of strong three inch slats, securely bolted to thick timbers. These strips, or slats, were about three inches apart. The door was made in the same manner, and was fastened with a padlock. Altogether his cell was more like a cage than anything else; however, it seemed designed to hold him securely against all efforts to escape from his captors.

The door, as previously stated, was fastened by a padlock. Herbert learned this by putting his hands through the slats, and carefully going over every part of the fastening arrangement.