Kitobni o'qish: «Dave Porter and His Double: or, The Disapperarance of the Basswood Fortune», sahifa 4

CHAPTER VII
FACE TO FACE

“If you catch Porton, Dave, what will you do–turn him over to the authorities?”

“Yes, Roger.”

“Is Bixter much of a place?”

“Oh, no. There are but two stores and two churches and not over thirty or forty houses.”

“Then you may have some trouble in finding an officer. Probably the village doesn’t boast of anything more than a constable and a Justice of the Peace.”

“I am not worrying about that yet, Roger,” returned our hero, grimly. “We have got to catch Porton first.”

“Oh, I know that. But if he started for Bixter on foot we ought to be able to locate him. A stranger can’t go through such a small place without somebody’s noticing it.”

On and on trotted the horse, past many well-kept farms, and then through a small patch of timber land. Beyond the woods they crossed a frozen creek, and then made a turn to the northward. A short distance beyond they came in sight of the first houses that went to make up the village of Bixter.

“Well, we’ve not seen anything of him yet,” remarked the senator’s son, as they slowed up and looked ahead and to both sides of the village street.

“No, and I don’t understand it,” returned Dave. “From what that carpenter’s helper said, I thought we should overtake him before we got to Bixter. Either he must have left this road, or else he must be some walker.”

“I don’t see where he could have gone if he left the road, Dave. All we passed were lanes leading to the farms, and a path through that wood. It isn’t likely he would take to the woods in this cold weather–not unless he was going hunting, and that chap back in Clayton didn’t say anything about his carrying a gun.”

With the horse in a walk, they passed down the village street and back again. As they did this they kept their eyes wide open, peering into the various yards and lanes that presented themselves.

“I’m afraid it’s no use unless he is in one of these houses or in one of the stores,” was Roger’s comment.

“I’ll ask at the stores,” returned Dave.

The inquiries he and his chum made were productive of no results so far as locating Ward Porton was concerned. No one had seen or heard of the former moving picture actor.

“All the strangers we’ve seen to-day was a cigar drummer,” said one of the shopkeepers. “And he was a fat man and about forty years old.” The other storekeeper had had no strangers in his place.

Hardly knowing what to do next, Dave and Roger returned to the cutter.

“Maybe he went farther than this,” suggested Roger. “We might go on a mile or two and take a look.”

Now that they had come so far, Dave thought this a good idea, and so they passed on for a distance of nearly two miles beyond Bixter. Here the sleighing became poor, there being but few farmhouses in that vicinity.

“It’s no use,” said Dave, finally. “We’ll go back to Bixter, take another look around, and then return to Clayton and home.”

When they arrived once more at the village Dave suggested that he and his chum separate.

“There are a number of these lanes that lead to some back roads,” said Dave. “Perhaps if we tramp around on foot and ask some of the country folks living around here we may get on the track of the fellow we are after.”

The senator’s son was willing, and he was soon walking down a lane leading to the right while Dave went off to the left. Presently Dave came to a barn where a farmer was mending some broken harness.

“Hello! Back again, are you?” cried the farmer, as he looked at Dave curiously. “What brought you? Why didn’t you stop when I called to you before?”

“I guess you’re just the man I want to see,” cried Dave, quickly. And then, as the farmer looked at him in increasing wonder, he added: “Did a young man who looks very much like me go past here to-day?”

“Look like you?” queried the farmer. “Why, it was you, wasn’t it?”

“No. It must have been a fellow who resembles me very closely. I am trying to catch him.”

“Well, I swan!” murmured the farmer, looking at Dave critically. “That other feller looked as much like you as could be. Wot is he–your twin brother?”

“I am thankful to say he is no relative of mine. He is a swindler, and that is why I would like to catch him. He has been getting goods in my name. If he went past here perhaps you can tell me where he has gone?”

“He walked past here less than fifteen minutes ago. He went down that lane, which is a short cut to the road to Barnett.”

“Barnett!” cried our hero. “That’s the railroad station up this way, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then he must be heading for a railroad train!” exclaimed Dave, quickly. “How far is it from here?”

“Barnett is three miles by the road, but it’s less than a mile and a quarter by that short cut through Gerry’s Woods.”

“Then I’ll go after him by that short cut,” answered Dave. He thought for a moment. To hunt up Roger and get him to go along might take too long. He looked at the farmer. “Would you like to go with me? I’ll make it worth your while,” he continued.

“Sorry, but I can’t do it,” was the reply. “I’ve got to meet the man who buys my milk down town in about fifteen minutes. He’s a very particular customer, and if I should fail him he might get mad. So I can’t go.”

“All right, I’ll go after him alone,” answered our hero; and then continued: “If you are going down town, and you chance to see a friend of mine with my black horse and cutter, will you kindly tell him where I have gone?”

