Joe the Hotel Boy; Or, Winning out by Pluck, Pluck by Jr. Horatio Alger [ereader android txt] 📗

“I reckon you are glad you got the satchel before this happened,” remarked Bill Badger, when they were preparing to retire.

“Yes. But I—I wish they had gotten away. It's awful to think they are dead—and with such bad doings to their credit.”

Joe did not sleep very well and he was up early in the morning and out on the rear platform, drinking in the fresh air. He felt as if he had passed through some fearful nightmare.

“How do you like this climate?” asked Bill Badger, as he came out. “Ain't it just glorious?”

“It certainly is,” said Joe, and he remembered what Ned had told him. “I don't wonder some folks like it better than the East.”

“Oh, the East can't compare to it,” answered Bill Badger. “Why I was once down to New York and Boston, and the crowd and confusion and smoke and smells made me sick for a week! Give me the pure mountain air every time!”

The day proved a pleasant one and when he did not remember the tragedy that had occurred our hero enjoyed the ride and the wild scenery.

At last Golden Pass was reached, late at night, and they got off in a crowd of people.

“Joe!”

“Mr. Vane!” was the answering cry, and soon the two were shaking hands. “Let me introduce a new friend, Mr. Bill Badger.”

“Glad to know you.”

“Mr. Badger helped me get back your satchel,” went on our hero.

“Then I am deeply indebted to him.”

“In that case, just drop the mister from my name,” drawled the young westerner. “Joe tells me you have a mine up here. My father has one, too—the Mary Jennie, next to the Royal Flush.”

“Oh, yes, I know the mine, and I have met your father,” said Maurice Vane.

They walked to a hotel, and there Joe and his young western friend told their stories, to which Maurice Vane listened with keen interest. The gentleman was shocked to learn of the sudden death of Caven and Malone.

“It was certainly a sad ending for them,” said he. “But, as Badger says, they had nobody but themselves to blame for it.”

Maurice Vane was extremely glad to get back his mining shares and thanked Bill Badger warmly for what he had done.

“Don't you mention it,” said the young westerner. “I'm going to hunt up dad now. When you get time, call and see us.”

“I'm coming up soon, to find out about that Bill Bodley,” said Joe.

As late as it was Joe listened to what Maurice Vane had to tell.

“Now that Caven and Malone are gone I do not anticipate further trouble at the mine,” said the gentleman. “I am in practical possession of all the shares, and shall have a clear title to the whole property inside of a few weeks.”

When Joe told him what Bill Badger had had to say about a certain man called Bill Bodley he was much interested.

“Yes, you must find out about this man at once,” said he. “I will help you, as soon as certain matters are settled.”

The next morning proved a busy one and Joe got no time to call upon Bill Badger's father. He visited the mine and looked over it with interest.

During the middle of the afternoon he went back to town on an errand for Mr. Vane. He was passing a cabin on the outskirts when he heard loud words and a struggle.

“Let me go, you ruffian!” cried a weak voice. “Leave that money alone!”

“You shut up, old man!” was the answer. “The money is all right.”

“You are trying to rob me!”

Then there was another struggle, and suddenly a door burst open and a man leaped into the roadway. At sight of him Joe came to a halt. The fellow was Bill Butts, the man who had tried to swindle Josiah Bean.

“Stop him!” came from the cabin. “He has my gold!”

“Stop!” cried Joe, and ran up to Butts. The next moment man and boy tripped and fell, but, luckily, our hero was on top.

“Let me go!” growled the man.

“So we meet again, Butts!” cried Joe.

The man stared in amazement and then began to struggle. Seeing this, Joe doubled up his fists and gave him a blow in the nose and in the right eye, which caused him to roar with pain.

“That's right!” came from the doorway of the cabin. “Give it to him! Make him give me my gold!”

“Give up the gold,” ordered Joe.

“There it is!” growled Bill Butts, and threw a buckskin bag towards the cabin. The man from within caught it up and stowed it away in his pocket.

“Shall I call a policeman?” asked Joe.

“I don't know,” said the man from the cabin. He wore a troubled face and had white hair and a white beard. “It may be—Wha—where did you come from?” he gasped.

“Where did I come from?” asked Joe.

“Yes! yes! Answer me quickly! You are—you must be a ghost! I saw you in my dreams last week!”

“I don't understand you,” said Joe, and arose slowly to his feet, at which Bill Butts did likewise and began to retreat. “I never met you before.”

“No? It's queer.” The man brushed his hand over his forehead. “Yes, I must be dreaming. But I am glad I got my gold back.”

“So am I, but the rascal has run away.”

“Never mind, let him go.”

“What makes you think you've seen me before?” questioned Joe, and his breath came thick and fast.

“I—er—I don't know. You mustn't mind me—I have queer spells at times. You see, I had a whole lot of trouble once, and when I get to thinking about it—” The man did not finish.

“May I ask your name?” asked Joe, and his voice trembled in spite of his efforts at self-control.

“Sure you can. It's Bill Bodley.”

“William A. Bodley?”

“Yes. But how do you happen to know my full name?”

“Did you once own a farm in Millville, Iowa?”

“I had a farm in Iowa, yes. It was Millville Center in those days.”

Joe drew closer and looked at the