“How much money was there in it?” asked Mrs. Mooney.
“Over a hundred dollars,” said Fosdick.
“It was my whole fortun’,” said Dick. “I was goin’ to buy a house next year.”
Mrs. Mooney was evidently surprised to learn the extent of Dick’s wealth, and was disposed to regard him with increased respect.
“Was the drawer locked?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then it couldn’t have been Bridget. I don’t think she has any keys.”
“She wouldn’t know what a bankbook was,” said Fosdick. “You didn’t see any of the lodgers go into our room today, did you?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was Jim Travis,” said Mrs. Mooney, suddenly.
This James Travis was a bartender in a low groggery in Mulberry Street, and had been for a few weeks an inmate of Mrs. Mooney’s lodging-house. He was a coarse-looking fellow who, from his appearance, evidently patronized liberally the liquor he dealt out to others. He occupied a room opposite Dick’s, and was often heard by the two boys reeling upstairs in a state of intoxication, uttering shocking oaths.
This Travis had made several friendly overtures to Dick and his roommate, and had invited them to call round at the barroom where he tended, and take something. But this invitation had never been accepted, partly because the boys were better engaged in the evening, and partly because neither of them had taken a fancy to Mr. Travis; which certainly was not strange, for nature had not gifted him with many charms, either of personal appearance or manners. The rejection of his friendly proffers had caused him to take a dislike to Dick and Henry, whom he considered stiff and unsocial.
“What makes you think it was Travis?” asked Fosdick. “He isn’t at home in the daytime.”
“But he was today. He said he had got a bad cold, and had to come home for a clean handkerchief.”
“Did you see him?” asked Dick.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney. “Bridget was hanging out clothes, and I went to the door to let him in.”
“I wonder if he had a key that would fit our drawer,” said Fosdick.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Mooney. “The bureaus in the two rooms are just alike. I got ’em at auction, and most likely the locks is the same.”
“It must have been he,” said Dick, looking towards Fosdick.
“Yes,” said Fosdick, “it looks like it.”
“What’s to be done? That’s what I’d like to know,” said Dick. “Of course he’ll say he hasn’t got it; and he won’t be such a fool as to leave it in his room.”
“If he hasn’t been to the bank, it’s all right,” said Fosdick. “You can go there the first thing tomorrow morning, and stop their paying any money on it.”
“But I can’t get any money on it myself,” said Dick. “I told Tom Wilkins I’d let him have some more money tomorrow, or his sick mother’ll have to turn out of their lodgin’s.”
“How much money were you going to give him?”
“I gave him three dollars today, and was goin’ to give him two dollars tomorrow.”
“I’ve got the money, Dick. I didn’t go to the bank this morning.”
“All right. I’ll take it, and pay you back next week.”
“No, Dick; if you’ve given three dollars, you must let me give two.”
“No, Fosdick, I’d rather give the whole. You know I’ve got more money than you. No, I haven’t, either,” said Dick, the memory of his loss flashing upon him. “I thought I was rich this morning, but now I’m in destitoot circumstances.”
“Cheer up, Dick; you’ll get your money back.”
“I hope so,” said our hero, rather ruefully.
The fact was, that our friend Dick was beginning to feel what is so often experienced by men who do business of a more important character and on a larger scale than he, the bitterness of a reverse of circumstances. With one hundred dollars and over carefully laid away in the savings bank, he had felt quite independent. Wealth is comparative, and Dick probably felt as rich as many men who are worth a hundred thousand dollars. He was beginning to feel the advantages of his steady self-denial, and to experience the pleasures of property. Not that Dick was likely to be unduly attached to money. Let it be said to his credit that it had never given him so much satisfaction as when it enabled him to help Tom Wilkins in his trouble.
Besides this, there was another thought that troubled him. When he obtained a place he could not expect to receive as much as he was now making from blacking boots—probably not more than three dollars a week—while his expenses without clothing would amount to four dollars. To make up the deficiency he had confidently relied upon his savings, which would be sufficient to carry him along for a year, if necessary. If he should not recover his money, he would be compelled to continue a bootblack for at least six months longer; and this was rather a discouraging reflection. On the whole it is not to be wondered at that Dick felt unusually sober this evening, and that neither of the boys felt much like studying.
The two boys consulted as to whether it would be best to speak to Travis about it. It was not altogether easy to decide. Fosdick was opposed to it.
“It will only put him on his guard,” said he, “and I don’t see as it will do any good. Of course he will deny it. We’d better keep quiet, and watch him, and, by giving notice at the bank, we can make sure that he doesn’t get any money on it. If he does present himself at the bank, they will know at once that he is a thief, and he can be arrested.”
This view seemed reasonable, and Dick resolved to adopt it. On the whole, he began to think prospects were brighter than he had at first supposed, and his spirits rose a little.
“How’d he know I had any
