7
“The
Peril
and
the
Prize”
W ritten E xpressly for this M agazine by David K yle Nicholson
&==
Their coming had been a irystery, their
CHAPTER I.
had been a greater. They had gone
ET others say what they may, I oing
been absolutely noiseless and unseen,
claim that for a bachelor there is as ad completely
as if they had never existed.
no comfort like that of a fur Now seven years
had passed and the
nished room. A hotel gives a certain
was as complete as ever. Not a
measure of independence, but you are mystery
inquiry ever had been received to
never for a moment unaware that you are single
indicate that elsewhere in the world was
in a hotel. You are one of many, and no anybody
matter how long you stay, you never feel going. interested in their coming and
that you are at home. A boarding-house Now for good or ill I had chosen to
is a place where you have all the disad make Lucy Dean the object of my roman
vantages and none of the advantages of tic
and sentimental regard. It was not suf
hotel life. Private board, so called, means ficient
to make me lose any of my good
that your privacy is in all respects reduced three
meals a day or to cause me any
to the minimum. Extensive apartments particular
grief at any time. It was
make a man feel as if he were a fish and rather a luxury
than otherwise. It filled
the only one in, say, Lake Ontario. But my dreams whenever
I chose to be senti
a well-furnished room with good light, mental, gave me a chance
believe that
proper heat and an obliging landlady will I, too, had had my romance to and
insure all the comfort any reasonable man a vision whenever I hummed supplied
“Annie
can desire; and the feeling that he is lord
or other lovesick tune. Also it
of all within his four walls comes to him is Laurie”
possible
that
her
memory
had
prevented
and comforts him when, wearied and dis me from falling in love with some pretty
gusted. he comes home at the close of a stenographer whom I met in the course of
trying business day.
and marrying and living happily
I had engaged such a room as I had my work
after in a Harlem flat, up four flights
long desired. It had no outlook w’orth ever
mentioning, but I am much more inclined of I stairs.
around my comfortable lodg
to reading than to looking out of the win ings looked
which I had determined should be
dow. If I were anxious for a view of out my
home
for
years to come, and
of doors, I had only a short w’alk to River then took down many
a volume and began to
side or Central Park. The room was spa read for the thousandth
time Thackeray’s
cious, my own belongings were duly “Cane-Bottomed Chair,” sentimentally
im
placed, the fire was blazing in the grate agining that many years had passed and
and I settled down to my first evening’s that I had grown old and white-haired,
enjoyment of my newly occupied apart - but still dreaming of the days of my youth
ment. I wras so well satisfied that I felt and fitting my Lucy to the Fanny of the
that it would be years before 1 should poem. True, she had never been in the
have occasion to choose other quarters.
and I had no cane-bottomed chair,
'And yet so uncertain are the affairs of room
when we are determined to be senti
human life that I was destined never but
we do not stick at trifles.
to spend a single night within those mental
I could hardly be blamed for my sen
walls, even though the clock was just then timent.
With or without reason, seh-
striking the hour of ten.
tiinent is bound to play a part in our lives
i I leaned back in my chair in dreamy and—I
had seen Lucy Dean. Seldom is
enjoyment, accentuated by the fact that to given, below
stars, a vision of beauty
morrow was Thanksgiving Day and there such as I had the beheld
in the brief months
was no going to the office. I am not of our acquaintance. The
clear blue eyes,
lazy, but who does not enjoy a respite the light, rippling brown hair,
faultless
from the regular daily grind of business? complexion, the high, smooth the brow,
the
I determined the hotel at which I would frank, innocent expression, the merry
dine on the morrow, the excursion I laugh, the silvery voice, the dancing step
would take, the theatre I would attend. never could be forgotten. And she was
Then, though my years are not so many good as beautiful, with the strong intelli
as they are now, I fell to thinking of the gence necessary to complete goodness,
past. Everything is relative and the young kind, sympathetic and true. Never. I felt
man looks back a fcwr years to what seems assured, would I see her again and, though
the distant past and sings “Auld Lang I might grow old, Lucy would remain to
Syne” as sentimentally as the most ancient me always the same.
of his ciders.
How long I might have gone on dream
I cannot say. We never may know,
This was especially the case with me. ing
we think we may. what would
who. in coming to the city years before, though
happened if something else had not.
had in a moment completely severed with have
I was brought back to earth by a loud
the past. On leaving the little academy knock
at my door. 1 promptly opened and
which had furnished me with all that I
could afford'in the. way of higher educa confronted my visitor.
tion, I had gone straight to the city and It was the man with the raw-beef face
and dingy green uniform of a public hack-
by an odd chance stumbled into a satis driver.
factory position. I exchanged letters with “Ziss Mr. West mark?” he asked in the
my friends and relatives, but they grew language and husky voice of his kind.
less and less frequent and harder and “That is my name,” I answered.
harder to write. I had a few new-formed “Zare’*
down in de street wants
friend> in the city, but they occupied little ’a see you,” a lady
of my time or thoughts. So I worked “All right, he I’ll said. come down,” I said,
through the day «and at night went to my though
with profound wonder as to who
room and read and thought about the could wish
to see me. It must be. I
past.
vaguely
thought, some distant relative
That evening, which above all others from the country
to let me know the
must stand out in the memories of my hotel at w'hich she come
wras staying.
life. I was thinking, as I often did, of I followed the hackman
to
Lucy Dean. I had known her but a year the street where the carriage downstairs
at the
when I was at the academy, but she was curb. He at once climbed stood
to
his
seat
still before me. a joyous vision such as after flinging open the door of the car
I never expected to see again. There was
A face leaned forward from
a mistery about her. too, or rather, about riage.
lier father and family. They had come to within.
