Steve and the Steam Engine by Sara Ware Bassett (best large ereader TXT) 📕

I planned, for no sooner was the bill book in my pocket than I was called away to help about the wraps at a lady's luncheon upstairs. There were so many people about the hall that I had no chance to restore the bill book to the lad's pocket without some one seeing me and thinking, perhaps, that I was stealing. There was no help but to take it with me, trusting they would not keep me long upstairs and that I would get back to my regular place before the young gentleman came out of the dining room. It was when I got out of the elevator in the upper hall that I spied Dick, one of the bell boys I knew, and I called to him; and after explaining that I couldn't get away to go downstairs I asked him to take the wallet and put it in 47's pocket. He's a good-natured little chap and always ready to do an errand, and more than that he's an honest boy. So I felt quite safe and went to work, supposing the young man had his pocketbook long ago."

All eyes were turned upon the unlucky bell boy who hung his head and colored uncomfortably.

"So it was the boy who took the contents of the pocketbook!" was Mr. Ackerman's comment.

"Speak up, boy," commanded the officer. "The gentleman is talking to you." The lad looked up with a frightened start.

He might have been sixteen years of age but he did not look it for he was pale and underfed; nor was there anything in his bearing to indicate the poise and maturity of one who was master of the occasion. On the contrary, he was simply a boy who was frankly distressed and frightened, and as unfeignedly helpless in the present emergency as if he had been six years old and been caught stealing jam from the pantry shelf. It did not take more than a glance to convince the onlookers that he was no hardened criminal. If he had done wrong it had been the result either of impulse or mischief, and the dire result of his deed was a thing he had been too unsophisticated to foresee. The plight in which he now found himself plainly amazed and overwhelmed him and he looked pleadingly at his captors.

"Well, my boy, what have you to say for yourself?" repeated Mr. Ackerman more gently.

"Nothin'."

"Nothing?"

"No, sir."

"You did take the things out of the pocketbook then."

"Yes, sir."

"But you are not a boy accustomed to taking what does not belong to you."

The culprit shot a glance of gratitude toward the speaker but made no reply.

"How did you happen to do it this time?" persisted Mr. Ackerman kindly. "Come, tell me all about it."

Perhaps it was the ring of sympathy in the elder man's voice that won the boy's heart. Whatever the charm, it conquered; and he met the eyes that scanned his countenance with a timid smile.

"I wanted to see what was in the pocketbook," said he with naïve honesty, "and so I took the things out to look at them. I wasn't goin' to keep 'em. I dodged into one of the little alcoves in the hall and had just pulled the papers out when I heard somebody comin'. So I crammed the whole wad of stuff into my pocket, waiting for a time when I could look it over and put it back. But I got held up just like Mrs. Nolan did," he pointed toward the woman in the chair. "Some man was sick and the clerk sent me to get a bottle of medicine the minute I got downstairs, and all I had the chance to do was to stick the empty wallet in 47's pocket and beat it for the drug store. I thought there would be letters or something among the papers that would give the name of the man they belonged to, and I'd take 'em to the clerk at the desk an' say I found 'em. But no sooner had I got the medicine up to room Number 792 than the policeman nabbed me with the papers an' things on me. That's all there is to it, sir."

"Have you the things now?" the officer put in quickly.

"Sure! Didn't I just tell you I hadn't had the chance to hand 'em over to the clerk," the boy reiterated, pulling a wad of crumpled Liberty Bonds and documents out of his pocket, and tumbling them upon the table.

There was no doubting the lad's story. Truth spoke in every line of his face and in the frankness with which he met the scrutiny of those who listened to him. If one had questioned his uprightness the facts bore out his statements, for once out of the hotel on an errand he might easily have taken to his heels and never returned; or he might have disposed of his booty during his absence. But he had done neither. He had gone to the drug store and come back with every intention of making restitution for the result of his curiosity. That was perfectly evident.

"I'm sorry, sir," he declared, when no one spoke. "I know I shouldn't have looked in the pocketbook or touched the papers; but I meant no harm—honest I didn't."

"I'll be bound of that, sir," the woman interrupted. "Dick was ever a lad to be trusted. The hotel people will tell you that. He's been here several years and there's never been a thing against him. I blame myself for getting him into this trouble, for without meaning to I put temptation in his way. I know that what he's told you is the living truth, and I pray you'll try and believe him and let him go. If harm was to come to the lad through me I'd never forgive myself. Let the boy go free and put the blame on me, if you must arrest somebody. I'm older and it doesn't so much matter; but it's terrible to start a child of his age in as a criminal. The name will follow him through life. He'll never get rid of it and have a fair chance. Punish me but let the little chap go, I beg of you," pleaded the woman, with streaming eyes.

Mr. Ackerman cleared his throat; it was plain that the simple eloquence of the request had touched him deeply.

