"You'll have to ask the boss."

The boss proved to be a jolly German.

"Vont ter haf a ride, does you!" he laughed.

"I'm not over particular about the ride," I explained. "I've got to
get to Chicago as soon as possible, even if I have to walk."

"Vell, jump on, den."

I did so, and a moment later we were off. I was pretty confident that
Mr. Allen Price had not witnessed my departure, and I hoped he would
not find it out for some hours to come.

The rain had now slackened, so there was no further danger of getting
soaked to the skin. There were four men on the car besides the boss,
and seeing they were short a hand I took hold with a will.

Fortunately the grade was downward, and we had but little difficulty
in sending the car on its way. At the end of half an hour the stream
came in sight, and then as we slackened up I hopped off.

Down by the water's edge I found that the bridge had shifted fully six
inches out of line with the roadbed. It was, however, in a pretty safe
condition, and I had no difficulty in crossing to the other side.

Despite the storm a goodly number of men were assembled on the
opposite bank, anxiously watching the efforts of the workmen. Among
them I found a man, evidently a cabman, standing near a coupe, the
horses of which were still smoking from a long run.

"Are you from Foley?" I asked, stepping up.

"No; just come all the way from Chicago," was the reply. "Had to bring
two men down that wanted to get to Smalleyville."

This was interesting news. Perhaps I could get the man to take me back
with him. Of course he would take me if I hired him in the regular
way, but if I did this, I was certain he would charge me a small
fortune.

"I am going to Chicago," I said. "I just came from Smalleyville."

"That so? Want to hire my rig?"

"You charge too much," I returned. "A fellow like me can't afford
luxuries."

"Take you there for two dollars. It's worth five-- those two men gave
me ten."

"What time will you land me in Chicago?"

"Where do you want to go?"

That question was a poser. I knew no more of the city of Chicago than
I did of Paris or Pekin. Yet I did not wish to be set down on the
outskirts, and not to show my ignorance I answered cautiously:--

"To the railroad depot."

"Have you the time now?"

"It is about seven o'clock."

"I'll be there by nine."

"All right. Land me there by that time, and I'll pay you the two
dollars."

"It's a go. Jump in," he declared.

I did so. A moment later he gathered up the reins, and we went
whirling down the road.

The ride was an easy one, and as we bowled along I had ample
opportunity to ponder over my situation. I wondered what Mr. Allen
Price would think when he discovered I was nowhere to be found. I
could well imagine his chagrin, and I could not help smiling at the
way I had outwitted him. I was not certain what sort of a man Chris
Holtzmann would prove to be, and therefore it was utterly useless to
plan a means of approaching him.

At length we reached the suburbs of Chicago, and rolled down one of
the broad avenues. It was now clear and bright, and the clean broad
street with its handsome houses pleased me very much.

In half an hour we reached the business portion of the city, and soon
the coupe came to a halt and the driver opened the door.

"Here we are," said he.

I jumped to the ground and gazed around. Opposite was the railroad
station, true enough, and beyond blocks and blocks of tall business
buildings, which reminded me strongly of New York.

I paid the cabman the two dollars I had promised, and he drove off.

In Chicago at last! I looked around. I was in the heart of a great
city, knowing no one, and with no idea of where to go.

Yet my heart did not fail me. My mind was too full of the object of my
quest to allow me to become faint-hearted. I was there for a purpose,
and that purpose must be accomplished.

My clothes were still damp, but the sunshine was fast drying them.
Near by was a bootblack's chair, and dropping into this, I had him
polish my shoes and brush me up generally.

While he was performing the operation I questioned him concerning the
streets and gained considerable information.

"Did you ever hear of a man by the name of Chris Holtzmann?" I asked.

"I dunno," was the slow reply. "What does he do?"

"I don't know what business he is in. He came from Brooklyn."

The bootblack shook his head.

"This city is a big place. There might be a dozen men by his name
here. The street what you spoke about has lots of saloons and theatres
on it. Maybe he's in that business."

"Maybe he is," I returned. "I must find out somehow."

"You can look him up in the directory. You'll find one over in the
drug store on the corner."

"Thank you; I guess that's what I'll do," I replied.

When he had finished, I paid him ten cents for his work, and walked
over to the place he had mentioned.

A polite clerk waited on me and pointed out the directory lying on a
stand.

I looked it over carefully, and three minutes later walked out with
Chris Holtzmann's new address in my pocket.

As I did so, I saw a stream of people issue from the depot. Some of
them looked familiar. Was it possible that the train from Smalleyville
had managed to come through, after all? It certainly looked like it.

