Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel by Westbrook and Wodehouse (best time to read books txt) 📕

“It is well you were not obliged to.”

“Who shall I give the wallet to?” asked Sam.

“Mr. Gray, here, is the professor's partner, and half the money belongs to him. You can give it to him.”

“Have I a right to take it?” asked Philip, who did not wish to do anything unlawful.

He was assured that, as the business partner of the professor, he had as much right as Riccabocca to the custody of the common fund.

“But half of it belongs to the professor.”

“He'll come back for it, in the custody of the sheriff. I didn't think I was doing the man a good turn when I telegraphed to have him stopped.”

The first thing Philip did was to take from his own funds a five-dollar bill, which he tendered to Sam.

“Is it all for me?” asked the boy, his eyes sparkling his joy.

“Yes; but for you I should probably have lost a good deal more. Thank you, besides.”

And Philip offered his hand to Sam, who grasped it fervently.

“I say, you're a tip-top chap,” said Sam. “You ain't like a man that lost a pocketbook last summer, with a hundred dollars in it, and gave me five cents for finding it.”

“No; I hope I'm not as mean as that,” said Philip, smiling.

He opened the wallet and found a memorandum containing an exact statement of the proceeds of the concert. This was of great service to him, as it enabled him to calculate his own share of the profits.

The aggregate receipts were one hundred and fifty dollars and fifty cents. Deducting bills paid, viz.:

Rent of hall........................ $5.00

Printing, etc........................ 5.00

Bill-poster......................... 1.00

Total...........................$11.00

there was a balance of $138.50, of which Philip was entitled to one-half, namely, $69.25. This he took, together with the eleven dollars which he had himself paid to the creditors of the combination, and handed the wallet, with the remainder of the money, to Mr. Perry, landlord of the Knoxville Hotel, with a request that he would keep it till called for by Professor Riccabocca.

“You may hand me three dollars and a half, Mr. Perry,” said Mr. Gates. “That is the amount the professor owes me for a day and three-quarters at my hotel. If he makes a fuss, you can tell him he is quite at liberty to go to law about it.”

Meanwhile, where was the professor, and when did he discover his loss?

After the train was a mile or two on its way he felt in his pocket for the wallet, meaning to regale himself with a sight of its contents—now, as he considered, all his own.

Thrusting his hand into his pocket, it met—vacancy.

Pale with excitement, he continued his search, extending it to all his other pockets. But the treasure had disappeared!

Professor Riccabocca was panic-stricken. He could hardly suppress a groan.

A good woman sitting opposite, judging from his pallor that he was ill, leaned over and asked, in a tone of sympathy:

“Are you took sick?”

“No, ma'am,” answered the professor sharply.

“You look as if you was goin' to have a fit,” continued the sympathizing woman. “Jest take some chamomile tea the first chance you get. It's the sovereignest thing I know of—”

“Will chamomile tea bring back a lost pocket-book?” demanded the professor sharply.

“Oh, Lor'! you don't say you lost your money?”

“Yes, I do!” said Riccabocca, glaring at her.

“Oh, dear! do you think there's pickpockets in the car?” asked the old lady nervously.

“Very likely,” answered the professor tragically.

The good woman kept her hand in her pocket all the rest of the way, eyeing all her fellow passengers sharply.

But the professor guessed the truth. He had lost his wallet when he stumbled in the field. He was in a fever of impatience to return and hunt for it. Instead of going on to Chambersburg, he got out at the next station—five miles from Knoxville—and walked back on the railroad-track. So it happened that the telegram did no good.

The professor walked back to the hotel across the fields, hunting diligently, but saw nothing of the lost wallet. He entered the hotel, footsore, weary, and despondent. The first person he saw was Philip, sitting tranquilly in the office.

“Did you just come down from your room?” asked our hero coolly.

“I am a most unfortunate man!” sighed Riccabocca, sinking into a seat.

“What's the matter?”

“I've lost all our money.”

“I am glad you say 'our money.' I began to think you considered it all yours. Didn't I see you on the train?”

“I had a bad headache,” stammered the professor, “and I didn't know what I was doing.”

“Does riding in the cars benefit your head?”

Professor Riccabocca looked confused.

“The wallet was found,” said Philip, not wishing to keep him any longer in suspense.

“Where is it?” asked the professor eagerly.

“Mr. Perry will give it to you. I have taken out my share of the money, and Mr. Gates has received the amount of his bill. It would have been better for you to attend to these matters yourself like an honest man.”

Professor Riccabocca was so overjoyed to have back his own money that he made no fuss about Philip's proceedings. Indeed, his own intended dishonesty was so apparent that it would have required even more assurance than he possessed to make a protest.