Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune by Jr. Horatio Alger (booksvooks txt) 📖

said Floyd, significantly.

“Take a glass of sarsaparilla, then.”

“Sarsaparilla!” repeated Floyd, contemptuously. “That’s only fit for children.”

“Lemon soda, then.”

“What’s the matter with whisky?”

“Are you a fool? Do you think Mrs. T. will believe your story if you come to her smelling of whisky?”

“You’re hard on me, Abner. Just one little glass.”

“You can put that off till afterward. Here, take some lemon soda, or I’ll mix you a glass of lemonade.”

“Well, if I must,” said Floyd, in a tone of resignation.

“You can have as much whisky as you like afterward.”

“Then the sooner we get over the job the better. I’m ready now.”

“Here, Tim, take my place,” said Abner Trimble, calling his barkeeper; “I’m going to the house for an hour. Now come along.”

Abner Trimble lived in a comfortable dwelling in the nicer portion of the city. It belonged to his wife when he married her, and he had simply taken up his residence in her house. He would have liked to have lived nearer the saloon, and had suggested this to his wife, but she was attached to her home and was unwilling to move.

Trimble ushered his visitor into the sitting room and went up to see his wife. She was sitting in an armchair in the room adjoining her chamber, looking pale and sorrowful.

“Well, Mary,” said Trimble, “I’ve brought Floyd along to answer any questions relating to poor Edward’s death.”

“Yes, I shall be glad to see him,” answered his wife, in a dull, spiritless tone.

“Shall I bring him up?”

“If you like.”

Trimble went to the landing and called out: “You can come up, Floyd.”

Floyd entered the room, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands. He was not used to society, and did not look forward with much pleasure to the interview which had been forced upon him.

“I hope I see you well, ma’am,” he said, bobbing his head.

“As well as I ever expect to be,” answered Mrs. Trimble, sadly. “Your name is——”

“Floyd, ma’am. Darius Floyd.”

“And you knew my poor son?”

“Yes, ma’am, I knew him well. Ed and I was regular cronies.”

Mrs. Trimble looked at the man before her, and was mildly surprised. Certainly Edward must have changed, or he would not keep such company. But, prejudiced against her son as she had been by her husband’s misrepresentations, she feared that this was only another proof of Edward’s moral decadence.

“You have been in New York recently?”

“Yes; I was there quite a while.”

“And you used to see Edward?”

“’Most every day, ma’am.”

“How was he employed?”

This was not a question to which Mr. Floyd had prepared an answer. He looked to Mr. Trimble as if for a suggestion, and the latter nodded impatiently, and shaped his mouth to mean “anything.”

“He was tendin’ a pool room, ma’am,” said Floyd, with what he thought a lucky inspiration. “He was tendin’ a pool room on Sixth Avenue.”

“He must indeed have changed to accept such employment. I hope he didn’t drink?”

“Not often, ma’am; just a glass of sarsaparilla or lemon soda. Them are my favorites.”

Abner Trimble turned aside to conceal a smile. He remembered Mr. Floyd’s objecting to the innocent beverages mentioned, and his decided preference for whisky.

“I am glad that he was not intemperate. You saw the accident?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please tell me once more what you can.”

“I took a boat down at the Battery to have a row one afternoon, when, after a while, I saw another boat comin’ out with three fellers into it. One of them was your son, Edward.”

“Did you know Edward’s companions?”

“Never saw them before in my life. They was about as old as he. Well, by and by one of them stood up in the boat. I surmise he had been drinkin’. Then, a minute afterward, I saw the boat upset, and the three was strugglin’ in the water.

“I didn’t take no interest in the others, but I wanted to save Edward, so I jumped into the water and made for him. That is, I thought I did. But it so happened in the confusion that I got hold of the wrong boy, and when I managed to get him on board my boat, I saw my mistake. It was too late to correct it—excuse my emotion, ma’am,” and Mr. Floyd drew a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes; “but when I looked out and couldn’t see either of the other young fellers, and realized that they were drowned, I felt awful bad.”

Mrs. Trimble put her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned. The picture drawn by Mr. Floyd was too much for her.

“I wish I could see the young man whose life you saved,” she said, after a pause, “Have you his name and address?”

“No, ma’am; he didn’t even thank me. I didn’t get even the price of a glass of—sarsaparilla out of him.”

Mr. Floyd came near saying whisky, but bethought himself in time.

“I have been much interested by your sad story, Mr. Floyd,” said the sorrow-stricken mother. “You seem to have a good and sympathetic heart.”

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Floyd; “that is my weakness.”

“Don’t call it a weakness! It does you credit.”

Mr. Floyd exchanged a sly glance of complacency with Abner Trimble, who was pleased that his agent got off so creditably. He had evidently produced a good impression on Mrs. Trimble.

“You see, my dear,” he said, gently, “that there can be no doubt about poor Edward’s death. I have thought, under the circumstances, that you would feel like making a will, and seeing that I was suitably provided for. As matters stand your property would go to distant cousins, and second cousins at that, while I would be left out in the cold.

“I know, of course, that you are younger than myself and likely to outlive me, but still, life is uncertain. I don’t care much for money, but I wouldn’t like to die destitute, and so I asked Mr. Coleman, the lawyer, to come round. I think I hear his ring now. Will you see him?”

“Yes, if you wish it. I care very little what becomes of the property now my boy is no more.”

Mr. Trimble went downstairs, and returned with a very respectable-looking man of middle age, whom he introduced as Mr. Coleman.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

MAKING A WILL.

