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.
is 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.