Kitobni o'qish: «Dave Porter and His Double: or, The Disapperarance of the Basswood Fortune», sahifa 3
CHAPTER V
WHAT ASA DICKLEY HAD TO SAY
Dave read the letter received from Mr. Asa Dickley with much interest. He went over it twice, and as he did so the second time his mind reverted to the communication received the morning before from Mr. Wecks.
“What in the world does Mr. Dickley mean by writing to me in this fashion?” he mused. “I haven’t had anything from him in a long while, and I don’t owe him a cent. It certainly is a mighty strange proceeding, to say the least.”
Then like a flash another thought came into his mind–was Ward Porton connected in any way with this affair?
“Somebody must have gotten some things in my name from Mr. Dickley, and he must have gotten those shoes from Mr. Wecks, too. If the party went there in person and said he was Dave Porter, I don’t think it could have been any one but Ward Porton, because, so far as I know, he’s the only fellow that resembles me.”
Our hero was so much worried that he gave scant attention to the letters received from Phil Lawrence and Shadow Hamilton, even though those communications contained many matters of interest. He was looking at the Dickley communication for a third time when his sister entered.
“Well, Dave, no more bad news I hope?” said Laura, with a smile.
“It is bad news,” he returned. “Just read that;” and he turned the letter over to her.
“If you owe Mr. Dickley any money you ought to pay him,” said the sister, after perusing the epistle. “I don’t think father would like it if he knew you were running into debt,” and she gazed anxiously at Dave.
“Laura! You ought to know me better than that,” he answered somewhat shortly. “I never run any bills unless I am able to pay them. But this is something different. It is in the same line with the one I got from Mr. Wecks. I didn’t get his shoes, and I haven’t gotten anything from Mr. Dickley for a long time, and nothing at all that I haven’t paid for.”
“Oh, Dave! do you mean it?” and now Laura’s face took on a look of worry. “Why, somebody must be playing a trick on you!”
“If he is, it’s a mighty mean trick, Laura. But I think it is more than a trick. I think it is a swindle.”
“Swindle?”
“Exactly. And what is more, do you know who I think is guilty?”
“Why, who could be guilty?” The sister paused for a moment to look at her brother. “Oh, Dave! could it be that awful Ward Porton?”
“That’s the fellow I fasten on. Didn’t we meet him in Clayton? And that’s only six miles from Coburntown. More than likely that rascal has been hanging around here, and maybe getting a whole lot of things in my name.” Dave began to pace the floor. “It’s a shame! If I could get hold of him I think I would have him locked up.”
“What are you going to do about this letter?”
“I’m going to go to Coburntown the first chance I get and tell Mr. Dickley, and also Mr. Wecks, the truth. I want to find out whether the party who got those things procured them in person or on some written order. If he got them on a written order, somebody must have forged my name.”
“Hadn’t you better tell father or Uncle Dunston about this?”
“Not just yet, Laura. It will be time enough to worry them after I have seen Mr. Wecks and Mr. Dickley. Perhaps I can settle the matter myself.”
Dave was so upset that it was hard for him to buckle down to his studies; and he was glad that evening when an interruption came in the shape of the arrival of his old school chum and fellow engineering student, Roger Morr.
“Back again! And right side up with care!” announced the senator’s son, as he came in and shook hands. “My! but I’ve had a busy time since I’ve been away!” he replied in answer to a question of Dave’s. “I had to settle up one or two things for father, and then I had to go on half a dozen different errands for mother, and then see to it that I got those new text books that Mr. Ramsdell spoke about. I got two copies of each, Dave, and here are those that are coming to you,” and he passed over three small volumes. “And that isn’t all. I just met Ben Basswood at the depot where he was sending a telegram to his father, who is in Chicago. Ben had some wonderful news to tell.”
“What was that?” asked Laura and Jessie simultaneously.
“He didn’t give me any of the particulars, but it seems an old friend of theirs died out in Chicago recently, and Mr. Basswood was sent for by some lawyers to help settle the estate.”
“Yes, we know that much,” broke in Dave. “But what’s the new news?”
