True to Himself; Or, Roger Strong's Struggle for Place Part 10

"I, Nicholas Weaver, being on the point of death from pneumonia, do make this my last statement, which I hereby swear is true in every particular."

This was the beginning of the doc.u.ment which I hoped would in some way free my father's character from the stain that now rested on it.

Exactly who Nicholas Weaver was I did not know, though it ran in my mind that I had heard this name mentioned by my father during the trial.

Beyond the opening paragraph I have quoted the handwriting was almost illegible, and in the dim light it was only here and there that I could pick out such words as "bank," "a.s.sumed," "risk," "name," and so forth, which gave but an inkling of the real contents of the precious doc.u.ment.

"It's too bad," was my thought. "I'd give all I possess to be able to read this right off, word for word."

Hardly had the reflection crossed my mind when a noise outside startled me. I had just time enough to thrust the paper into my pocket when the door was swung open and the tramp appeared.

He was evidently as much surprised as I was, for he stopped short in amazement, while the short pipe he carried between his lips fell unnoticed to the floor.

I rightly conjectured he had not noticed the light of the lantern and fully believed the tool house tenantless.

"You here!" he cried.

"It looks like it, doesn't it?" was all I could find to reply, and as I spoke my hand sought the pistol I carried.

"What brought you here?" he demanded roughly.

"I came after you," I returned as coolly as I could; and by this time I had the pistol where it could be brought into instant use.

"What do you want of me?"

"I want you to hand over the money you stole awhile ago."

"What are you talking about? I never stole any money."

"You did. You broke into the Widow Canby's house less than an hour ago. Come, hand over that money."

The fellow gave a coa.r.s.e laugh. "Ha! ha! do you think I'm to be bluffed by a boy? Get home with you, before I hammer you for calling me a thief."

"That's just what you are, and I don't intend to go until you hand over the money, John Stumpy," I returned decidedly.

"Ha! you know my name?"

I bit my lip. I was sorry for the slip I had made. But I put on a bold front. "I know what you are called," I replied.

"What I am called?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean? Come, out with it."

"I will when I please. In the meantime hand over that money."

"You talk like a fool!" he cried.

"Never mind. You'll find I won't act like one."

"What do you know about me?" he went on curiously, believing, no doubt, that he was perfectly safe from attack.

"I know more than you think. I know you are a burglar, and may be worse."

"I'll kill you!" he cried, rus.h.i.+ng forward.

"Stand where you are!" I returned, pulling out the pistol. "Don't stir a step."

He did not see the weapon until he was fairly upon me. The glint of the nickeled steel made him s.h.i.+ver.

"Don't shoot!" he cried in sudden terror, that showed he was a coward at heart. "Don't--don't shoot."

"I won't if you do as I tell you."

"Do what?"

"Give up the widow's money."

"See here, young fellow, you've made a mistake. I never was near the widow's house, 'cepting this morning."

"I know better. You just broke open her desk and stole over two hundred dollars."

"It's a mistake. Put down the pistol and I'll tell you all about it."

"I'm not such a fool, Mr. John Stumpy, or whatever your name is," was my decided reply.

The tone of my voice disconcerted the man, for he paused as if not knowing what to say next.

"Say, young feller, do you want to make some money?" he asked suddenly, after a short pause.

The change in his manner surprised me.

"How?" I asked, although I knew about what was coming.

"I've got nearly three hundred dollars in cash with me. I'll give you fifty of it if you'll go home and say you couldn't find me."

"Thank you; I'm not doing business that way," I rejoined coldly.

"Fifty dollars ain't to be sneezed at," he went on insinuatingly.

"I wouldn't care if you offered me fifty thousand," I cried sharply.

"I'm no thief."

"Humph; don't you suppose I know who you are?" he went on. "You're the son of a thief. Do you hear that?--the son of a thief! What right have you got to set yourself up to be any better than your father was afore you?"

"Take care!" I cried, my blood fairly boiling as I spoke. He saw his mistake.