Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 397 — page 3: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

_— —- “Thoughtless boy! you do not understand. it is a terrible thing to die; to leave this bright world and all it contains. Oh! lama wretched, miserable man!” _And he arose and began pacing the room ex- It’s ther fashion citedly. ** Td lay down ef I war yop though all on ’em in New York ter die in don’t do it. Say, whar will yer funeral ob- sequials take place, boss? eckon Tl git Stumpy ter ’tend ther store that day an’ drop ‘round. Don’t s’pose yer heirs would object ter hevin’ my manly form thar, do ye?” ‘** Boy, boy, your cold indifference is terrible. I fear ve been rash. Thisis a serious mat- ter.” ‘* Oh! never mind; it'll soon be over. Them stage-folks that git salivated always cut up rough at fu’st, but they go off right peaceable in the end.” ‘* Boy, go for a doctor!” ** A doctor?” ‘* Yes, yes.” * Why, he'll pump all ther ptizon out, an’ ye won't die at all.” **I don’t want to. Die? Mercy, no; I must not die. Oh! why was Iso reckless.. Quick!— go for a doctor!” Woodman’s voice arose to a shrill key, but Bob kept his place. ‘*So ye’re all over wantin’ ter ’vacuate this hyer spear?” **'Yes, yes. A doctor, quick!” man dropped into a chair, pale and trembling. ** No doctor ain’t needed,” said Bob, coolly. **'That air stuff ye swallered wa’n’t no arsenic, but jest chalk. Ef ther water don’t kill ye, you're all hunki-dori.” ** Chalk!” “Yes. D’ye s’pose I was goin’ ter be a party ter a suicide? Not fer Joseph. I see’d inter yer little racket, boss, an’ I brung ye w’at won’t ki rats nermen. Jest quit doin’ high tragedy an’ ye'll soon feel like a bed-bug when it’s his night out. Woodman did not know whether to believe or doubt. ** You are deceiving me,” he said. The boy walked to the table and swallowed half of the white substance-Adam had thought so deadly. ‘**] kin eat that kind o’ arsenic threé times a day, raw, fried wt on ther ie sie an’ never it a spasm. est you quit in’ yer stum- jack an’ you come ’round. hens terrible pains ’s mostly in ped eye.” Adam’s face had grown bright. ** My boy nnn saved me.” ‘Course t hev. I ketched onter yer riffle ther minute you ’costed me, an’ ez Greenwood an’ sim’lar places is crowded at this time o’ year, I made up my mind ter save,\yer from gittin’ slap inter a box,” ‘“] have been weak and cowardly. Nothin can justify a man in taking his own life, thoug my temptation was strong.” ‘ What fer trouble was it that agertated ye?” “‘Tt’s a long story. I’m not sure you'd care to hear it.” ‘‘ That’s whar ye’re wrong, ez lll ’splain. Ye see, there’s a chap on one o’ ther daily papers hyar who is so lazy that his boots is never tuk off from ther time he buys ’em till they is wear- ed out. He sleeps all day, while I skirmishes ‘round an’ gets p’ints on local rackets. Then I tell ’em ter him, an’ he writes ’em up, an’ we divide the boodle.” ‘**Hold on! I don’t want the papers to get hold of my case.” ‘Then I'll keep it clos’t. I’m ez mum ez a copper when he’s axed fer p’ints by a kid, ef I’m told ter be.” Woodman’s pains had vanished, and, having iven up all idea of departing his present life, he ooked thoughtful. ‘** Something impels me to confide in- you, and I'll do it. There isn’t much to tell. My home is, and always has been, in a small town in Con- necticut. I was the father of two children, a son and a daughter. James was the older of the two. He came to New York when quite young married, became the father of one child an then died, leaving them in comfortable circum- stances, My daughter, Rose, married unwisely. She took a fancy toa young Italian who came to our Seighborbood, and, when I opposed the union, ran away with him.” ‘That was bad,” remarked Bob. ‘*It was bad for us all. I was angry hastily declined to ever see her in. I never did; but, alas! it was the hand of death which prevented. At the end of two years I had re- solved to forgive her when word came that she Bob o’ the Bowery. had died, leaving a