From Farm to Fortune; or, Nat Nason's Strange Experience, Jr. Horatio Alger [classic english novels txt] 📗

make Lulu sick."

Being thus addressed, John Garwell turned redder than ever.

"Excuse me, madam," he stammered. "I—er—this is a mistake. My name is not Horace."

"Not Horace. The idea!"

"My name is John—John Garwell, and I am from New York."

At this answer the lady looked perplexed, and then indignant.

"Horace, quit your fooling!" she said, coldly.

"I am not fooling, madam."

"Oh, such a man! Perhaps you'll say next that I am not your wife!" continued the lady, with a black look.

"You certainly are not my wife, for I am a bachelor, madam," and now Mr. Garwell began to grow more embarrassed than ever, while Nat was completely mystified.

"Not my husband? Oh, you wretch, to say such a thing!" The lady turned to the child. "Lulu, who is this?"

"Why, that's papa," answered the little girl, promptly.

"Now, Horace, do you hear that?"

"I—I heard what she said," answered the real estate broker, feebly. "But—but——"

"If you are not her father, why did you buy her candy?"

"Just to keep her from calling me papa."

"Indeed! Did you want to bribe her? Oh, Horace, this is infamous! I—I—have you lost your mind?"

"No, but I think you and this child have."

At this the lady stared, and gave a gasp. She fainted, and would have fallen to the pavement had not Nat caught and supported her. Instantly a crowd began to collect.

"What's the trouble here?" asked one.

"The gentleman's wife has fainted," answered another.

"Excuse me, but she is not my wife," said John Garwell. "I don't know her."

"Certainly, she is your wife," cried a bystander. "I've seen you together lots of times, Mr. Mann."

"Wait," put in Nat. "Did you call this gentleman Mr. Mann?"

"Yes, and that's his name."

"You are mistaken. This gentleman is Mr. John Garwell."

"Go on with you, I know Mr. Mann too well to believe such a yarn."

"I don't care what you say, this gentleman is Mr. John Garwell, and he is from New York City."

"Then he has been playing a part here in Trenton, where he is known as Horace Q. Mann," said the bystander.

By this time the lady was coming to her senses. She clutched at the real estate broker.

"Take me home!" she murmured. "Oh, this is too much!"

"Better take her home," said several.

"I don't even know where she lives," answered John Garwell, blankly.

"She lives at 19 Hallock Street," said a boy in the crowd. "I'll show you the place, mister."

"Why not take her and the little girl home?" suggested Nat. "Perhaps you can clear up this mystery there?"

"All right, I will," answered his employer. "Nat, call a coach. I'm going to see this affair through. It's the oddest thing I ever had happen to me."

The coach was called, and the lady and the girl got in, and John Garwell and Nat followed.

"I knew you were coming home to-day from that trip to Washington," said the lady, with a tearful look in her face, "but I never dreamed you would act this way, Horace."

"Madam, will you answer me one question. Have you a husband who went to Washington?"

"Oh, Horace!"

Seeing he could make no headway, Mr. Garwell became silent. Inside of ten minutes they reached 19 Hallock Street, and the coach came to a halt. A servant let them into the mansion. As she did this she stared at the real estate broker and gave a low cry of surprise.

"Why, I—er—I thought Mr. Mann was in the library!" she stammered. "I didn't know he went out to meet you, Mrs. Mann."

"Let us go to the library," said John Garwell.

The lady of the house was willing, and hurried hither, followed by her daughter, the real estate broker, and Nat. As they entered, a gentleman who had been seated in an arm-chair, reading a book, arose to meet them.

"Well, Clara, I'm back," he said, cheerily.

"Oh!" screamed the lady, and fainted again, and not without good reason, for before her stood a gentleman who was almost the exact facsimile of Mr. Garwell in face, form, and general appearance.

"Why, which one of you is my papa?" cried little Lulu.

"I'm your papa!" answered the gentleman of the house. "Why—er—who—who is this?" he stammered, looking at John Garwell.

"Let us attend to your wife first," was the answer, and soon the lady of the house was restored to her senses. Then began a series of explanations.

"It was dreadful of me to make such a mistake," said Mrs. Mann, hysterically. "But—but——"

"I don't wonder at it—now," answered John Garwell. "Your husband could pass for my twin brother."

"I can hardly tell one from the other, myself," said Nat.

"Never mind; he bought me some candy," put in little Lulu, and this made all laugh.

"I am going to ask you to do something," said John Garwell, to Horace Mann. "I think you owe it to me to walk down town, so that your fellow citizens can see that there are really two of us."

"Yes, Horace," pleaded his wife. "I made a lot of trouble for Mr. Garwell."

Horace Mann agreed readily, and soon he and the real estate broker and Nat left the residence. On the main streets of Trenton many stopped to stare after them. Among the number was the man who had spoken to Mr. Garwell, and insisted that the real estate broker was Mr. Mann.

"I apologize," said the man, promptly. "But I reckon you'll admit the resemblance is simply wonderful."

"I do admit it," was the answer. "Still, that doesn't make me anybody but myself."

Horace Mann insisted upon taking John Garwell and Nat to dinner, and treated them to the best the restaurant afforded.

"After this I'm going to wear a badge, so my wife will know me," said the Trenton man. "And I'll never dare to come to New York, for fear of being taken for you."

CHAPTER XVIII NAT MEETS HIS UNCLE

"Nat, if you wish to do me a favor, do not mention this affair to anybody in New York," said John Garwell, when the pair were on the train, bound for the metropolis.

"I won't say a word, sir."

"There was nothing wrong about it, but I don't want my friends to make a laughing stock of me," added the bachelor.

