JERRY’S JOURNEY.
The agent was satisfied that a mistake had been made in the name, and Jerry was of the same opinion.
While they were discussing what had better be done, Mowry unexpectedly entered the house. He looked thoroughly fatigued and worn out. In a few words he told his story of failure. They had found the cabin deserted. The rest of the party were scouring the neighborhood. Then the trapper had started back at once.
“Somethin’ hes scairt the rascals,” he declared, “an’ so they pulled out fur a safer hidin’-place. But I reckon the men will find ’em sooner or later. I thought I’d slip back with the news. How about the lawyer chap in New York? Did you git an answer?”
The telegram was read to him, and he scratched his head in a puzzled way.
“I don’t put no faith in these pesky things,” he said. “That there fifteen thousand dollars must be kept out of the hands of these derned rascals. I reckon thar’s time enough. It would take about a week fur the lawyer chap to make terms with Raikes, an’ get word across the ocean an’ back. I’ll bet Raikes is down thar in the city waitin’.”
“Very likely,” assented the agent. “If we had the lawyer’s right name we could soon reach him.”
“I don’t believe it,” exclaimed the trapper, in a scornful tone. “Telegraphin’ ain’t no account. Lad, you must go to New York by the fust train. I’ll foot the bills.”
“Me?” gasped Jerry. He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright.
“Sartin,” resumed Mowry. “You’re a bright lad, an’ I reckon you’ll know what to do. Go to this man Larkin’s house, or to his place of business. Some one will tell you where to find the lawyer.”
“Or you might get a city directory,” suggested the agent, who evidently favored the plan, “and look over the names that are like Glenwood.”
“Yes; and one of those is a good plan,” replied Jerry. “I’m willing to go, and I think I will succeed.”
“Thar ain’t no doubt about it,” declared the trapper. “You’re an extry bright lad, from what I’ve seed of you. An’, bein’ brought up in Bangor, I reckon New York won’t scare you. It’s a leetle bigger town, from what I’ve heard.”
Jerry and the agent smiled at each other.
“You must telegraph back what luck you have,” Mowry went on. “An’ when you’ve fixed things an’ hed Raikes arrested, you an’ the lawyer chap hed better come up here by the first train.”
“Unless the boys are rescued in the meantime,” added the agent. “We can let you know about that by wire. It’s barely possible that Raikes is on his way back, so I will have all the stations in this vicinity watched.”
“That’s a good idee,” approved the trapper. “He’ll likely come right to Kingman, since this is the nearest point to the cabin. While the lad’s in New York I’ll go up country ag’in, an’ see how them fellers are makin’ out with their hunt.”
After a further discussion of a few minutes, the matter was definitely settled. The agent brought his knowledge of the different railway lines into practical use, and the trapper produced the sum of fifty dollars from a dirty buckskin belt.
“That oughter last you, lad,” he said. “I reckon the lawyer chap will pay me back one o’ these days.”
There was a train westward at two o’clock that afternoon, and when it steamed away from the Kingman station Jerry was among its passengers. He waved his hand at Mowry and the agent as long as he could see them.
Then the boy settled down in the seat, and tried to realize the wonderful thing that had happened to him. He was actually on the way to New York—the great city that Brick had described in such glowing terms. Already the past seemed but a shadowy dream. Had he actually lived through those stirring adventures in the Maine woods?
By degrees his mind grew more composed, and he settled his thoughts on the object of his journey. He was quickly roused by the arrival of the train at Mattawamkeag. Here he purchased a ticket to Bangor, and made connection with another train on the Maine Central Railway.
Jerry reached Bangor at five o’clock. There was no time to stop and see his parents, for a southward-bound train was ready.
The long journey came to an end at last. It was nearly midday when the train rolled into the Grand Central depot at Forty-second street. Jerry got out and followed the jostling crowd to the street.
Jerry stood for five minutes, not knowing which way to turn or of whom to ask information. Passersby jostled him roughly, and a policeman made a warning gesture with his club. This frightened Jerry. He was about to retreat to the shelter of the depot, when a tall, well-dressed lad, with a handsome, refined face, suddenly caught him by the arm.
“By Jove! is this really you?” he exclaimed, joyfully.
Jerry looked up.
“Tom Fordham!” he gasped.
The other laughed.
“That’s who it is. I’m glad you knew me. I recognized you right away. I’m most awfully glad to see you, Jerry. But what under the sun brought you here? Hold on; come into the station. We can talk there.”
He led the way to a comparatively quiet spot, and Jerry, nothing loath, poured out the whole story. Never was there a more surprised lad than Tom.
“I can’t get over it,” he exclaimed. “The idea of Brick getting into such a scrape. But we’ll get him out, Jerry. It’s awfully lucky that I met you. I was going up to Yonkers to see a fellow, but I’ll drop that now. You see, it’s holiday time, and college don’t keep. I thought Brick would get you fellows to go into the woods with him. He promised to write to me, but he never did it. His running away made a big sensation. At first his guardian was mad about the money, and then he got worried, and——”
“You don’t mean to say that Brick ran away?” asked Jerry.
“Oh! didn’t you know it?” exclaimed Tom, in surprise. “I don’t suppose I ought to have said anything about it, then. But come on. I’ll take you downtown. Mr. Glendale is at dinner now. We’ll go to his office later on.”
So the two lads sallied out from the depot. What followed was like a fleeting panorama to Jerry, but it was a very dazzling and fascinating one.
At length, after a ride on the elevated road, they reached the City Hall. Through narrow Nassau street they walked, and then through to Broadway. Tom led his companion into a great stone building, many stories high.
The rode half-way to the top in an elevator. When it stopped, they got out and traversed a long corridor. At the further end was a glass door, and on this Jerry read:
“FREDERICK GLENDALE,
“Law Offices.”
Tom entered boldly, and Jerry followed.
The sole occupant of the front room was a young man who was bending over a typewriter.
“Hullo, Martin,” said Tom. “Mr. Glendale here?”
“No; he left town yesterday morning.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Somewhere up north, I think,” replied the clerk. “It’s private business. That’s all he said to me.”
“Can you tell me if there has been a fellow named Raikes here to see him this week?” Tom went on, eagerly.
“Yes; pretty nearly every day. His last visit was yesterday morning. I think he has something to do with Mr. Glendale’s journey. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Fordham?”
“Nothing,” said Tom. “Much obliged, Martin.”
He beckoned to Jerry, and they left the room. They did not speak until they were out on Broadway.
“Just a few hours too late,” exclaimed Tom. “But we’ll save the money yet. Now for the telegraph office. You must send a dispatch to Kingman. Then we’ll catch the first express train to Bangor. I’m going up there with you to help get Brick out of the scrape.”