"With your permission, officer, I am going to withdraw my charge," he said, with a tremor in his voice. "You are to let both these persons go scot free. You, my good woman, meant well but acted foolishly. As for the boy, Donovan, I will assume the responsibility for him."

"You are willing to stand behind him, Mr. Ackerman?"

"I am."

The detective turned toward the boy who had risen and was fumbling awkwardly with the brass buttons adorning his uniform.

"You hear, Dick Martin, what the gentleman says," began he impressively. "He believes you are a good boy, and as you have handed back the valuables in your possession he is going to take a chance on you and let you go."

A wave of crimson swept over the face of the boy and for the first time the tension in the youthful countenance relaxed.

"But Mr. Ackerman," Donovan continued, "expects you are going to behave yourself in future and never do such a thing again."

"I am going to see your father, Dick," broke in Mr. Ackerman's kindly voice, "and talk with him and—"

"I haven't any father," declared the lad.

"Your mother then."

"I've no mother either."

"Who do you live with?"

"Mr. Aronson."

"Is he a relative?"

"Oh, no, sir! I haven't any relatives. There's nobody belongin' to me. Mr. Aronson is the tailor downstairs where I sleep. When I ain't working here I do errands for him and he lets me have a cot in a room with four other boys—newsboys, bell hops and the like. We pay two dollars between us for the room and sometimes when I carry a lot of boxes round for Mr. Aronson he gives me my breakfast."

"Nobody else is responsible for you?"

"Nop!" returned the boy with emphasis. "No, sir, I mean."

"I'll attend to all this, Donovan," murmured Mr. Ackerman in an undertone to the detective. "The lad shall not remain there. I don't know yet just what I'll do with him but I will plan something." Then addressing the lad, he continued, "In the meantime, Dick, you are to consider me your relative. Later I shall hunt you up and we will get better acquainted. Be a good boy, for I expect some day you are going to make me very proud of you."

"What!"

In sheer astonishment the boy regarded his benefactor.

There was something very appealing in the little sharp-featured face which had now lost much of its pallor and softened into friendliness.

"Why shouldn't you make me proud of you?" inquired Mr. Ackerman softly. "You can, you know, if you do what is right."

"I'm goin' to try to, sir," burst out Dick with earnestness. "I'm goin' to try to with all my might."

"That is all any one can ask of you, sonny," replied the steamboat magnate. "Come, shake hands. Remember, I believe in you, and shall trust you to live up to your word. The officer is going to let you go and none of us is going to mention what has happened. I will fix up everything for you and Mrs. Nolan so you can both go back to your work without interference. Now bid Mr. Tolman and his son good-by and run along. Before I leave the hotel I will look you up and you can give me Mr. Aronson's address."

Master Richard Martin needed no second bidding. Eager to be gone he awkwardly put out his hand, first to Mr. Tolman and then to Steve; and afterward, with a shy smile to the detective and the policeman and a boyish duck of his head, he shot into the hall and they heard him rushing pell-mell down the corridor. Mrs. Nolan, however, was more self-controlled. She curtsied elaborately to each of the men and called down upon their heads every blessing that the sky could rain, and it was only after her breath had become quite exhausted that she consented to retire from the room and in company with the policeman and the detective proceeded downstairs in the elevator.

"Well, Tolman," began the New Yorker when they were at last alone, "you see my heart was my best pilot. I put faith in it and it led me aright. Unfortunately it is now too late for the matinee but may I not renew my invitation and ask you and your son to dine with me this evening and conclude our eventful day by going to the theater afterward?"

Mr. Tolman hesitated.

"Don't refuse," pleaded the steamboat man. "Our acquaintance has, I confess, had an unfortunate beginning; but a bad beginning makes for a good ending, they say, and I feel sure the old adage will prove true in our case. Accept my invitation and let us try it out."

"You are very kind," murmured Mr. Tolman vaguely, "but I—"

"Help me to persuade your father to be generous, Stephen," interposed Mr. Ackerman. "We must not let a miserable affair like this break up what might, perhaps, have been a delightful friendship."

"I don't need any further persuading, Ackerman," Mr. Tolman spoke quickly. "I accept your invitation with great pleasure."

"That's right!" cried Mr. Ackerman, with evident gratification. "Suppose you come to my house at seven o'clock if that will be convenient for you. We will have a pleasant evening together and forget lost pocketbooks, detectives and policemen."

Taking out a small card, he hurriedly scrawled an address upon it.

"I keep a sort of bachelor's hall out on Riverside Drive," explained he, with a shade of wistfulness. "My butler looks out for me and sees that I do not starve to death. He and his son are really excellent housekeepers and make me very comfortable." He slipped into his overcoat. "At seven, then," he repeated. "Don't fail me for I should be much disappointed. Good-by!" and with a wave of his hand he departed, leaving Stephen and his father to themselves.