“Sure, I will;” and with this promise from the farmer Dave started on a swift walk along the short cut to Barnett which the other had pointed out.

Fortunately for the youth, to keep his feet warm while riding he had donned a heavy pair of rubbers, so that walking through the rather deep snow of the path leading through the back farms and through Gerry’s Woods was not as uncomfortable as it might otherwise have been. To be sure, he occasionally found himself floundering in snow that was over his shoetops, but when this happened he simply smiled grimly and made the best of it. When at Oak Hall he had often taken part in track athletics, cross-country running, and occasionally in a game of hare and hounds, and consequently his wind was good and he made rapid progress without becoming too much exhausted.

He was in the depth of the woods when, at a turn in the path, he saw a figure ahead of him. The individual wore a heavy overcoat and had a cap pulled well down over his ears and the back of his head.

“I may be mistaken, but that looks as if it might be Porton,” said Dave to himself. “However, I’ll soon know;” and he increased his speed so that he might catch up to the other walker.

As the ground was covered with snow our hero made but slight noise while he advanced, and as a consequence he drew quite close to the other individual before the latter was aware of his presence.

“Hi there!” called out Dave, when he was but a few feet behind. The fellow had stopped and turned around, and a single glance showed our hero that it was the youth he was seeking.

“Dave Porter!” muttered Ward Porton, as he recognized our hero. His manner showed that he was much astonished, as well as chagrined, at this unexpected meeting.

“You didn’t expect to meet me out here, did you?” remarked Dave, sharply, as he came up alongside the former moving-picture actor.

“Why–I–er–I–can’t–can’t say that I did,” returned Porton, lamely.

“You’ve been acting in a fine way, haven’t you, Porton?” went on Dave, angrily.

“Huh! What have I done?” Porton’s gaze was shifty. He did not dare to look our hero in the eyes.

“You know well enough what you’ve done, Porton–buying a whole lot of goods in my name.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t do any such thing!” was the blustering reply. The former moving-picture actor was recovering from his surprise.

“I can prove that you did; and I’m going to hold you responsible for it,” answered Dave, calmly.

“Look here, Porter, I don’t want any such talk from you!” and now Ward Porton doubled up his fists and stuck out his chin. “I’ve stood all I am going to stand from you. I want you to leave me alone.”

“Porton, you can bluster all you please, but it won’t do you any good,” answered Dave, and his voice had a more positive ring to it than before. “You thought you could play this trick on me and get away with it, but I am going to show you it can’t be done. I am going to hand you over to the authorities and see that you go to jail.”

“If you think you can do that, Porter, you’ve got another guess coming. You clear out and let me alone or I’ll make it hot for you;” and Ward Porton shook his fist in Dave’s face.

The manner of the young man who had been obtaining goods in Dave’s name was so aggressive that many a youth would have been intimidated and inclined to withdraw. But that was not our hero’s way. He was righteously indignant, not only because of what the rascal before him had done, but also because of his present threat. Without more ado he seized hold of Porton’s upraised arm and backed the fellow against a tree.

“Now, you just listen to me,” he said sternly. “Your bluff and bluster won’t do you any good. I am going to hand you over to the authorities, and that is all there is to it. You’ve got to behave yourself and stop threatening me, or I’ll give you something that you won’t want.”

“You imp, you! Let go of me!” roared Porton, and, bringing around his disengaged hand, he struck Dave a glancing blow on the chin.

If anything more was needed to arouse our hero’s just ire, this blow proved more than sufficient. As much anger as he had ever felt in his life surged up in Dave’s heart. He drew back, letting go his hold–and the next instant his fist shot out and landed straight on Ward Porton’s nose.

“Ouch!” spluttered the former moving-picture actor, and not without reason, for the stinging blow our hero had delivered not only hurt exceedingly, but also caused the blood to flow.

“Now will you behave yourself and come with me, or do you want some more?” demanded Dave.

“I’ll fix you for that! Just wait!” bellowed Porton; and then he made a savage rush at our hero.

The next instant they were locked in each other’s arms and swaying from side to side, each doing his utmost to gain the mastery.

CHAPTER VIII
THE BASSWOOD FORTUNE

Over and over in the snow of the woods rolled Dave and Porton, first one being on top and then the other. Each was encumbered by his heavy overcoat and his gloves, so that to send in a decisive blow was practically impossible.

The former moving-picture actor fought desperately, for he had no desire to go to jail, and he realized that Dave meant to send him to such a place if he could possibly accomplish it.

Dave, on his part, was angered through and through, not only because of what Porton had done at the stores, but also because of the way the former moving-picture actor had threatened him.

The encounter had occurred at a spot where the trees were somewhat scattered and where rocks were numerous. As the two continued their struggle they sent the loose snow flying in all directions and often struck on some of the rocks.

