“I’m sorry for you, Tom,” he said. “How much do you owe for rent?”
“Two weeks now,” said Tom.
“How much is it a week?”
“Two dollars a week—that makes four.”
“Have you got anything towards it?”
“No; I’ve had to spend all my money for food for mother and the rest of us. I’ve had pretty hard work to do that. I don’t know what we’ll do. I haven’t any place to go to, and I’m afraid mother’ll get cold in her arm.”
“Can’t you borrow the money somewhere?” asked Dick.
Tom shook his head despondingly.
“All the people I know are as poor as I am,” said he. “They’d help me if they could, but it’s hard work for them to get along themselves.”
“I’ll tell you what, Tom,” said Dick, impulsively, “I’ll stand your friend.”
“Have you got any money?” asked Tom, doubtfully.
“Got any money!” repeated Dick. “Don’t you know that I run a bank on my own account? How much is it you need?”
“Four dollars,” said Tom. “If we don’t pay that before tomorrow night, out we go. You haven’t got as much as that, have you?”
“Here are three dollars,” said Dick, drawing out his pocketbook. “I’ll let you have the rest tomorrow, and maybe a little more.”
“You’re a right down good fellow, Dick,” said Tom; “but won’t you want it yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve got some more,” said Dick.
“Maybe I’ll never be able to pay you.”
“S’pose you don’t,” said Dick; “I guess I won’t fail.”
“I won’t forget it, Dick. I hope I’ll be able to do somethin’ for you sometime.”
“All right,” said Dick. “I’d ought to help you. I haven’t got no mother to look out for. I wish I had.”
There was a tinge of sadness in his tone, as he pronounced the last four words; but Dick’s temperament was sanguine, and he never gave way to unavailing sadness. Accordingly he began to whistle as he turned away, only adding, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Tom.”
The three dollars which Dick had handed to Tom Wilkins were his savings for the present week. It was now Thursday afternoon. His rent, which amounted to a dollar, he expected to save out of the earnings of Friday and Saturday. In order to give Tom the additional assistance he had promised, Dick would be obliged to have recourse to his bank-savings. He would not have ventured to trench upon it for any other reason but this. But he felt that it would be selfish to allow Tom and his mother to suffer when he had it in his power to relieve them. But Dick was destined to be surprised, and that in a disagreeable manner, when he reached home.
XXI
Dick Loses His Bankbook
It was hinted at the close of the last chapter that Dick was destined to be disagreeably surprised on reaching home.
Having agreed to give further assistance to Tom Wilkins, he was naturally led to go to the drawer where he and Fosdick kept their bankbooks. To his surprise and uneasiness the drawer proved to be empty!
“Come here a minute, Fosdick,” he said.
“What’s the matter, Dick?”
“I can’t find my bankbook, nor yours either. What’s ’come of them?”
“I took mine with me this morning, thinking I might want to put in a little more money. I’ve got it in my pocket, now.”
“But where’s mine?” asked Dick, perplexed.
“I don’t know. I saw it in the drawer when I took mine this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, positive, for I looked into it to see how much you had got.”
“Did you lock it again?” asked Dick.
“Yes; didn’t you have to unlock it just now?”
“So I did,” said Dick. “But it’s gone now. Somebody opened it with a key that fitted the lock, and then locked it ag’in.”
“That must have been the way.”
“It’s rather hard on a feller,” said Dick, who, for the first time since we became acquainted with him, began to feel downhearted.
“Don’t give it up, Dick. You haven’t lost the money, only the bankbook.”
“Ain’t that the same thing?”
“No. You can go to the bank tomorrow morning, as soon as it opens, and tell them you have lost the book, and ask them not to pay the money to anyone except yourself.”
“So I can,” said Dick, brightening up. “That is, if the thief hasn’t been to the bank today.”
“If he has, they might detect him by his handwriting.”
“I’d like to get hold of the one that stole it,” said Dick, indignantly. “I’d give him a good lickin’.”
“It must have been somebody in the house. Suppose we go and see Mrs. Mooney. She may know whether anybody came into our room today.”
The two boys went downstairs, and knocked at the door of a little back sitting-room where Mrs. Mooney generally spent her evenings. It was a shabby little room, with a threadbare carpet on the floor, the walls covered with a certain large-figured paper, patches of which had been stripped off here and there, exposing the plaster, the remainder being defaced by dirt and grease. But Mrs. Mooney had one of those comfortable temperaments which are tolerant of dirt, and didn’t mind it in the least. She was seated beside a small pine worktable, industriously engaged in mending stockings.
“Good evening, Mrs. Mooney,” said Fosdick, politely.
“Good evening,” said the landlady. “Sit down, if you can find chairs. I’m hard at work as you see, but a poor lone widder can’t afford to be idle.”
“We can’t stop long, Mrs. Mooney, but my friend here has had something taken from his room today, and we thought we’d come and see you about it.”
“What is it?” asked the landlady. “You don’t think I’d take anything? If I am poor, it’s an honest name I’ve always had, as all my lodgers can testify.”
“Certainly not, Mrs. Mooney; but there are others in the house that may not be honest. My
