Joe the Hotel Boy; Or, Winning out by Pluck by Pluck by Jr. Horatio Alger (novels to read .txt) 📕

“Did you learn anything about his family?”

“He had lost his wife and two children by disease. What had happened to the other child was something of a mystery. I rather supposed it had died while away from home, but I was not sure.”

“Have you any idea at all what became of William Bodley?”

“Not exactly. Once I met a man in Pittsburg who had met a man of that name in Idaho, among the mines. Both of us wondered if that William A. Bodley was the same that I had bought my farm from.”

“Did he say what part of Idaho?”

“He did, but I have forgotten now. Do you think he was a relative of yours?”

“I don't know what to think. It may be that he was my father.

“Your father?”

“Yes,” and Joe told his story and mentioned the documents found in the blue tin box.

“It does look as if he might be your father,” said Augustus Greggs. “Maybe you're the child that was away from home at the time his other children and his wife died.”

“Do you think anybody else in this village would know anything more about this William Bodley?”

“No, I don't. But it won't do any harm to ask around. That stage driver knows all the old inhabitants. Perhaps some of them can tell you something worth while.”

Upon urgent invitation, Joe took dinner at the Greggs' farm and then set out to visit a number of folks who had lived in Millville and vicinity for many years. All remembered William A. Bodley and his family, but not one could tell what had become of the man after he had sold out and gone away.

“Maybe you had better advertise for him,” suggested one man.

“It will cost a good deal to advertise all over the United States,” replied Joe; “and for all I know he may be dead or out of the country.”

Joe remained in Millville two days and then took the train back to the East. Ned was the first to greet him on his return to Riverside.

“What luck?” he asked, anxiously.

“None whatever,” was the sober answer.

“Oh, Joe, that's too bad!”

“I am afraid I am stumped, Ned.”

They walked to the Talmadge mansion, and that evening talked the matter over with Ned's father.

“I will arrange to have an advertisement inserted in a leading paper of each of our big cities,” said Mr. Talmadge. “That will cost something, but not a fortune.”

“You must let me pay for it,” said our hero.

“No, Joe, you can put this down to Ned's credit—you two are such good chums,” and Mr. Talmadge smiled quietly.

The advertisements were sent out the following day, through an advertising agent, and all waited for over two weeks for some reply, but none came.

“It's no use,” said Joe, and it must be admitted that he was much downcast.

In the meantime he had seen Andrew Mallison and the hotel man said he would willingly hire him for the summer as soon as the season opened, and also give Frank Randolph a situation.

“You had better be my guest until that time,” said Ned to our hero, when he heard of this.

“Thank you, Ned, but I don't wish to remain idle so long.”

The very next mail after this talk brought news for our hero. A letter came from Maurice Vane, asking him if he wished to go to Montana.

“I am now certain that that mine is valuable,” wrote the gentleman. “I am going to start West next Monday. If you wish to go with me I will pay your fare and allow you a salary of ten dollars per week to start on. I think later on, I will have a good opening for you.”

“That settles it, I am going West!” cried Joe, as he showed the letter to his chum.

“Well, I don't blame you,” was the reply. “I know just how nice it is out there. You'll be sure to get along.”

Before going to bed Joe wired his acceptance of the offer, and in the morning received a telegram from Maurice Vane, asking him to go to Chicago, to the Palmer House.

“That settles it, I'm off,” said our hero, and bought a ticket for the great city by the lakes without delay. Then he said good-bye to the Talmadges and the Gussings, and boarded the train at sundown.

Joe was now getting used to traveling and no longer felt green and out of place. He had engaged a berth, and took his ease until it was time to go to bed. Arriving at Chicago he made his way without delay to the Palmer House.

He found the hotel crowded and had some difficulty in getting a room. Mr. Maurice Vane had not yet arrived.

“I guess I'll leave a note for him,” thought our hero, and sauntered into the reading-room to pen the communication.

While Joe was writing, two men came into the room and sat down behind a pillar that was close at hand. They were in earnest conversation and he could not help but catch what was said.

“You say he is coming West?” said one of the pair.

“Yes,—he started yesterday.”

“And he has found out that the mine is really valuable?”

“I think so. Anyway he is quite excited about it. He sent a telegram to that boy, too.”

“The hotel boy you mean?”

“Yes.”

So the talk ran on and Joe at length got up to take a look at the two men. They were Gaff Caven and Pat Malone. At once our hero drew out of sight again.

“How can you get the best of Vane, Gaff?” asked Malone, after a pause.

“There is but one way, Malone.”

“And that is?”

“Can I trust you?”

“Haven't you trusted me before?”

“We must—” Caven paused. “We won't talk about it in this public place. Come to my room and I'll lay my plan before you.”

Then the two arose and left the reading-room as rapidly as they had entered it.