University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

THE ROBBERY.

—The Highwayman.

“Who the devil was the covey?” said the
ruffian who had fled when his comrade was
felled by Henry's blow, as they met again, in
a dark alley at the water's edge, where now
stands Quincy Market.

“Who was it? If you hadn't run away,
like a coward, you'd seen who it was. It
was Harry Fowler.”

“What could I do? half a dozen watchmen
singing out. But how came Fowler
out?”

“Hang me if I know. But I've tripped
up his heels at the store for him. But, look
you, Fred. If you ever catch me in such a
scrape again, blow me for a greeny.”

“But you proposed it, Dick.”

“Well, but how the blazes was I to know
the d—d fool would fight so?” Why, I
had to stick him in self-defence.”

“Heavens!” cried his companion, turning
pale, and seizing Martin's arm, “you didn't
murder him?”

“No, only let a little blood, and curse me
if I didn't lose my dirk, too. That Fowler's
arm is a young sledge.”

“But the man? did — did he recover.”

“Yes! don't stand there shaking. There
is no damage done. Only gi' me your hand
to thrash Fowler. His jig'll be up at the
store, soon.”

“But won't it be better to make him one
of us. D—n it, we can get him jugged.”

“Yes, and then have him peach. No, the
sneaking devil would as soon cut his own
throat as touch a cent of his master's money.
I've got a better train than that laid; ha, ha!”

“But how are we to make a raise? I'm
cleaned out, and owe Charley Minot a V.”

“Pay him?”

“When I pay my board-bill; ha, ha, ha!”

“But an't you going to try to get back to
old Billy's again?”

“No, by Jove! S'pose I'm going to be
store-sweep another year? No! can't we
make a raise? Look here, Dick, store open?
eh, my boy?”

Richard held up a key. “But what's the
use? nothing to be had; bank deposit.”

“None drawn this afternoon?”

“Yes, by hokey! I forgot. Fifteen hundred
dollars were put in the safe since bank-hours.”

Fred's eyes twinkled. “Can't we have
the handling?”

“No, d—n it—our coach is blocked there

—it's in the safe. But you got those skeleton
keys?”

“Had'em this fortnight.”

“Then it's done. Will you swear to
stick by me?”

“Yes!”

“Then we'll appropriate, and then we'll
off to New York. There'll be no staying
here; Fowler'll be suspected, and, d—n
him, he'll blow me!”

“Well, come on!”

“Give us your fist!” And the two emerged
from the alley, and stole along the water's
side till they reached Kilby street. They
crept round to the back entrance, and reconnoitred.
All was silent; the snow that
had fallen in the evening blocked up the
door, and Richard called out, “Fred, lend
us a hand to clear this.” The drift was
soon removed, and Martin unlocked the door.

“You hang on and keep watch; I'll go
in. Let's have the keys.”

Fred Johnson produced a bunch of delicate
keys, known as skeleton, and then, leaving
the door ajar, Richard entered the store.
Striking a light, he looked with a searching
gaze around the room. The rays fell upon
something beneath the door. Richard took
it up; it was Henry Fowler's letter.

The countenance of the false friend turned
pale as death, as he read the few lines. His
heart smote him for his injustice to the generous
Fowler; and the thought of all his fellow
orphan had done for him came at once
to his mind. He beheld him, in his mind's
vision, sustaining his own dying mother;
and he thought of the return he had made.
Richard was conscience-stricken. Had a
word from Henry's lips then come to his ear,
the springs of his hard heart had gushed.
He almost turned to leave the store, when
the voice of Fred. Johnson recalled him to
his former self.

“Be quick, Dick; it's most morning.

Richard opened the counting-room door,
and unlocked the safe. The money was
before him, and all thought of the wronged
Henry was banished.

“Ha, ha!” laughed he; “it's all the better.
There'll be no need of our sloping to-morrow.
Fowler'll have to bear the blame.
He's run away, and I've got his letter. Ho,
ho!”

“What the devil are you laughing at?”
cried Fred. Johnson, through the door.

“Who would'nt laugh—here's the article,”
said Martin. “Hurra! here's tin enough
for a spree,” cried he, exhibiting a roll of
bills.”

“Come, then! let's be off, and prepare for
our journey.”

“D—n it, Fred., you may go, but I'll
stay. I'll warrant you I'll get out of the
scrape. Come down to my room, and we'll
divide. You can streak if you wish, and I'll
make all right here. Come, softly!”

The promising couple closed the door, and
took their way, skulking along, till they
reached Richard's lodgings in Milk street.