“How
de do? I suppose you don’t know
the little town and rented a house and me?” catne
a thin voice. “I am Mrs. Min
Lucy had gone to the academy, the father ton, Professor
Monroe’s sister,” she said,
had walked about with his head bowed after I had admitted
I did not know.
and an aunt had kept the house and kept “The professor is in that
for a $pw
out visitors; and people wondered and days and he wants you Brooklyn
to
take
dinner with
talked and shook their heads. Where him to-morrow.”
they came from nobody knew. Often “Why,” I “said, in astonishment. “I
times the question was hinted and some heard that Professor Monroe died three
times put point blank.
ago!”
“Papa does not want me to talk about years
“Well,
of all things in the world!” said
his affairs,” Lucy would reply with so the woman,
a feeble laugh. “If he
sweet a smile that there was no chance is dead it is with
the last hour. How
for offense. The two elders were shorter on earth did within
you ever hear such a thing
and more decisive in their replies.
as that?”
One day the news went round the little “I had a letter from one of my class
town that the Deans were gone. They mates,” I said.
had rented a furnished house and the rent “Well, you come over to Brooklyn to
was paid three months in advance. They morrow and see whether he is dead or
owed nothing in the village. Nobody had not. Do you know if there are any more
any word of their going. Nobody had of his boys in the city?”
seen them at the station. They had no “I believe there are several,” I said. “I
liorsc, no carriage. They had not engaged will try to look up such addresses as pos
any, so far as anybody knew. Their flight sible and let you know to-morrow.”
L
“I think it would be better,” she said,
“if you would give me the names now.
and I will look up the addresses and have
as many of them as possible to dinner
to-morrow. But won’t you get into the
carriage while we talk? The air seems
very chilly to me.”
“Certainly,” I said, and stepped within.
Just then the hackman shouted out some
indistinguishable words.
“What is it?” said the woman, rising
and putting her head out of the carriage.
“I say as how- I’ve been drivin’ round
long enough.” he said. “I’ve got to see
the color of your money or I’ll drive youse
to the station, see?”
“No need of your insolence!” said the
woman, taking out her purse and stepping
to the sidewalk. “How much is the bill?”
What the hackman’s response was I
never knew, for the woman flung shut the
door of the carriage, and at the" same
moment there was a forward lurch and
the horses went away at a gallop.
1 jumped up in the dark and tried the
door of the carriage, but I could find no
w’ay to open it. I shouted, but in vain.
I could hear a steady clattering of what I
knew not, but it was sufficient to drown
my voice, shut within the close confines of
the swiftly moving vehicle.
On the carriage went—on and on and
on. in spite of all my frenzied efforts to
escape. Why I was being taken thus was
a mystery. At first I thought of the
ludicrous, if annoying, explanation that
the woman was an impostor who had
given the hackman the slip after beating
him out of her fare and that the latter was
taking me to the police station to answer
for tl^ sins of another. This explanation
faded as the carriage continued on and
on. I heard the crash of the elevated
trains, the clang of the street car gong,
together with the continuous beat of the
horses’ feet upon the pavement. Pres
ently all these sounds ceased and we were
going along dirt roads. The city was be
ing left behind. I threw myself back on
the cushions and defiantly awaited the
outcome of my adventure.
I was utterly and hopelessly puzzled
as to why anybody should take the trou
ble to kidnap me, for I w'as neither a
maiden fair, a soldier brave nor a king
dom’s heir, a traitor vile nor a millionaire,
and why they should take such elaborate
pains to carry off a broker’s clerk with
six dollars in his pocket was too much for
my comprehension.
On we went. Like other foolish and
impatient persons I asked if that ride ever
would find an end. Of course it found an
end, as does whatever is evil and dis
tressing in life. The motion of the car
riage slowed and then stopped.
There was a long wait and then the
carriage door was thrown open and I
looked upon a landscape brilliantly lighted
by moonlight.
‘*Comc out, young feller,” said the
husky voice of the driver. “Nobody’s
oin’ to hurt you. But if you try to
reak away or go puttin’ lip a fight you’ll
come to a sudden stop, see?”
I saw, fortunately for my health and
comfort. There were five or six fellows
standing about and as tough-looking a lot
as one could wish to see.
“This w’ay, cully,” said one of them,
seizing my arm.