At last Dave managed to get his opponent by the throat, and he forced Porton’s head backward against a large stone. In the meantime, however, the rascal managed to double up one of his legs, and he gave Dave a shove in the stomach which sent him rolling over on his side.

“Now I’ll fix you!” panted Porton, and, releasing his right hand, he picked up a loose stone which their scuffle had exposed to view. The next instant he brought the stone up, hitting our hero on the side of the head. It was a furious blow, and for the moment Dave was stunned. He let go of the other’s throat, and as he did this Ward Porton arose to his feet.

“Now I guess you’ll let me alone!” he snarled; and aimed a vicious kick at Dave’s head. But the youth, even though somewhat bewildered, had sense enough left to dodge, and the blow landed on his shoulder.

Then Porton turned and dashed wildly along the woods path leading in the direction of Barnett.

It took our hero several seconds to collect himself sufficiently to arise. His ear was ringing from the contact with the stone, which fortunately had been a smooth one, and his shoulder also ached, even though the kick had been delivered through the padding of his overcoat.

He gazed along the path, and was just in time to see Porton disappearing around a bend.

If Dave had been thoroughly angry before, he was now even more so; and, shaking his head to clear his brain, he started on a run after the fugitive. He reached the turn in the path to see Porton emerging from the woods and taking to the highway leading to the railroad depot.

“He must be running to catch a train,” thought our hero. “And if that is so I’ll have to hustle or he’ll get away.”

By the time Dave gained the highway leading to Barnett, Ward Porton had reached the vicinity of the first of the houses in the village. Here he paused to glance back, and, seeing his pursuer, shook his fist at Dave. Then he went on about fifty yards farther, suddenly turning into a lane between two of the houses.

“He’s afraid to go to the depot for fear I’ll get after him before a train comes in,” thought Dave. “Well, I’ll catch him anyway, unless he takes to the woods.”

What Dave had surmised was correct. Ward Porton had thought to get on a train that would stop at Barnett inside of the next ten minutes. Now, however, he realized that to go to the depot and hang around until the cars took their departure would probably mean capture.

“Confound the luck! How did he manage to get on my trail so quickly?” muttered the former moving-picture actor to himself. “Now I’ll have to lay low and do my best to sneak off to some other place. I wish it wasn’t so cold. When I stop running I’ll be half frozen. But, anyway, I had the satisfaction of giving him one in the ear with that rock and another in the shoulder with my foot,” and he smiled grimly, as he placed his handkerchief to his bleeding nose.

By the time Dave reached the lane between the houses, Porton was nowhere in sight. There were a number of footprints in the snow, and following these Dave passed a barn and some cow-sheds. From this point a single pair of footprints led over a short field into the very woods where the encounter had taken place.

“He’s going to hide in the woods, sure enough,” reasoned our hero. “Or else maybe he’ll try to get back to Clayton, or Bixter.”

“Hi! What’s going on here?” cried a voice from the cow-shed, and a man showed himself, followed by two well-grown boys.

“I’m after a fellow who just ran across that field into the woods,” explained Dave, quickly. “He’s a thief. I want to catch him and have him locked up.”

“Oh, say! I thought I saw somebody,” exclaimed one of the boys. “I thought it might be Tom Jones goin’ huntin’.”

In as few words as possible Dave explained the situation to the farmer and his two sons, and they readily agreed to accompany him into the woods.

“But you’ll have a big job trying to locate that chap in those woods,” was the farmer’s comment. “The growth back here is very thick, and my boys have been lost in it more than once.”

“Huh! we always found our way out again,” grumbled the older of the sons, who did not like this statement on his parent’s part.

“Yes, Billy, but the woods are mighty thick,” returned his brother. “If that feller don’t look out he may get lost and get froze to death to-night, unless he knows enough to make a fire.”

It was easy enough to follow the footprints to the edge of the woods. But once there, the brushwood and rocks were so thick that to follow the marks one would have had to have the eyes of an expert trailer. Dave and the farmer, with the two boys, searched around for the best part of a quarter of an hour, but without success.

“He’s slipped you, I guess,” remarked the farmer, shaking his head. “I thought he would.”

“Are there any trails running through the woods in this vicinity?”

“The only trail I know of is the one running to Bixter. There is a woods road used by the lumbermen, but that is on the other side of the railroad tracks.”

The struggle with Ward Porton, followed by the run, had put Dave into quite a perspiration, and in the depth of the woods he found it exceedingly cold.

“I’ll have to keep on the move or I may get a chill,” he told the others, after another look around. “I guess we had better give it up.”

“Goin’ to offer any reward for capturin’ that feller?” questioned the older of the two boys, when the four were on their way back to the cow-shed.