“Why, it seems this man, Enos, died quite wealthy, and he left almost his entire estate to Mr. Basswood.”
“Is that so!” cried Dave. “That sure is fine! I don’t know of anybody who deserves money more than do the Basswoods,” and his face lit up with genuine pleasure.
“It will be nice for Ben,” said Jessie, “and even nicer for Mrs. Basswood. Mamma says there was a time when they were quite poor, and Mrs. Basswood had to do all her own work. Now they’ll be able to take it easy.”
“Oh, they are far from poor,” returned Dave. “They’ve been living on ‘Easy Street,’ as the saying goes, for a number of years. Just the same, it will be a fine thing for them to get this fortune.”
“There was one thing about the news that Ben didn’t understand,” continued Roger. “His father telegraphed that the estate was a decidedly curious one, and that was why the lawyers wanted him to come to Chicago immediately. He added that Mr. Enos had proved to be a very eccentric individual.”
“Maybe he was as eccentric as that man in Rhode Island I once read about,” said Dave, with a grin. “When he died he left an estate consisting of about twelve thousand ducks. This estate went to two worthless nephews, who knew nothing at all about their uncle’s business. And, as somebody said, the two nephews very soon made ‘ducks and drakes’ of the whole fortune.”
“Oh, what a story!” cried Jessie, laughing. “Twelve thousand ducks! What ever would a person do with them?”
“Why, some duck farms are very profitable,” returned Roger.
“You don’t suppose this Mr. Enos left such a fortune as that to Mr. Basswood?” queried Laura.
“I’m sure I don’t know what the fortune consists of. And neither did Ben. He was tremendously curious to know. And he said his mother could hardly wait until Mr. Basswood sent additional information,” replied Roger.
“Ben told me that this Mr. Enos was once a partner of his father in business, the two running an art store together. Enos was very much interested in art; so it’s possible the fortune he left may have something to do with that,” added Dave.
As my old readers know, Roger Morr had always thought a great deal of Laura; and of late his liking for her had greatly increased. On her part, Dave’s sister had always considered the senator’s son a very promising young man. Consequently, it can well be imagined that the four young people spent a most enjoyable time that evening in the mansion. The girls played on the piano and all sang, and then some rugs were pushed aside, a phonograph was brought into action, and they danced a number of the latest steps, with the older folks looking on.
Roger was to remain over for several days at Crumville, and early the next morning Dave asked his chum if he would accompany him on a hasty trip to Coburntown. He had already acquainted Roger with the trouble he was having with the shoe-dealer and the man who sold men’s furnishings.
“We can take a horse and cutter and be back before lunch,” said Dave.
“I’ll be glad to go,” answered the senator’s son. “I haven’t had a ride in a cutter this winter.”
They were soon on the way, Dave this time driving a black horse that could not only cover the ground well, but was thoroughly reliable. By ten o’clock they found themselves in Coburntown, and made their way to the establishment run by Asa Dickley. The proprietor of the store was busy with a customer at the time, and a clerk came forward to wait on the new arrivals.
“I wish to speak to Mr. Dickley,” said Dave; and he and Roger waited until the man was at leisure. Mr. Dickley looked anything but pleasant as he walked up to our hero.
“I got a very strange letter from you, Mr. Dickley. I can’t understand it at all,” began Dave.
“And I can’t understand why you treat me the way you do,” blurted out the shopkeeper. “You promised to come in here and settle up over a week ago.”
“Mr. Dickley, I think there is a big mistake somewhere,” said Dave, as calmly as he could. “I don’t owe you any money, and I can’t understand why you should write me such a letter as this,” and he brought forth the communication he had received.
“You don’t owe me any money!” ejaculated Asa Dickley. “I just guess you do! You owe me twenty-six dollars.”
“Twenty-six dollars!” repeated Dave. “What is that for?”
“For? You know as well as I do! Didn’t you come in here and get a fedora hat, some shirts and collars and neckties, and a pair of fur-lined gloves, and a lot of underwear? The whole bill came to just twenty-six dollars.”
“And when was this stuff purchased?” went on Dave.