I was not kept long in doubt. I crossed over to make sure, and an
instant later found myself face to face with Allen Price!

  CHAPTER XXIV

 WHO MR. ALLEN PRICE WAS

I will not deny that I was considerably taken aback by my unexpected
meeting with the man who had been following me. I had been firmly
under the impression that he was still lolling around Smalleyville,
waiting for a chance to continue his journey.

But if I was surprised, so was Mr. Allen Price. Every indication
showed that he had not missed me at my departure, and that he was
under the belief that I had been left behind.

He stopped short and gazed at me in blank astonishment.

"Why-- why-- where did you come from?" he stammered.

"From Smalleyville," I returned as coolly as I could. "And that's
where you came from, too," I added.

"I didn't see you on the train," he went on, ignoring my last remark.

"I didn't come up by train."

"Maybe you walked," he went on, with some anxiety.

"Oh no; I rode in a carriage."

"Humph! It seems to me you must have been in a tremendous hurry."

"Perhaps I was."

"Why, you excite my curiosity. May I ask the cause of your sudden
impatience?"

He put the question in an apparently careless fashion, but his sharp
eyes betrayed his keen interest.

"You may."

"And what, was it?"

I looked at him for a moment in silence.

"I came to see a man."

"Ah! A friend? Perhaps he is seriously sick."

"I don't know if he is sick or not."

"And yet you hurried to see him?"

"Yes."

"Well, that-- that is out of the ordinary." He hesitated for a moment.
"Of course it is none of my business, but I am interested. Perhaps I
know the party and can help you. May I ask his name?"

"It's the same man you telegraphed to," I returned.

Mr. Allen Price stopped short and nearly dropped his handbag. My
unexpected reply had taken the "wind out of his sails."

"I telegraphed to?" he repeated.

"Exactly."

"But-- but I telegraphed to no one."

"Yes, you did."

"Why, my dear young friend, you are mistaken."

"I'm not your dear friend," I returned with spirit. "You telegraphed
to Chris Holtzmann to beware of me. Why did you do it?"

The man's face fell considerably, and he did not answer. I went on:--

"You are following me and trying to defeat the object of my trip to
Chicago. But you shall not do it. You pretend to be an ordinary
traveller, but you are nothing more than a spy sent on by Mr. Aaron
Woodward to stop me. But I have found you out, and now you can go back
to him and tell him that his little plan didn't work."

The man's brow grew black with anger. He was very angry, and I could
see that it was with difficulty he kept his hands off me.

"Think you're smart, don't you?" he sneered.

"I was too smart for you."

"But you don't know it all," he went on. "You don't know it all-- not
by a jugful."

"I know enough to steer clear of you."

"Maybe you do."

The man evidently did not know what to say, and as a matter of fact,
neither did I. I had told him some plain truths, and now I was anxious
to get away from him and think out my future course of action.

"What's your idea of calling on Chris Holtzmann?" he went an after a
long pause.

"That's my business."

"It won't do you any good."

"Perhaps it may."

"I know it won't," he replied in decided tones.

"What do you know about it?" I said sharply. "A moment ago you denied
knowing anything about me. Now I've done with you, and I want you to
leave me alone."

"You needn't get mad about it."

"I'll do as I please."

"No, you won't," he growled. "If you don't do as I want you to, I'll
have you arrested."

This was strong language, and I hardly knew what to say in reply. Not
that I was frightened by his threat, but what made the man take such a
strong personal interest in the matter?

As I have said, I was almost certain I had seen the fellow before,
though where and when was more than I could determine. Perhaps he was
disguised.

"Perhaps you don't think I know who you are," I said quickly.

My words were a perfect shock to Mr. Allen Price. In spite of his
bronzed face he turned pale.

"You know who I am? Why, I am as I tell you,-- Allen Price," he
faltered.

"Really," I replied, with assumed sarcasm.

"Yes, really."

"I know better," I returned boldly.

I was hardly prepared for what was to follow. The man caught me by the
arm.

"Then what you know shall cost you dear," he cried. "I'm not to be
outwitted by a country boy. Help! Police! Police!"

As he uttered his call for assistance he let drop his handbag and drew
his purse from his pocket.

"I've got you, you young thief!" he cried, letting the purse fall to
the sidewalk. "You didn't think to be caught as easily, did you? Help!
Po-- Oh, officer, I'm glad you've come!" the last to a policeman who
had just hurried to the scene.

"What's the matter here?" demanded the minion of the law.

"I just caught this young fellow picking my pocket," exclaimed Mr.
Allen. "Where's my pocketbook?"

