Every Man for Himself

by Herbert Joseph Moorhouse

But is [Transcriber's note: it?] was not just chance that had brought him into this part of the country on his present expedition. It was the money hidden in the stump. McIvor was open for any sideline in dishonesty that gave promise of lucrative returns and his agent, Weiler, had been very busy in Toronto recently. Somebody had tipped J. C. Nickleby as to Podmore's underhand activities—Ferguson, the lawyer, Stiles thought; but was not sure—and Podmore had been watched closely and followed when he started West. Word had been passed to Red McIvor, who had lost no time in getting on the trail of this fifty-thousand-dollar pick-me-up, with the result that he had reached out a hairy arm, twisted his fingers in Mr. Podmore's coat-collar and calmly dispossessed him of the sealed envelope which he had recovered from the stump. The chase which had ended thus had not been prolonged, as the city man had been no match for the experienced woodsman in the latter's own environment.

When McIvor found that all he had for his efforts was a package of worthless stage money he was furious. He at once concluded that Podmore had tricked him and had hidden the real money. He trusted his eastern agent implicitly and neither Podmore's own blank surprise when the envelope was opened or his most desperate protestations could change McIvor's idea of the situation. Knowing the truth of the matter, Stiles had tried to save Podmore from the rough punishment meted out to him at McIvor's camp, but his net return for his efforts was abuse; he dare not reveal too close a connection with the envelope as his own position already was too precarious.

On the night following his luncheon with Kendrick Stiles had gone back to the office to finish some work. He was in the habit of working on the books at night occasionally. He had no sooner let himself in than he became aware of a heated discussion that was going on behind the ground-glass partition which separated Alderson's private office from the general office. One voice was Nickleby's; the other he did not recognize, but from the tenor of the remarks he felt sure that what was going on was of vital interest to his friends. Instead of turning on the light, therefore, he had crept close to the partition.

He soon knew that the man alone with Nickleby in that office was Harrington Rives, late of the penitentiary, and that Rives had known Nickleby in the past. In fact, Rives was calmly advising Nickleby to remember that the police had long memories, and that away down south in the States was a certain institution which would be glad at any time to welcome home a prodigal no matter how often he changed his name. After this remark Nickleby had cooled down very quickly, as if realizing that he was in Rives' power, and it was apparent to the eager youth in the outer office that the pair understood each other thoroughly. Judging by the clinking of glass and a certain recklessness of speech, both were drawing heavily upon Alderson's stock of liquid "office supplies."

Stiles had become so excited over his discovery that for the moment he had forgotten the danger of his own position. Accidentally he knocked his knee against the partition and the first thing he knew Nickleby and Rives came into the outer office on the run. They caught him just as he had reached the door.

When they realized that he had overheard their conversation his life had been in danger for an instant; for Nickleby was in a white-hot passion and would have choked him. But the ex-politician took the situation very coolly and dragged Nickleby loose somewhat roughly. There was no use in getting excited, he had advised calmly; there were other ways of taking care of this young man. Whereupon they had shut him inside the vault while they discussed the matter of his discreet disposal.

It was perhaps half an hour later that a closed cab had driven up the lane at the rear of the building. Two men were inside the vehicle, waiting for him. It was too dark for him to get a good look at them just then. They lost no time in tying a pocket-handkerchief around his ankles and blindfolding him with another. Rives and Nickleby remained behind at the office. Jimmy knew that his two custodians were "tough," if their talk and manner meant anything, and whenever he tried to speak to them they told him to "shut up or we'll knock your block off," following up the threat with sundry kicks and blows.

"There's your melodrama for you, Mr. Kendrick," Cristy could not resist interpolating, "closed cab and all."

They left the city and drove for most of the night along country roads. About dawn they reached their destination and when the bandage was removed Stiles found himself in an empty room that was so dusty and musty he came to the conclusion it was an empty house on some little travelled side road. As soon as it grew light enough to take an inventory of his surroundings Stiles went to the window, but could see nothing except hills, valleys and bushland. Not a single habitation was in sight. He found out later that the place was down near Stockton, somewhere back in Clam Creek Valley, many miles from the city; it was from the Stockton station that they afterwards boarded the train.

Food was brought in to him regularly three or four times by a toothless old woman who refused to talk. They watched him too closely for any attempt at escape, one of his guards remaining in the room all day.