“When was it purchased? See here, Porter, what sort of tom-foolery is this?” cried Asa Dickley. “You know as well as I do when you got the things. I wouldn’t be so harsh with you, only you promised me faithfully that you would come in and settle up long before this.”
“Mr. Dickley, I haven’t had any goods from you for a long, long time–and what I have had I have paid for,” answered Dave, doing his best to keep his temper, because he knew the storekeeper must be laboring under a mistake. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t been in your store for several months.”
“What!” ejaculated the storekeeper. “Do you mean to deny that you bought those goods from me, young man?”
“I certainly do deny it. As I said before, I haven’t been in this store for several months.”
At this plain declaration made by Dave, Mr. Asa Dickley grew fairly purple. He leaned over his counter and shook his clenched fist in Dave’s face.
“So that is the way you are going to try to swindle me out of my money, is it, Dave Porter?” he cried. “Well, let me tell you, it won’t work. You came here and got those goods from me, and either you’ll pay for them or I’ll sue your father for the amount. Why, it’s preposterous!” The storekeeper turned to his clerk, who was gazing on the scene in open-mouthed wonder. “Here a customer comes in and buys a lot of goods and I am good-hearted enough to trust him to the amount, twenty-six dollars, and then he comes here and declares to my face that he never had the things and he won’t pay for them. Now what do you think of that, Hibbins?”
“I think it’s pretty raw,” responded the clerk.
“Weren’t you in the shop when I let Porter have some of those goods?”
“I certainly was,” answered Hibbins. “Of course, I was in the rear, sorting out those new goods that had come in, so I didn’t see just what you let him have; but I certainly know he got some things.”
“Mr. Dickley, now listen to me for a minute,” said Dave in a tone of voice that arrested the man’s attention in spite of his irascibility. “Look at me closely. Didn’t the fellow who got those things from you look somewhat different from me?”
Dave faced the storekeeper with unflinching eyes, and Asa Dickley was compelled to look the youth over carefully. As he did this the positive expression on his face gradually changed to one of doubt.
“Why, I–er–Of course, he looked like you,” he stammered. “Of course you can change your looks a little; but that don’t count with me. Besides, didn’t you give me your name as Dave Porter, and ask me if I didn’t remember you?”
“The fellow who got those goods may have done all that, Mr. Dickley. But that fellow was not I. I may be mistaken, but I think it was a young man who resembles me, and who some time ago made a great deal of trouble for me.”
“Humph! That’s a fishy kind of story, Porter. If there is such a person he must look very much like you.”
“He does. In fact, some people declare they can hardly tell us apart.”
“What’s the name of that fellow?”
“Ward Porton.”
“Does he live around here?”
“I don’t know where he is living just at present. But I saw him day before yesterday in Clayton. I tried to stop him, but he ran away from me.”
The storekeeper gazed at Dave for a moment in silence, and then pursed up his lips and shook his head decidedly.
“That is too much of a fish story for me to swallow,” he said harshly. “You’ll either have to bring that young man here and prove that he got the goods, or else you’ll have to pay for them yourself.”
CHAPTER VI
MORE TROUBLE
Dave and Roger spent the best part of half an hour in Asa Dickley’s store, and during that time our hero and his chum gave the particulars of how they had become acquainted with Ward Porton, and how the young moving-picture actor had tried to pass himself off as the real Dave Porter, and how he had been exposed and had disappeared.
“Well, if what you say is true I’ve been swindled,” declared the storekeeper finally. “I’d like to get my hands on that young man.”
“You wouldn’t like it any better than I would,” returned Dave, grimly. “You see, I don’t know how far this thing extends. Mr. Wecks has been after me to pay for some shoes that I never got.”
“Say, that moving-picture actor must be a lulu!” declared the storekeeper’s clerk, slangily. “If you don’t watch out, Porter, he’ll get you into all kinds of hot water.”
“I think the best you can do, Dave, is to notify the storekeepers you do business with to be on the lookout for Porton,” suggested Roger. “Then, if he shows up again, they can have him held until you arrive.”
“I’ll certainly have to do something,” answered Dave.
“Then I suppose you don’t want to settle that bill?” came from Asa Dickley, wistfully.
