The Errand Boy; Or, How Phil Brent Won Success by Jr. Horatio Alger (i like reading books .TXT) 📖

“We are only at the beginning of our perplexities, Philip,” said Mr. Carter. “Your friends may be near us, or they may be a hundred miles away.”

“That is true, sir.”

“One method of finding them is barred, that of advertising, since they undoubtedly do not care to be found, and an advertisement would only place them on their guard.”

“What would you advise, sir?”

“We might employ a detective to watch the post-office, but here again there might be disappointment. Mrs. Brent might employ a third person to call for her letters. However, I have faith to believe that sooner or later we shall find her. Time and patience accomplishes much.”

“Were you ever a detective, sir?” asked Phil, smiling.

“No, Philip, but I have had occasion to employ them. Now how would you like to go to the theater this evening?”

“Very much, sir.”

“There is a good play running at McVicker's Theatre. We will go there.”

“Anywhere will suit me, Mr. Carter.”

“Young people are easily satisfied,” he said. “When they get older they get more fastidious. However, there is generally something attractive at McVicker's.”

It so happened that Philip and his employer took a late dinner, and did not reach the theater till ten minutes after the hour. They had seats in the seventh row of orchestra chairs, a very eligible portion of the house.

The curtain had risen, and Philip's attention was given to the stage till the end of the first act. Then he began to look around him.

Suddenly he started and half rose from his seat.

“What is the matter, Philip?” asked Mr. Carter.

“There, sir! look there!” said the boy, in excitement, pointing to two persons in the fourth row in front.

“Do you recognize acquaintances, Philip?”

“It is my step-mother and Jonas,” answered Philip eagerly.

“It is, indeed, wonderful!” said Mr. Carter, sharing the boy's excitement. “You are confident, are you?”

“Oh, sir, I couldn't be mistaken about that.”

Just then Mrs. Brent turned to a gentleman at her side and spoke. It was Mr. Granville.

“Who is that gentleman?” said Mr. Carter reflectively. “Do you think Mrs. Brent is married again?”

“I don't know what to think!” said Philip, bewildered.

“I will tell you what to do. You cannot allow these people to elude you. Go to the hotel, ask a direction to the nearest detective office, have a man detailed to come here directly, and let him find, if necessary, where your step-mother and her son are living.”

Philip did so, and it was the close of the second act before he returned. With him was a small, quiet gentleman, of unpretending appearance, but skilled as a detective.

“Now,” continued Mr. Carter, “you may venture at any time to go forward and speak to your friends—if they can be called such.”

“I don't think they can, sir. I won't go till the last intermission.”

Phil was forestalled, however. At the close of the fourth act Jonas happened to look back, and his glance fell upon Philip.

A scared, dismayed look was on his face as he clutched his mother's arm and whispered:

“Ma, Philip is sitting just back of us.”

Mrs. Brent's heart almost ceased to beat. She saw that the moment of exposure was probably at hand.

With pale face she whispered:

“Has he seen us?”

“He is looking right at us.”

She had time to say no more. Philip left his seat, and coming forward, approached the seat of his step-mother.

“How do you do, Mrs. Brent?” he said.

She stared at him, but did not speak.

“How are you, Jonas?” continued our hero.

“My name isn't Jonas,” muttered the boy addressed.

Mr. Granville meanwhile had been eagerly looking at Philip. There appeared to be something in his appearance which riveted the attention of the beholder. Was it the voice of nature which spoke from the striking face of the boy?

“You have made a mistake, boy,” said Mrs. Brent, summoning all her nerve. “I am not the lady you mention, and this boy does not bear the name of Jonas.”

“What is his name, then?” demanded Philip.

“My name is Philip Granville,” answered Jonas quickly.

“Is it? Then it has changed suddenly,” answered Phil, in a sarcastic voice. “Six months ago, when we were all living at Planktown, your name was Jonas Webb.”

“You must be a lunatic!” said Mrs. Brent, with audacious falsehood.

“My own name is Philip, as you very well know.”

“Your name Philip?” exclaimed Mr. Granville, with an excitement which he found it hard to control.

“Yes, sir; the lady is my step-mother, and this boy is her son Jonas.”

“And you—whose son are you?” gasped Mr. Granville.

“I don't know, sir. I was left at an early age at a hotel kept by this lady's husband, by my father, who never returned.”

“Then YOU must be my son!” said Mr. Granville. “You and not this boy!”

“You, sir? Did you leave me?”

“I left my son with Mr. Brent. This lady led me to believe that the boy at my side was my son.”

Here, then, was a sudden and startling occurrence. Mrs. Brent fainted. The strain had been too much for her nerves, strong as they were. Of course she must be attended to.

“Come with me; I cannot lose sight of you now, MY SON!” said Mr. Granville. “Where are you staying?”

“At the Palmer House.”

“So am I. Will you be kind enough to order a carriage.”

Mrs. Brent was conveyed to the hotel, and Jonas followed sullenly.

Of course Philip, Mr. Granville and Mr. Carter left the theater.

Later the last three held a conference in the parlor.

It took little to convince Mr. Granville that Philip was his son.