“Yes, I’ll give a reward,” answered our hero, promptly. “If any of you can catch him and have him held by the authorities I’ll give you ten dollars.”

“Wow! Me for the ten dollars!” cried the youth. “But say! how’ll I know that feller if I do find him?” he questioned suddenly.

“That’s right, Billy, you won’t want to hold the wrong man,” put in the father, with a grin. “If you did that, you might get into hot water,” and he chuckled.

“It will be easy to recognize him,” answered Dave. “Just take a good look at me. Well, unfortunately, that other fellow resembles me very closely. In fact, that’s the reason I want to catch him. That’s how he got those goods I said he had stolen. It’s virtually stealing to get goods in such an underhand manner.”

“All right, I’ll know the feller if he looks like you,” said Billy. He turned to his younger brother. “Say, Paul, what do you say if we go into the woods later on and lay low for that feller? Maybe he’ll come out this way after he thinks the way is clear.”

“Sure, I’ll go with you,” declared Paul. “If we look around very carefully we may be able to pick up his tracks somewhere.”

It must be admitted that Dave felt much crestfallen when he bade good-bye to the farmer and his sons, after having left them his name and address.

The farmer had offered to drive him back to Bixter, but our hero had stated that he would rather walk and take the short cut through the woods. When he arrived at the village he found Roger wondering what had become of him.

“Well, did you catch Porton?” queried the senator’s son.

“I did and I didn’t,” answered Dave, with a grim sort of smile. And he related the particulars of what had occurred.

“Great hambones, Dave! you certainly have had an experience!” was Roger’s comment. “Let me look at that ear. I declare! it’s quite swollen. I hope it didn’t hurt anything inside,” he added anxiously.

“It rings and aches a little, Roger; but I don’t think it is seriously hurt.”

“How about your shoulder?”

“That feels a little sore, but that’s all. I’ll soon get over it.”

“And to think you got so close to capturing him and then he got away!” was the sad comment of the senator’s son. “It does beat all how slippery some of those rascals are.”

“I’m living in hope that those farmer boys will locate Porton,” said Dave. “I promised them a reward of ten dollars if they did so. That’s a lot of money for lads living around here.”

Now that he had rejoined Roger, and had gotten partly over the effects of his encounter with Porton, Dave was rather loath to give up the hunt. They managed to find a store where the proprietor occasionally furnished lunches, and there procured some sandwiches and hot chocolate. Then they drove to Barnett by the regular highway, and there took another look around for the missing evil-doer.

“The boys have gone down to the woods to look for him,” announced the farmer when Dave called on him once more. “If they learn anything I’ll let you know.”

That evening found Dave and Roger back in Crumville, where, of course, they had to relate the details of what had happened.

“Oh, Dave, you must be more careful!” cried Jessie, after he had told of the encounter in the woods. “That wicked fellow might kill you!” and she shuddered.

“Yes indeed, you ought to be careful,” said Laura. “Why, he seems to be almost as bad as Merwell and Jasniff were!”

“So he is, Laura. And if I ever get the chance I’ll put him where they are–in prison,” answered the brother grimly.

As was to be expected, Dave was quite worked up over what had occurred, and that night he did not sleep very well. Both his father and his sister insisted that he go to a physician and have his ear examined.

“No damage done, so far as I can see,” said the doctor. “But you had better bathe it with witch-hazel and keep it warm for a day or two.”

The next day Dave settled down to his studies as well as he was able. He hoped that word might come in that Ward Porton had been captured, but in this he was disappointed.

“I think he’ll steer clear of this neighborhood, for a while at least,” was Mr. Porter’s comment.

“That’s just my idea,” added Dave’s Uncle Dunston. “He must know that a great many swindled storekeepers and other people are on the watch for him.”

Dave had not seen Ben Basswood for several days. On the following evening the son of the real estate dealer came hurrying over to the Wadsworth mansion.

“We’ve got news about that Mr. Enos’s estate!” cried Ben, as soon as he met Dave and Roger. “It’s the queerest thing you ever heard of. Mother doesn’t know what to make of it, and I don’t know what to make of it, either.”

“Well, I hope it’s a valuable estate if it is coming to your father,” said the senator’s son.

“I don’t know whether it is valuable or not, and neither does father. He says in his telegram it is certainly worth several thousand dollars, and he doesn’t know but that it may be worth a hundred thousand dollars or more.”

“A hundred thousand dollars!” cried Laura, who had come in to hear what Ben had to tell. “Oh, Ben, that certainly is a fortune!”

“Well, what does it consist of?” queried Dave. “If it may be worth all the way from two or three thousand dollars to a hundred thousand or more, it must be mining stocks or something like that.”

“No, it isn’t in stocks or bonds or anything like that.”

“Then what in the world does the estate consist of?” questioned our hero.

“Miniatures,” answered Ben Basswood, simply.