“Mr. Coleman,” said Trimble, with suavity, “this is my wife, Mrs. Trimble.”

The lawyer bowed.

“I believe you wish to execute a will, Mrs. Trimble?” said he.

“Yes,” answered the poor mother, in a spiritless tone.

Various questions were asked in relation to the property, and then the lawyer seated himself at a table and wrote the formal part of the will.

“I understand you wish to leave the entire property to your husband?” he said, in a tone of inquiry.

“In the event of my son’s death,” interpolated Mrs. Trimble.

“But, my dear, he is dead,” said Abner Trimble, with a slight frown.

“I would prefer to have it expressed in this way.”

“I am sure,” continued Trimble, annoyed, “that Mr. Coleman will consider it unnecessary.”

“I see no objections to it,” said the lawyer. “Of course, the son being dead, it won’t count.”

“Mr. Coleman,” explained Mrs. Trimble, “I have no reason to doubt my poor son’s death, but I didn’t see him die, and there may have been a mistake.”

“How can there be?” demanded Trimble, impatiently. “Didn’t my friend Floyd see him drowned?”

“He may have been mistaken. Besides, he only says he did not see him after the boat upset. He may have been picked up by some other boat.”

For the first time Trimble and Floyd saw the flaw in the story, which had been invented by Trimble himself.

“Was there any boat near, Floyd?” asked Trimble, winking significantly.

“No, sir; not within a quarter of a mile.”

“Edward could swim. He may have reached one by swimming.”

This was news to Trimble. He had not been aware that his stepson could swim.

“Under the circumstances,” said the lawyer, “I think Mrs. Trimble is right.”

Trimble looked panic-stricken. Knowing that Edward Granger was still living he recognized the fact that such a will would do him no good.

“If he were alive he would let us know,” he said, after a pause.

“Probably he would.”

“So that we may conclude he is dead.”

“It might be stipulated that if the missing son does not appear within three years from the time the will is made he may be regarded as dead?” suggested the lawyer.

“One year would be sufficient, it seems to me,” put in Trimble.

“I would rather make it three,” said his wife.

Abner Trimble looked disappointed, but did not dare object.

The lawyer continued to write.

“I understand, then,” he observed, “that you bequeath all your estate to your husband, in the event of your son being decided to be dead.”

Mrs. Trimble paused to consider.

“I think,” she said, “I will leave the sum of five thousand dollars to charitable purposes as a memorial of Edward.”

“I don’t think much of charitable societies,” growled Trimble.

“Some of them do a great deal of good,” said the lawyer. “Are there any particular societies which you would wish to remember, Mrs. Trimble?”

“I leave the choice to my executor,” said the lady.

“Whom have you selected for that office?”

“Will you serve?” she asked.

“Then you don’t care to appoint Mr. Trimble?”

“No, I think not.”

“It is customary to appoint the husband, isn’t it, Mr. Coleman?” asked Abner.

“It is quite often done.”

“I would prefer you,” said Mrs. Trimble, decidedly.

“If it will ease your mind, I will take the office, Mrs. Trimble.”

“Now,” said the lawyer, after a brief interval; “I will read the draft of the will as I have written it, and you can see if it meets your views.”

He had about half completed reading the document when there was heard a sharp ring at the doorbell. Then there were steps on the stairs.

A terrible surprise was in store for Mrs. Trimble.

CHAPTER XL.

AN UNEXPECTED SURPRISE.

The door of the sitting room was opened quickly, and two boys dashed into the room. They were Edward Granger and Chester Rand.

Abner Trimble turned pale and uttered an imprecation. All his plans, so carefully laid, were menaced with ignominious defeat.

Floyd looked up in surprise, but did not comprehend the situation. In spite of the positive testimony he had given he did not even know Edward Granger by sight.

Mrs. Trimble uttered a wild cry, but her face lighted up with supreme joy.

“Edward!” she exclaimed, and half rising, opened her arms.

Her son sprang forward and embraced his mother.

“Oh, Edward!” she murmured, “are you really alive?”

“Very much alive, mother,” answered Edward, with a smile.

“And I was mourning you as dead! I thought I should never see you again.”

“I have not died that I am aware of, mother. Who told you I was dead?”

“Mr. Trimble and—this gentleman,” looking at Floyd. “He told me he saw you drowned in New York Bay.”

Edward regarded Floyd with curiosity.

“I haven’t any recollection of ever seeing the gentleman,” he said. “I don’t know him.”

“How do you explain this, Mr. Floyd?” asked Mrs. Trimble, suspiciously.

Floyd tried to speak, but faltered and stammered. He was in a very awkward position, and he realized it. Abner Trimble came to his assistance.

“You must have been mistaken, Floyd,” he said. “The young man you saw drowned must have been a stranger.”

“Yes,” returned Floyd, grasping the suggestion. “Of course I must have been mistaken. The young man I saw bore a wonderful resemblance to Mr. Granger.”

“How long is it since you saw me drowned, Mr. Floyd?” asked Edward.

“About three weeks,” answered Floyd, in an embarrassed tone.

“In New York Bay?”

“Yes. You were out in a boat with two other young fellows—that is, a young man who was the perfect image of you was. The boat upset, and all three were spilled out. I saved the life of one, but the others were, as I thought, drowned. I am sorry that I was mistaken.”

“Does that mean you are sorry I was not drowned?”

“No; I am sorry to have harrowed up your mother’s feelings by a story which proves to be untrue.”

“I suppose Mr. Trimble brought you here,” said Edward, quietly. He had in former days stood in fear of his stepfather, but now, backed up by Chester, he felt