“No, sir. And I don’t think you ought to expect it.”
“Well, I don’t know. The fellow who got those goods said he was Dave Porter,” vouchsafed the storekeeper doggedly.
From Asa Dickley’s establishment Dave, accompanied by his chum, drove around to the store kept by Mr. Wecks. He found the curtains still down, but the shoe-dealer had just come in, and was at his desk writing letters.
“And you mean to say you didn’t get those shoes?” questioned Mr. Wecks with interest, after Dave had explained the situation. “That’s mighty curious. I never had a thing like that happen before.” He knew our hero well, and trusted Dave implicitly. “I shouldn’t have sent that letter only I had a chance to sell a pair of shoes that size, and I thought if you had made your selection I could sell the pair you didn’t want to the other fellow.”
Once again the two boys had to tell all about Ward Porton and what that young rascal was supposed to be doing. As they proceeded Mr. Wecks’s face took on a look of added intelligence.
“Exactly! Exactly! That fits in with what I thought when that fellow went off with the shoes,” he declared finally. “I said to myself, ‘Somehow Dave Porter looks different to-day. He must have had a spell of sickness or something.’ That other chap was a bit thinner and paler than you are.”
“He’s a regular cigarette fiend, and that is, I think, what makes him look pale,” put in Roger. And then he added quickly: “Do you remember–was he smoking?”
“Yes, he was. He threw a cigarette stub away while he was trying on the shoes, and then lit another cigarette when he was going out. I thought at the time that he was probably smoking more than was good for him.”
“I don’t smoke at all, and never have done so,” said Dave. He turned to his chum. “I think the fact that the fellow who got the shoes was smoking is additional proof that it was Porton.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea that it was anybody else,” answered the senator’s son.
Mr. Wecks promised to keep on the lookout for Ward Porton, in case that individual showed himself again, and then Dave and Roger left.
“I’m going into all the stores where I do business and tell the folks to be on the watch for Ward Porton,” said our hero.
“A good idea, Dave. But see here! How are they going to tell him from you?” and the senator’s son chuckled. “You may come along some day and they may hold you, thinking you are Porton.”
“I thought of that, Roger, and I’ll leave each of them my signature on a card. I know that Ward Porton doesn’t write as I do.”
This idea was followed out, the boys spending the best part of an hour in going around Coburntown. Then they drove back to Crumville, and there Dave visited some other establishments with which he was in the habit of doing business.
All the storekeepers were much interested in what he had to tell, and all readily agreed to have Ward Porton detained if he should show himself. At each place Dave left his signature, so that there might be no further mistake regarding his identity.
After that several days passed quietly. Both Dave and Roger were applying themselves to their studies, and as a consequence saw little of Ben except in the evenings, when all the young folks would get together for more or less of a good time.
“Any more news about that fortune in Chicago?” asked Dave, one evening of the Basswood lad.
“Not very much,” answered Ben. “Father telegraphed that he was hunting for some things that belonged to Mr. Enos. He said that as soon as he found them he would tell us all about it.”
“That certainly is a strange state of affairs.”
“Strange? I should say it was!” cried the other. “Mother and I are just dying to know what it all means. One thing is certain–Mr. Enos did not leave his fortune in stocks or bonds or real estate, or anything like that.”
On the following day came additional trouble for Dave in the shape of a communication from a hotel-keeper in Coburntown. He stated that he had heard through Asa Dickley that Dave was having trouble with a party who was impersonating him, and added that a person calling himself Dave Porter was owing him a bill of fifteen dollars for five days’ board.
“Isn’t this the limit?” cried Dave, as he showed the letter to his father and his Uncle Dunston.
“No use in talking, Dave, we’ll have to get after that rascal,” announced the father. “If we don’t, there is no telling how far he’ll carry this thing. I think I’ll put the authorities on his track.”
Two days after that, and while Dave was continuing his studies as diligently as ever, came word over the telephone from Clayton.
“Is this you, Dave Porter?” came over the wire.
“Yes,” answered our hero. “Who are you?”
“This is Nat Poole talking. I am up here in Clayton–in the First National Bank. You know my father got me a job here last week.”