Great was the wonder of the Abbot family
the next morning when Henry's seat at the
breakfast-table was vacant. The servants
knocked repeatedly at his chamber-door, but
there was no answer; and when the room
was entered, the bed was found unpressed.
Mr. Abbot knew not what to think. He
was fearful that some accident had befallen
the orphan; and he regretted his severity,
for in his heart he still thought him innocent.

With burried steps, the merchant walked
to his store. It was still unopened, and Mr.
Woodley, his partner, was at the door. They
entered together, and the merchant anxiously
inquired for Henry.

“I have not seen him since yesterday,”
was the reply.

“And Richard?”

“I have just despatched him to your house
for the keys.”

Mr. Abbot knew not what to say. He
seated himself, and took up the morning paper.
Suddenly a cry escaped his partner.
The merchant looked up, and beheld Mr.
Woodley standing pale and motionless before
the safe.

“The store has been entered. Fifteen
hundred dollars have been abstracted from
the safe.”

The paper fell from the merchant's hand.
At this moment Richard entered.

The quick eye of the clerk comprehended
at a glance the state of affairs. But his face
appeared unconscious, he trembled not, but
advanced towards Mr. Woodley.

“Richard, have you seen Henry?”

“Not since he left the store at half past
nine o'clock last night, sir.”

“What time!”

“Half past nine, sir.”

“Were you with him?”

“No, sir, He was locking the door, when
I happened to come along, and told me he
was going home.”

“You are sure of this, Richard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Woodley, we must look into this.
Prepare some advertisements for the newspapers,
and describe this boy's appearance.”

Mr. Woodley fixed his eye on Richard, for
the young clerk was no favorito with him,
while, on the contrary, Henry's quiet virtues
had made him universally beloved. But
there appeared in Martin's countenance nothing
but blank amazement.

“Richard, you need not spread this business.”

“May I ask, sir, what it is?”

“The safe has been entered, and money
taken.”

“But you do not suspect Henry, sir,” cried
Richard, turning an appealing look to Mr.
Abbot.

“I cannot do otherwise.”

“I do not believe—”

“But yet you informed me of his previous
peculations.”

“But---but---sir, Henry would not.”

“My boy, I am afraid he is guilty. But
at present we will look further into this matter.
Mr. Woodley, you had better lodge information
of this at the police office, and take
such other steps as you may deem advisable.”

Lucia felt unhappy all the morning. She
knew not why, but Henry's absence brought
a cloud over every object. And yet she said,
“He will return; he will be home to dinner.”

But dinner came, and her father, but no
Henry. And there was a frown on Mr.
Abbot's brow, and he met not her anxious
look with his usual smile. She went up to
him, and asked, “Where is Henry?”

“I know not—he is a scoundrel!”

Lucia let fall her father's hand, and uttered
a cry, while the good Mrs. Abbot dropped
the work which she was embroidering, and
raising her spectacles, looked with an inquiring
gaze at her husband.

“You are not speaking of Henry?” she
said.

“But I am. He has absconded with fifteen
hundred dollars.”

Mrs. Abbot gazed at her husband with an
incredulous expression, and shook her head.
Lucia burst into tears.

“Father, it isn't so; you do not mean it;
say, father.”

“Nay, child, it is true. He has been in
the habit of abstracting sums from the desk;
I discovered it, and spoke with him last
evening. Fearing punishment if he remained,
perhaps, he has disappeared, having entered
the store, last night, with false keys,
and stolen all that was in the safe.”

“This is a sad affair,” said Mrs. Abbot;
“he appeared so good, so—”

“It isn't true, mother; father has been
deceived; Henry could not do it!”

“My child! But how did you discover
that he had been dishonest?” asked Mrs
Abbot.

“It was his junior, Richard Martin, who
intimate it to me.”

“And have you no reason to doubt him?”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Lucia, “it's that
Richard; he hates Henry, I know. Oh,
father! Henry is not guilty; I know he is
not!”

“Lucia, you had better retire,” said her
father; “Henry is guilty.” Lucia, with
weeping eyes, went to her chamber.

“I was loth to think this of Henry,” said
the merchant to his wife. “I thought that
Richard might have been mistaken. I knew
not that he might not have some object. But
this last night's business has forced me to
believe him guilty. He was seen last night
to enter the store.”

“By whom?”

“Richard, and—”

Mrs. Abbot looked distrustful; “Richard
again?”

“The watchman, too, met Henry at midnight,
in the midst of the storm. He had a
packet in his hand, and appeared in great agitation.
All is against him.”

“And yet I doubt his guilt!” said Mrs.
Abbot.

Lucia was in her chamber, weeping bitterly

for her lost friend. Yet she said not, `I
doubt his guilt,' but “I know he is innocent.”

Henry was out on the broad sea, ten hours'
sail from Boston. Had he known the gentle
Lucia's thoughts, his heart had not been
sad!