Frank did not know what to do, and before he could make up his mind the train was out of sight, on its way to New York. Our hero scratched his head in perplexity.
“If it was really Gabe Flecker I ought to have him arrested. But if I telegraph ahead and it is all a mistake what will I do then?” And as he could not answer the latter question, he determined to do nothing.
In the meantime, totally unconscious of the fact that he had been recognized, Gabe Flecker sat back in his seat enjoying an Havana cigar. As the reader already knows he was one of that large class of men, who, having no ostensible means of support, are compelled to live “by their wits.”
Funds were growing low with Gabe Flecker. The money he had raised upon Sinclair Basswood’s autograph was practically gone and so far no new scheme for raising more had materialized.
He had spent all of the funds in “having a good time,” as he called it. Board bills remained unpaid, and why will be told in the pages to follow.
He was now stopping at a very fine private boarding house in Goshen, kept by a Mrs. Larkspur. He had come there with two trunks, which he had picked up at a bargain sale, and which contained only a few suits of old clothing of little or no value.
“I wish the best room in the house,” he had said, on introducing himself, and Mrs. Larkspur, impressed by his manner, had allowed him to have the second floor front, with board, at ten dollars per week. Gabe Flecker had now occupied the room for two weeks. As he had not yet given the landlady a cent of money she was beginning to grow anxious.
He had had several things sent to the house, for which she had paid, so he really owed her twenty-four dollars all told.
“I will present him with the bill to-night,” Mrs. Larkspur told herself, and wrote out the bill in due form.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Larkspur, a beautiful evening,” said Gabe Flecker, as he came into the house in the brisk fashion he could assume when necessary.