University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE SEARCH.

On the seventh day of his wanderings, the
vagabond approached a large city. From afar
he beheld the serried roofs, the glittering domes,
the tall spires, the ascending smoke, by which
the populous town is distinguished at a distance.

The country was becoming more thickly inhabited,
and the turnpikes and macadamized
roads were more travelled than any highways
he had passed on his journey. There were no
longer any dense forests in view; but rising
houses and well-cultivated fields marked the

advance of civilization. The City seemed creeping
into the country at something more than a
snail's pace: already factories, shops, and stores
were scattered about, and a marked difference
in the manners and appearance of the people
indicated the proximity of the town.

The roar of the “great Babel,” faint at
first, grew louder and louder as the traveller
advanced; and at length he was in the
midst of hammers, the rattling and clattering
of vehicles, the sound of hoofs on the stony
pavements, the confusion and strife of the
city.

The vagabond mingled with the throng, and
went his way, unnoticed among the thousands,
who were all seeking their individual aims.
With a weary step he traversed many streets,
scarcely raising his downcast eyes, for he
seemed quite familiar with the ways of the
city into which he had journeyed; and at last
he entered an obscure court, in one of the
gloomiest quarters of the town.

Passing through the door of a low, wooden
house he found himself in a dilapidated,
scantily-furnished room, where a large, strong
woman was ironing linen.

“Well, Mrs. Coggs,” said the vagabond,
“I've got back. Here I am again!”

“You, Mr. Stripe!” exclaimed the woman,
looking around astonished. “Where did you
come from?”

The vagabond dropped his staff upon the
floor, and sank wearily on a chair.

“I've been looking for something to do,” he
sighed; “but I am no better off than before.
I've come to trouble you again. Give me a
drop of brandy.”

Observing how haggard the vagabond looked,
Mrs. Coggs hastened to empty a portion of the
contents of a dark bottle, which she took from
a cupboard, into a tumbler, and presented the
liquor, mixed with a small allowance of water,
to her old acquaintance.

The vagabond drained off the potation with
unseemly eagerness, and smacked his lips with
great satisfaction.

“God bless you, Mrs. Coggs!” he exclaimed
warmly. “This does my heart good! Ah! if
you could spare another drop — ”

“You ungrateful wretch!” muttered Mrs.
Coggs, carefully putting the bottle out of sight.
“Do you think I am going to furnish brandy

for you to get drunk on? I haven't forgot your
failings; and I wouldn't have given you a
drop if you hadn't looked so sick.”

“You are right,” replied Mr. Stripe, resting
his head upon his hands. “I know what a
weak, miserable fool I am! Don't give me any
more liquor — no, not if I pray for it on my
knees. I know what has been my ruin, and I
wish I might never see another glass of spirits.”

“Why don't you reform, then?” demanded
Mrs. Coggs.

“Reform! I can't. I wish I could. I have
not the strength to deny myself. Once I drank
to warm my heart — to drown trouble; and
now the appetite has become too strong for me.
Reform? Impossible!”

“Well,” said Mrs. Coggs, “what are you
going to do now? You know we can't keep
you for nothing. It's as much as Mr. Coggs
and I want to do to take care of ourselves and
children.”

“I'll work,” said the vagabond, “or I'll do
something to pay you. I always have paid
you, and you've no reason to distrust me now.
To-morrow I'll begin.”

And the weary man unceremoniously ascended

a creaking staircase, and entering a
miserable garret, lay down upon a hard, uncomfortable
bed.

A few days after his return to what he called
his home, the vagabond might have been seen
going about the city with a bundle of cheap
publications, which he offered for sale in hotels
and billiard rooms, at railway stations, and on
steamboats.

But Mr. Stripe's mind seldom appeared engrossed
in his money-making operations. He
seemed to have other objects in view besides
the sale of his books. Sometimes he straggled
among crowds of young men who frequented
places of dissipation, wandered about as if
looking for some one, and withdrew without
offering his wares for sale. Evenings, too,
with the old bundle of books under his arm, he
watched at the doors of theatres, and examined
the faces of the youth who entered and came
forth. Day after day he penetrated the haunts
of dissipation, lingered about bowling alleys,
biliard saloons, and pistol galleries, and visited
new places in every part of the city, selling a
few books during his wanderings, but frequently
forgetting that his bread, of which he enjoyed

but a pittance, depended upon his industry
and shrewdness.

Late one night, as Mr. Stripe was returning
home after a weary day of fruitless labor, he
met a figure in the street that attracted his attention.
He was a young man of medium stature,
well made, and rather foppishly dressed;
and as he passed a street lamp, the light revealed
a handsome, intelligent face.

The youth walked on rapidly. The vagabond
turned and followed him, and saw him
enter a fashionable house, the door of which
was opened by some person within.

