THOUGH I had not travelled much, I felt quite at home on the train. I was not troubled with any of that disagreeable quality called "greenness," for I had read the newspapers every day regularly for five years; and, through them, a person may know the world without seeing much of it. Besides, nearly all my schoolmates had come from places more or less distant; and, being of an inquiring mind, I had "pumped" many of them dry.
With what I had read, with what I had learned from pictures, maps, and diagrams, and with what my friends had told me while we were sailing in the Splash, I had a tolerably correct idea of the city of New York. I was very much surprised, when I arrived there, to find how familiar the streets were to me. I had pored for hours at a time over the street maps of the cities in Colton's Atlas; I had walked in imagination through the streets of London and Paris; and I had read the encyclopædia, and all the books of travel which came in my way.
After this course of study, I was not burdened with "greenness." I felt at home; and, though I looked with interest upon scenes and objects that were new to me, I did not keep my mouth wide open, or stare like an idiot. I take all this pains to prove that I was not green, because I had an especial horror of verdancy in general, and verdant boys in particular. I kept myself cool and self-possessed, and I was delighted to find that no one looked at me, or appeared to think I was ill at ease.
I was dressed in my best clothes, and though they were made by a provincial tailor, Parkville was progressive enough to boast of a genuine artist in this line. There was nothing about my companion, any more than myself, to attract attention. Doubtless most of the people thought we were brother and sister, or that some elderly gentleman and lady, seated in another part of the car, would claim us when we reached our destination. I suppose I thought of all these things because I feared that some one was looking at me, and because I had an especial dread of being noticed at that time.
Even Bob Hale, partial as he was, and sympathizing with me to the fullest extent, could not deny that I had been guilty of what he called "technical theft." In the very worst possible phase in which it could be viewed, I had robbed my uncle's safe of nearly fifteen hundred dollars, and I had the money in my pocket. I was liable, therefore, to be arrested at any moment when the intelligence of my constructive crime should be forwarded to the proper officers, or whenever a deputy sheriff from Parkville could overtake me.
My conscience did not then, and it does not now, accuse me of the crime of theft. That money was really mine, though, if it had been applied or invested by my legal trustee, in accordance with the law, and the last will of my father, I should have had no more right to touch it than if it had belonged to another person. My uncle and his graceless son were engaged in a scheme to rob me. The latter wished to destroy the will at once,—supposed it had already been done,—while the former, from simply prudential motives, preserved it. In his own words, he dared not burn it. He evidently kept it that it might open an avenue of escape in case his vicious plan miscarried. After I had been disposed of, sent off and had "lost the run" of my uncle, the document could be destroyed. I felt, therefore, that I was fully justified in using enough of the money, at least, to enable me to obtain justice.
It was nine o'clock in the evening when the train arrived at Albany. We could go no farther that night, and I felt the awkwardness of my situation. I did not like to go to a hotel with Kate Loraine; and, leaving her in the ladies' room at the railroad station, I looked about the premises till I found a respectable-looking baggage-master, whom I asked to direct me to a good boarding-house. He gave me the street and number of one he could recommend, and I called a carriage, which conveyed us to the place indicated. It was kept by a very worthy old lady, who fortunately had two vacant rooms, though she seemed to be suspicious, and hesitated about taking us.
"Who are you?" asked she, bluntly, as she surveyed me from head to foot.
"My name is Ernest Thornton. This young lady's name is Kate Loraine. She is going to her uncle's in New York. I was recommended to stop at your house, and I have money enough to pay for all we have," I replied, as squarely as I could speak, and telling as much of the truth as it was important for the old lady to know.
"How long do you want to stop?" she asked, apparently satisfied with my reply.