“Hands off!” I said, angrily, shaking
myself loose. “I am not trying to get
away. Here I ani. What do you want
witli me?”
“Want you to go in the house and keep
quiet!” said one of the gang.
“Mebbe you’d like to say something to
me in particular!” said the one who had
laid hands on me.
“I certainly would!” I said. “If the rest
will see fair play. I’ll promise you an in
teresting tw’o minutes.”
“I’m ready for you, «all right,” the bully
said.
“Get out, you fool!” said another,
chucking him unceremoniously aside;
“the boss wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Don’t be afraid, young feller,” he con
tinued, “you’re goin’ to get a square deal.
Just be peaceable and you’re all right.
But there ain’t no use gettin’ mad about
if ’cause there’s no good in tryin’ to buck
the whole gang. Right in at that door!'
Common sense again came to my rescue.
It w’ould have been a fine piece of heroics
for me to cry “Die, villain!" or something
of that sort and fling myself at the toughs,
but there is no doubt tjiat I would have
gained a broken head, a bloody nose, two
black eyes and an assortment of sore, if
■ 5 >
not broken, ribs in return for my demon
stration. I thought it over and decided to
let the villains die at some other time and
place, though I prayed that it might be
soon. I walked unhesitatingly through the
door and into a dark hall. The door
closed with a bang, and I heard it locked
from the outside. There was an uncom
fortable wait, and then a door opened at
the other end of the lviU and a fat,
middle-aged woman appeared, carrying a
small lamp.
“How do?” she said, as she came for
ward with a kind of vacant grin, appar
ently intended to express welcome.
I stood stiffly and did not return her
greeting.
“ This way and I’ll show you your
room,” she said, still grinning and show
ing a row of teeth which, while perfect,
w’ere absurdly small and with wide spaces
between them.
%
I could see no reason for standing in
the hall, so I followed without a word.
Up two flights of stairs I went, and then
I was shown a room which, while un
doubtedly a prison for the time, was a
most luxurious one. I saw a bed with
snow-white linen, easy chairs, a table, a
bookcase filled to overflowing. The room
was spacious, the ceiling was lofty, the
carpet was thick and fine. A grotesque
feature, considering the undoubtedly crim
inal nature of the place, was a huge iami!
Bible, occupying the place of bailor on the
table at the centre of the room.
“That looks comfortable, doesn’t it?”
said the woman, pausing at the door. “I
hope the boys hain’t been rough with you
nor nothin’, ’cause they had orders not to
be. You’ll be treated right, don't be
afraid. The boss wants to see you a little
bit in the in*»ruin’ and then you’ll go all
ri^ht, an’ mebbe a tidy bit in your pocket.
Its more of a joke like than anything else.”
“Quite a joke,” I said, stiffly.
‘T il be back in a minute,” she said,
shutting the .door, which closed with a
spring lock. I saw nor heard anything of
the gang, but I knew that they were not
far away, and it w’ould be follv to attempt
rushing past the fat woman who was con
stituted my jailer. She came back speed
ily, bearing a plate of sandwiches and a
glass of milk.
“You’ll find these are good.” she said,
putting them on the table. “You must be
hungry after your long ride.”
“Is it very far?” I asked, thinking thus
to gain a clue, even if a slight one, as to
where I was.
“Well, now ! Do you think I’m such a
green one as to answer questions like
that?” the woman answered, laughing and
shaking her fat—well. I believe that polite
writers would probably call it her sides.
J drew up to the sandwiches without a
vvord. and the woman was gone, bid
ding me a cheerful good-night.
I was indeed hungry, and the sand
wiches were certainly good. I ate until l
was satisfied, and then, though I knew
it was far toward morning. I began look
ing around the room. The window was
not barred, but it was nt least thirty feet
from the ground, and I could near the
steady crunch of the gravel in the walk
in the garden beneath, which told me that
there was some one doing duty as sentry
to prevent any effort at escape. The walls
w’ere of stone, the door was of heavy oak.
If I had attacked it with my penknife
probably after many hours I could have
pierced it, but to what purpose? I was
there to stay until my captors saw fit to
give me freedom.
I looked ai the books. They were of an
assortment such as any person of taste
might select, and certainly nothing likely
to indicate a criminal or even morbid taste.
I looked in the flyleaves for some inscriu
tion, but found nothing, such search in one
ease having been anticipated by tearing out
the writing. I looked at the pictures on
the wall. There were three of them,
paintings of rare merit. One was a laud
scape showing an excellent combination of
lake and mountain. Another showed sev
eral boys engaged in a game of marbles.
The other was a portrait of a lady, and in
from of this I stood with starting eyes,
just as my lamp, burning low’, started to
flicker preparatory to going out. It was a
picture of Lucy Dean.
CHAPTER II.
The expiring light left me no choice but
to go to bed. I had expected, in my fever
ish excitement, to lay awake until morn
ing, but Morpheus
is a god who plays
(Continued or p tig< ■?).