Chester Rand Part 64

He remained a week in Tacoma, and before the end of that time all arrangements were perfected, and he found himself the owner of seven lots, more or less eligible, in addition to the two he had reserved in the original plot.

On the evening of the second day, as he was taking a walk alone, he encountered David Mullins.

"Good-evening, Mr. Mullins," he said, politely.

"Good-evening, Chester," returned the bookkeeper, flus.h.i.+ng slightly. "I want to thank you for not exposing my past misdeeds."

"I hope, Mr. Mullins, you did not think me mean enough to do so."

"I am sorry to say that according to my sad experience eight out of ten would have done so, especially if they had reason, like you, to complain of personal ill treatment."

"I don't believe in persecuting a man."

"I wish all were of your way of thinking. Shall I tell you my experience?"

"If you will."

"When I left New York I went to Chicago and obtained the position of collector for a mercantile establishment. I was paid a commission, and got on very well till one unlucky day I fell in with an acquaintance from New York.

"'Where are you working?' he asked.

"I told him.

"The next day my employer summoned me to his presence.

"'I shall not require your services any longer,' he said.

"I asked no questions. I understood that my treacherous friend had given me away.

"I had a few dollars saved, and went to Minneapolis. There I was undisturbed for six months. Then the same man appeared and again deprived me of my situation."

"How contemptible!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Chester, with a ring of scorn in his voice.

"Then I came to Tacoma, and here I have been thus far undisturbed. When I saw you I had a scare. I thought my time had come, and I must again move on."

"So far from wis.h.i.+ng to harm you, Mr. Mullins," said Chester, "if, through the meanness of others you get into trouble you can any time send to me for a loan of fifty dollars."

"Thank you," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mullins, gratefully, wringing Chester's hand.

"You are heaping coals of fire on my head."

"You will always have my best wishes for your prosperity. If ever you are able, repay the money you took from Mr. Fairchild, and I will venture to promise that he will forgive you."

"With G.o.d's help I will!"

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

ABNER TRIMBLE'S PLOT.

Just off First Street, in Portland, Ore., is a saloon, over which appears the name of the proprietor:

"Abner Trimble."

Two rough-looking fellows, smoking pipes, entered the saloon. Behind the bar stood a stout, red-faced man. This was Trimble, and his appearance indicated that he patronized the liquors he dispensed to others.

"Glad to see you, Floyd," said Trimble.

"That means a gla.s.s of whisky, doesn't it?" returned Floyd.

"Well, not now. I want you to go up to the house again, to see my wife."

"About the old matter?"

"Yes; she isn't quite satisfied about the kid's death, and she won't make a will in my favor till she is. She wants to ask you a few questions."

Floyd made a wry face.

"She's as bad as a lawyer. I say, Abner, I'm afraid I'll get tripped up."

"You must stick to the old story."

"What was it?"

"Don't you remember you said that the kid hired a boat to row in the harbor along with two other boys, and the boat was upset and all three were drowned?"

"Yes, I remember. It's a smart yarn, isn't it?" grinned Floyd.

"Yes, but you mustn't let her doubt it. You remember how you came to know about the drowning?"

"No, I forget."

Abner Trimble frowned.

"Look here, Floyd. You'd better remember, or you won't get the money I promised you. You were out in a boat yourself, and saw the whole thing.

You jumped into the water, and tried to save the kid, but it was no use. He went to the bottom--and that was the end of him!"

"A very pretty story," said Floyd, complacently. "Won't I get somethin'

for tryin' to save the kid's life?"

"As like as not. I'll suggest it to the old lady myself."

"When do you want me to go up to the house?"

"Now. The lawyer's coming at four o'clock, and I want you to confirm Mrs. T. in her belief in the boy's death."

"It's dry talkin', Abner," said Floyd, significantly.