daughter a few months old. I came to New York, but could find no trace of either the child or its father.” ‘**Tain’t an easy place ter find a needle in.” ‘*That was nearly thirteen years ago, and I heard no more from; them until last month. Then I got a package of letters which gave me news. hey stated that Paolo Donati, my daughter’s husband, had died during a voyage to China, but that his ag ina was still alive. The letters were written by a former shipmate of Donati, and, though.he did not know where the child was—she must now be thirteen years old—he gave me such directions and addresses as were necessary to trace her. He wrote that it had been Donati’s last wish that it should be done, and that the Italian hoped I would see to his child. ‘* Myfresolution was at_once taken, and I pre- pared to come to New York. I came, and put up at this hotel. I was never good at remem- bering names of places and persons, and, once here, [ sought for my papers to refresh my memory. The papers were gone. I made dili- gent search, but, in the end, was obliged to de- cide that some rough fellows on the train had ge my pocket, The papers were in a large, at pocket-book I carried, and they probably thought there was money there, too. ‘* They had taken worse than my money; the clew to my grandchild’s whereabouts was gone. I will not describe how I searched without their aid, nor how unsuccessful I was. Enough that at attempt failed.” mt Jouldn’t yer son’s folks chip in an’ help ye? ‘They! Ah, my boy, they are not that kind. My son’s wife always hated me, and when James died I saw neither her nor her son for years. It was not until it occurred to them that I had a good deal of money to leave to some one that they deigned to visit me. But they came too late. I knew them and their treacherous, hypocritical ways too well. Why, when James died his family was so distasteful to his widow that she actually dropped the name of Woodman and took her maiden name, She is a Vicious, false and scheming woman. As for her son—well, Oscar Bertrand is his mother’s child.” ‘** Oscar who?” cried Bob. ‘* Bertrand. Do you know him?” **T wouldn’t swear ter it on more’n a bushel 0’ dictionaries, but I do know a ’rastocratic bloke named Bertrand.” ‘It matters little whether ’tis Oscar or not,” said the old man, te f ‘** But I don’t see yit why ye tried ter arsenic yer inner man.” ‘*T'll tell you. One of the addresses I had was on Hudson street, though the number had es- caped me. I began a hap-hazard search on that long street. At last I found a person who pre- tended to be able to give me information. Iwas taken and acup of coffee forced upon me. I drank it, grew sleepy and knew no more until I found myself in a station-house, arrested for be- ing intoxicated. As Ai may guess, I had been gr and robbed, then set adrift. te a part of my money esca their notice, an by paying the usual fine I was re- leased. I came back here a wretched man. It had been a horrible experience to mix with the degraded wretches who were also prisoners, and I felt myself pr eae forever. Mt name was in the papers as being arrested and fined for be- ing I knew the news would go to my native place. This made me gloomy, and when I thought of my desolate life, my dead son and daughter, and my lost grandchild, I grew d r- ate—mad, perhaps. It was then I resolved to end my existence.” ‘*That’s whar ye slopped over,” said Bob. ‘‘T?m aware that when a chap’s down on his luck, his chin is ’clined ter drop. That’s ther way in business. Now, thar’s Stumpy, my pardner in ther peanut trade. He’s got a pile o’ grit an’ is an awful fighter. I tell ye he’s jesta owler when his mad is up. Why, he'll take a bloke twice his size an’ wipe ther Bowery all up with him. He’s bound ter be an awful slugger w’en he gits a mustache raised, is Stumpy, while ez fur his temper—why, , when anybody ‘dee Stumpy lip, ther sparks o’ fire jest fly outer is two noses.” ‘* Indeed.” ‘*'Yas, but in business Stumpy is weak. W’en he takes a bogus quarter or half he gits all broke