“No, I didn’t know it, Nat. But I’m glad to hear you have something to do, and I hope you’ll make a success of it,” returned Dave promptly.
“I called you up to find out if you were in Clayton,” continued the son of the money lender. “I wanted to make sure of it.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m right here at home, Nat.”
“Then, in that case, I want to tell you that the fellow who looks like you is here.”
“Where do you mean–in the bank?”
“Well, he came in here to get a five-dollar bill changed. I happened to see him as he was going out and I called to him, thinking it was you. When I called he seemed to get scared, and he got out in a hurry. Then I happened to think about that fellow who looked like you, and I made up my mind I’d call you up.”
“How long ago since he was in the bank?” questioned Dave, eagerly.
“Not more than ten minutes ago. I tried to get you sooner but the wire was busy.”
“You haven’t any idea where he went?”
“No, except that he started down the side street next to the bank, which, as maybe you know, runs towards the river.”
“All right, Nat. Thank you very much for what you’ve told me. I want to locate that fellow if I possibly can. He is a swindler, and if you clap eyes on him again have him arrested,” added Dave; and this Nat Poole promised to do.
The news over the wire excited Dave not a little. Of the men of the household, only old Professor Potts was in, and he, of course, could not assist in the matter. Dave at once sought out Mrs. Wadsworth and told her of what he had heard.
“I think I’ll drive to Clayton and see if I can locate Porton,” he added. “Roger says he will go with me.”
“Do as you think best, Dave,” answered the lady of the house. “But do keep out of trouble! This Ward Porton may prove to be a dangerous character if you attempt to corner him.”
“I think Roger and I can manage him, if only we can find him,” returned the youth.
Once more the black horse and the cutter were brought into service, and the two youths made the best possible time on the snowy highway that led through Coburntown to Clayton. Arriving there, they called at the bank and interviewed Nat Poole.
“If what you say about Porton is true he certainly must be a bad one–almost as bad as Merwell and Jasniff,” was the comment of the money lender’s son. “I certainly hope you spot him and bring him to book. That’s the way he went the last I saw of him,” he added, pointing down the side street.
Dave and Roger drove down the street looking to the right and the left for a possible sight of Ward Porton. But their search was doomed to disappointment for the moving-picture actor was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s a good deal like looking for a needle in a haystack,” was the comment of the senator’s son, after a full hour had been spent in the hunt.
They had left the sleigh and had walked around a number of mills and tenement houses which were situated in that locality.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Dave, as several children approached them. “I’m going to ask the youngsters if they’ve seen a young man who looks like me.”
The first boys and girls to whom the subject was broached shook their heads and declared they had seen nobody that resembled Dave. Then our hero and his chum passed on to other children, and finally to some men working around a newly-constructed tenement.
“Why sure! I saw a young feller wot looked like you,” said a youth who was piling up some lumber. “He ast me fer a match. Say! he looked like he could have been your twin,” he added in wonder; and then continued suddenly: “Maybe youse is playin’ a trick on me, and it was youse got the match?”
“No, I never met you before,” answered Dave, quickly. “When did you meet the other fellow, and where? I am very anxious to locate him.”
“It was down on de bridge, about an hour ago. I was comin’ dis way, and he was goin’ de udder way.”
“Was he smoking a cigarette?” asked Roger.
“He had one o’ de coffin-nails in his hand and he lit up after I given him de match.”
“Did he say anything?” questioned our hero.
The carpenter’s helper scratched his head for a moment. “Sure he did! He ast me if it was putty good walkin’ to Bixter. I told him ‘putty fair,’ and den he went on and I came here.”
“Then he must have gone on to Bixter!” cried Roger. “How far is that from here?”
“About two miles and a half,” answered Dave. He turned to the carpenter’s helper. “Much obliged to you.”
“Dat’s all right. Say! but dat guy certainly looks like you,” the carpenter’s helper added, with a grin.
“Come, we’ll follow him,” said Dave to his chum, and led the way on the run to where the horse was tied.
Soon they were in the cutter once more. Dave urged the black along at his best speed, and over the bridge they flew, and then along the road leading to the village of Bixter.