For half an hour Mr. Stripe walked to and
fro before this house, or watched it from a
position on the opposite side of the street. At
length, when the streets were nearly deserted,
and he observed that a watchman regarded him
with a suspicious eye, he slowly withdrew from
the spot, and sauntered home.

On the following night he passed along the
same street at the same hour, met the same
youth, and followed him as before. The youth
entered the same house, and again Mr. Stripe
established a private watch at the door.

On this occasion he had no books with him,

and he was better dressed and more cleanly
shaved than he had appeared for many weeks.
Nobody seemed to look upon him with suspicion;
the watchman moved lazily by, without
noticing him; and he prepared himself for
a long watch.

The night wore on. The streets were silent
and almost deserted. Mr. Stripe walked to
and fro, frequently seeing no pedestrian, and
hearing no sound of life on either side. Once
there was a cry of fire not far off, and the bells
began to ring clamorously all over the city;
then the pavements echoed to the heavy footsteps
of firemen, who had sprung from their
beds in haste, and engines clattered along the
streets. Crowds swept past him in the direction
of the smoke and lurid glow, visible in a
distant quarter of the city. The noise subsided,
the bells ceased ringing, and silence followed;
and the vagabond was still a watcher
before that mysterious house.

The gray light of dawn was beginning to
steal over the city, when he saw a young man
come out of the house which was the object of
his vigil, followed by two or three more at
intervals. Neither of these was the youth he

had first seen go in. Others came forth and
went their way, some in sullen silence, and
with darkly-gathered brows; others with muttered
curses, and footsteps unsteady from the
effects of wine; a few with proud strides,
and faces radiant with satisfaction. Among
the last who came out was the youth who
appeared to be the object of so much interest.
He wore a cap, which was drawn over his
brow; but Mr. Stripe, whose keen eyes were
upon him, recognized him. He watched him
for a moment, half concealed under a doorway;
then, when the youth had turned down the
street, hastened forth and followed him at a
distance.

The young man passed through many streets,
in which the vagabond never lost sight of him,
and at last entered a third-class hotel.

In the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Stripe,
still greatly improved in personal appearance,
sauntered into the reading room of the public
house where he had last seen the youth in
whom he took so strange an interest. He
glanced his eye around the room, and not seeing
the person he sought, commenced turning
over the leaves of a file of newspapers. But

he had not long to wait. He saw the youth
enter, watched him narrowly as he threw himself
into a chair, and regarded him afterwards
with undisguised interest.

Perceiving that his strange manner was observed,
Mr. Stripe pretended to give his attention
to the newspapers for a few minutes, and
then silently withdrew. In front of the hotel,
however, he walked up and down the street,
until the young man, about half an hour after,
made his appearance.

The youth was gayly dressed, sported a
quantity of jewelry, and carried a cane. His
elegant appearance contrasted singularly with
the bent form and threadbare suit of the being
who watched him, followed him, and addressed
him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Stripe,
dropping his eyes, as the youth cast upon him a
haughty glance; “I have wanted to speak with
you on a subject which concerns you, and I
could think of no better way of introducing
myself.”

The young man regarded him with a patronizing
air.

“I saw you in the hotel, I believe?” said he,
coldly.

“Yes, I was going to speak with you there,
but I did not know your name; and what I
have to say, I presume you would not like to
have heard by those who know you.”

“I can't conceive what you can have to say
to me; but if any thing, let's hear it.”

“It concern's last night —”

“Last night!”

“Yes — where you were,” said Mr. Stripe,
significantly.

The youth changed color, and regarded the
vagabond more closely.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean that you are in danger,” replied
Mr. Stripe. “Too many know where and
how you spend your nights.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the youth, biting his lips
in perplexity. “You are not cheating me?
Come! we must not talk of this matter in the
street. Follow me.”

Mr. Stripe obeyed, and the youth led the
way to a coffee house, where they entered a
private room: the youth called for wine, and
inquired of Mr. Stripe what he would be pleased
to drink.

“Nothing!” exclaimed the vagabond, resolutely
— “nothing!”

“Not even a glass of sherry?” said the
other.

“Not a drop of spirits, thank you,” replied
Mr. Stripe, with a firmness of manner which
would have astonished Mrs. Coggs.

“Well, I won't urge you,” said the young
man. “You have your reasons, I suppose.”

“Good ones,” muttered his companion.
“Wine has been my worst enemy. It has
brought me down from a high estate of health,
respectability, and happiness.”

“My dear fellow, I beg your pardon; I
didn't intend to hurt your feelings,” replied
the youth. “Waiter, take away this bottle;
bring a couple of glasses of lemonade. Now,
sir, I will hear what you have to say to me.”