“Brandon is no common name,” so the ex-clerk communed with himself. “I bet there hasn’t been two Brandons come to New York within the past few days—both from Rhode Island, too.
“This is the old uncle I heard the young chap mention. He’s down here after the boy, eh? But I’m betting there’s something else behind it. Now, let’s see; what does he want at the New England Hotel?
“Leroyd, so young Tarr said, had been up to Rhode Island to see him.” Weeks thought, continuing his train of reasoning. “Passed himself off to him, at least, as old Wetherbee. Oh, Jim’s a keen one, he is! Now Leroyd’s at the hotel—at least, he has been. What is this old scarecrow going there for?
“There’s a great big rat in the toe of this stocking,” Mr. Weeks assured himself. “This uncle is an old scamp, that’s my opinion.” (Mr. Weeks knew a scamp when he saw one—excepting when he looked in the glass.) “I’d wager a good deal that he and Jim understand each other pretty well.
“Probably Jim has let the old fellow into the fact that there’s treasure aboard that brig, hoping to get him to back him in an attempt to find it. By the cast in the old man’s eye, I reckon he’s always on the lookout for the almighty dollar. Now, he and Jim are going to try and hitch horses together, I bet. And am I in this? I betcher! with both feet!”
With this elegant expression, Mr. Weeks drew up before the uninviting resort known as the New England Hotel.
CHAPTER XXIII
MR. ALFRED WEEKS AT A CERTAIN CONFERENCE
“Here we are, mister,” said the ex-clerk; “see, there’s the sign—New England Hotel. Did you expect to find your runaway nephew here?”
“No-o,” replied old Arad Tarr, eying the place with a good deal of disfavor.
“See here,” said Weeks slowly, “I’ve been trying to remember whereabouts I’ve heard that name ‘Brandon’ before. It’s not a common name, you know.”