"I shall never mention it to anybody," returned our hero, and it may be added here that he never did. The matter was also hushed up in Trenton, so nothing more was heard of it.

Our hero was kept very busy for a day or two after his trip into New Jersey. Part of his time was spent over some books, and the balance was used up in running errands, and delivering important papers and documents.

Once again he visited police headquarters, to learn if anything had been heard of Nick Smithers.

"We have learned that he visited Jersey City not long ago," said an official. "But before we could get the authorities to lay their hands on him, he disappeared. We rather think he is in New York again, and if so, we shall do all we can to round him up."

On the following day Nat was sent on an errand up to Forty-second Street. He had to deliver some real estate documents, and this done, he stopped for a moment to look at the Grand Central Depot.

"Thank fortune, I am not quite so green as I was when I landed," he mused.

He was just leaving the vicinity of the station, when, chancing to look down a side street, he saw a sight that filled him with astonishment.

"Uncle Abner, and the Widow Guff!" he murmured. "What are they doing, talking to that seedy-looking fellow?"

Our hero was right. There, near the entrance to a big building, stood Abner Balberry and his bride, and a sharp-eyed but shabbily dressed stranger was talking to them very earnestly.

"Uncle Abner must have married the widow," thought Nat. "More than likely they are on their wedding tour. Wonder what that other fellow wants of uncle?"

Nat's first inclination was to leave the spot, so that his relative might not discover him. But he did not like the looks of the stranger, and so drew closer, to learn, if possible, what the interview meant.

The man had just come past Abner and his wife, and had pretended to pick up a pocketbook.

"Say, did you drop your pocketbook?" he asked, of Abner.

"I—I guess not!" stammered the farmer, and felt to make certain that his own wallet was safe.

"Queer, who did drop this," went on the stranger. "Pretty well filled, too," he added, opening the pocketbook and looking into it.

"Did you jest pick it up?" queried Abner, falling into the trap.

"Sure, right down there. Say, this is a find, ain't it?" and the man smiled broadly.

"That's what it is," said the farmer.

"I wish I could find a pocketbook," sighed Mrs. Balberry.

"I'd like to return this to the owner," went on the stranger. "I don't want to keep anybody's money."

"'Tain't everybody would say thet," was Abner's comment. He wished he had made the find.

"I suppose not, but I believe in being honest." The stranger scratched his head. "Hang me, if I know what to do," he continued.

"What do you mean?"

"I've got to go out of town soon—train leaves in ten minutes. I don't want to take this with me. It don't seem just right."

"I see."

"Can't you find the owner—I'm sure he would pay us a reward."

"Me find the owner?" stammered the farmer.

"Yes. You might advertise. The pocketbook has got at least a hundred dollars in it. The owner ought to give you twenty-five for returning it."

"Maybe he would."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said the stranger, earnestly. "You take the pocketbook, and give me ten dollars. If you can find the owner, you can claim twenty-five dollars reward."

"An' supposin' I can't find the owner?"

"Then you can keep the pocketbook."

The temptation was strong, and Abner looked at his newly-made wife.

"Might as well take it, Abner," she said, promptly. "I guess we can find the owner quick enough," and she pinched his arm suggestively.

The farmer drew forth his wallet, and began to count out ten dollars. At the same time the stranger gazed again into the other wallet.

"Must be about a hundred and fifty dollars in this," he said. "I'll trust you to do the square thing by the owner."

"Oh, you kin trust me," said Abner, quickly.

He was about to pass over his ten dollars, when he felt somebody catch him by the arm, and turning, he beheld Nat.

"Nat!" he gasped.

"Not so fast, Uncle Abner!" cried our hero. "You had better keep your money."

"Wh—what?"

"Put your money away."

"See here, what do you mean by interfering?" said the stranger, roughly.

"If he gives up the pocketbook take the ten dollars out of that," went on Nat. "My idea is, there isn't a dollar in the pocketbook."

"Nat!"

"That's right, uncle. This is an old game. I heard all about it only a few days ago."

"Oh, you go to grass!" cried the stranger, with a malicious look at Nat, and then he hurried away with all speed.

"Where did you spring from, Nat?"

"I was in this neighborhood on an errand, Uncle Abner. How do you do, Mrs. Guff."

"I'm not Mrs. Guff any more," said the lady. "I'm Mrs. Balberry, your new aunt."

"Oh, so you're married, Uncle Abner."

"Yes," was the answer. "But see here, Nat, I don't understand about thet pocketbook," said the farmer.

"It's simple enough. As I said before, the game is an old one. That fellow had the pocketbook all the time. It was stuffed with old paper, with a dollar bill wrapped on the outside. He wanted to get your money, and if he had gotten it he would have left you with a pocketbook worth about a quarter, with nothing but old paper and a dollar bill in it, and maybe he would have taken the dollar bill out, too."

"Well, I never!" cried Mrs. Balberry. "Did you ever hear of such a swindle!"

"They play all sorts of games in a big city like this. You've got to keep your eyes open."

"I know it," groaned Abner Balberry. "Yesterday, a cabman cheated me out o' fifty cents, an' a boy got a quarter from me by a bogus telegram. I thought something had happened to hum, and when I opened the telegram it had nuthin but a sheet o' blank paper inside!"

"That was too bad."

There was an awkward pause. Now that the farmer had found Nat he hardly knew what to say. He had expected to upbraid his nephew for running away, but the pocketbook episode rather flustered him.

"So you come to New York, didn't you?" he said, slowly.

"Yes."

"Are you working?"

"Yes, and I've got a pretty good job, too."

"What at?"

"I'm in an office downtown."

"How much do you git?"

"What do you think, Uncle Abner?"

"About two or three dollars a week."

"I get seven dollars a week."

"Seven dollars a week—fer