up. I kin see he’s o’ an arsenic natur’, an’ it requires all my ’flooence ter keep him braced up.” sé I see ’ * But ‘bout yer case. Why don’t ye see the sailor ehan what writ ye?” Se ——eoooooooOoO—————— ee 3 ‘*T don’t know where he is. He wrote that he was going on another voyage at once, but I don’t know where.” ‘* What do ther p’lice say?” ‘*T have told them nothing.” ‘Hey? You ain’t?” és No. 7? **'W hy ain’t ye?” ‘*T’m not going to see my name paraded in print as another countryman taken in.” Bob whistled. ‘Strikes me you’re over-modest fer aman in gor ef By cripes! you orter tell ’em.” ‘**Perhaps you're right,” Woodman slowly admitted. ‘“Course I be. See yer, I’ve been through a heap o’ ’sperience in ther last century, an’ w’at I don’t know ’bout things I allays try ter find out. Themis my ideas. Now, 1 know a private detective—an’ he’s a rampaginous thunder- blossom, too, is Wrixley—an’ he’d jest shake his socks off fer delight ter help ye. He’s ther daddy fur helpin’ lame dogs over ther fence, an’ when he takes holt 0’ a case his nose jest stretches out like india-rubber, he’s so anxious ter ketch ther scent.” **Can you bring him to me?” ‘** Bet yer scalp I kin.” ‘* Do it, then, and I'll make a kold campaign against the whole rascally set who have tried to ruin me,” said Woodman, with energy. ‘‘Now you're a-hootin’ fer ther Fourth o’ July. You're a pickle o’ a kind fit ter eat, an’ I'll chip in an’ help ye ter scoop all New York an’ sift ther clinkers out—I mean ther jaw- breakers o’ law.” CHAPTER ITI. BOB TAKES THE TRAIL. Bos 0’ THE BowERy left the hotel and hast- ened away on his errand. He did not find his friend, the private detective, however. Mr. Wrixley was out of the house and out of the city; so Bob walked backward, with the idea of advising Woodman to notify Superintendent Walling or Inspector Byrnes. Something ought to be done. He reached the hotel and was about to ascend the second flight of stairs when the clerk called to him: nee here, aren’t you the boy that was up to 37?” ‘*T’m that same dumplin’,” Bob replied. “Well, Woodman has gone out. He left word for you to call at eight, this evening.” **Gone out?” echoed the hoy. ‘* What fer hes he gone ter do?” ‘*Don’t know,” curtly replied the clerk, who was not favorably impressed with Bob’s rags. ‘Which way did ke go?” Don’t know. He went with his friends.” ‘* He did, hey? Wot friends was them?” ‘‘How doI know? Two men called, and he wentaway with them. Think they were detec- tives, by their cut of jib. They all went off in acab. That’s all I know, and you'd better go and give somebody a shine.” “Wot d’ye e me fer? Do I look likea box o’ blackin’? Not any, fer Joseph. I ain't that kind o’a ham sandwich. I’m a merchant in good standin’, I be; b’long ter the Board o Trade an’ ther Royal Silk-an’-Satin Highfalutin’ Club. Do these hyar hands look ez ef they ever flourished the bristles ’round tanned cowhide? Not any, fer Joseph!” ‘Well, you’d better clear out and visit the Board of Trade ” **Tll slope ez soon ez you answer a few inter- rogatories. W’ot fer lookers was them two men?” ‘* Looked like detectives, I tell you. Both One had a red face and a were large men. small red mustache. The other was dark. That’s all I know. Come, will you go? We don’t want you for an advertisement.” ‘* Jest one p’int more. W’ot sorto’ a cab, an’ hosses, an’ driver, an’ sich, was it?” “T don’t know. Co®found you, do you ex- pect me to be a horse-fancier and carriage- cleaner?” *‘*Spect that’s w’ot you’d beef you’re in yer roper spear. Oh! wouldn’t ye jest put on ther ugs a-washin’ up a kerridge arter a spin through Central Park in ther mud! Why, Cleopatra’s Needle would jest wabble with admiration. Wall, never mind; I’m off now, so ye needn’t look so darned rusty. I usually puts up at ther Fifth Avanoo, an’ ther classic rejins where I now be seems ter smell too strong o’ extract o’ onions. So-long; ef ye want ter see me ag’in, a’dress me care o’ William H. Underbilt!” And Bob walked out just as the indignant clerk oe st