"There's a pocketbook on the sidewalk," put in a man in the crowd that
had quickly gathered.

"So it is." He picked it up. "You rascal! You thought to get away in
fine style, didn't you?" he continued to me.

For a moment I was too stunned to speak. The un-looked-for turn of
affairs took away my breath.

"I didn't pick his pocket," I burst out.

"Yes, you did."

"It isn't so. He's a swindler and is trying to get me into trouble."

"Here! here! none of that!" broke in the officer. "Tell me your
story," he said to Mr. Allen Price.

"I was coming along looking in the shop windows," began my accuser,
"when I felt a hand in my pocket. I turned quickly and just in time to
catch this fellow trying to make off with my pocketbook."

"It is a falsehood, every word of it," I declared.

"Shut up!" said the officer, sternly. "Please go on."

"He is evidently a smart thief," continued Mr. Allen Price. "I must
see if I have lost anything else."

He began a pretended examination of his clothes. In the meantime the
crowd began to grow larger and larger.

"We can't stay here all day," said the policeman, roughly. "What have
you got to say to the charge?"

"I say it isn't true," I replied. "This man is a humbug. He is
following me for a purpose, and is trying to get me into trouble."

"Ridiculous!" cried my accuser. "Why, I never heard of such a thing
before!"

"That story won't wash," said the officer to me. "Do you make a
charge?" he continued to Mr. Allen Price.

My accuser hesitated. "I will, if it is not necessary for me to go
along," he said. "I am pressed for time. My name is Sylvester Manners.
I am a partner in the Manners Clothing Company. You know the firm, I
presume."

"Oh, yes, sir," replied the officer. He knew the Manners Clothing
Company to be a rich concern.

"I will stop at the station house to-morrow morning and make a
complaint," continued Mr. Allen Price. "Don't let the young rascal
escape."

"No fear, sir. Come on!" the last to me.

"I've done no wrong. I want that man arrested!" I cried. "He is no
more a merchant here in Chicago than I am. He--"

But the officer would not listen. He took a strong hold upon my collar
and began to march me off. Mr. Allen Price walked beside us until we
reached the corner.

"I will leave you here, officer," he said. "I'll be down in the
morning, sure. As for you," he continued to me, "I trust you will soon
see the error of your ways and try to mend them, and--" he continued
in a whisper, as the officer's attention was distracted for a moment,
"never try to outwit John Stumpy again!"

  CHAPTER XXV

 AN EXCITING ADVENTURE

Mr. Allen Price and John Stumpy were one and the same person! For a
moment so great was my surprise that I forgot I was under arrest, and
walked on beside the officer without a protest.

Now that I knew the truth it was easy to trace the resemblance, and I
blamed myself greatly for not having discovered it when we first met.

Of a certainty the man was bent upon frustrating my plans, partly for
his own safety, and more so upon Mr. Aaron Woodward's account. No
doubt the merchant was paying him well for his work, and John Stumpy
intended to do all he could to crush me.

But I was not to be crushed. The forces brought against me only made
my will stronger to go ahead. It was do or die, and that was all there
was to it.

I could easily understand why John Stumpy wished to obtain possession
of my handbag. In it he hoped to find the papers Mr. Woodward had lost
and Nicholas Weaver's confession. I could not help but smile at the
thought that, notwithstanding all I had said to the contrary, the two
plotters still believed I had the lost documents.

One thing perplexed me. Why was my visit to Chris Holtzmann considered
of such importance that every possible means was taken to prevent it?
Did this man possess the entire key to the situation? And were they
afraid he could be bought up or threatened into a confession? It
looked so.

"You are not from Chicago, young fellow?" said the policeman who had
me in charge.

"No; I'm from the East."

"Humph! Got taken in short, didn't you?"

"I'm not guilty of any crime," I returned, "and you'll find it out
when it comes to the examination."

"I'll chance it," replied the officer, grimly.

"That man is a fraud. If you call on the Manners Clothing Company, you
will find it so."

"That's not part of my duty. I'll take you to the station house, and
you can tell the judge your story," replied the policeman.

Yet I could see by the way his brow contracted that my assertion had
had its effect upon him. Probably had he given the matter proper
thought in the first place, he would have compelled John Stumpy to
accompany him.

Still, this did me no good. Here I was being taken to the jail while
the man who should have been under arrest was free. I would probably
have to remain in confinement until the following morning, and in the
meantime John Stumpy could call on Chris Holtzmann and arrange plans
to suit himself.

This would never do, as it would defeat the whole object of my trip
West, and send me home to be laughed at by Mr. Aaron Woodward and
Duncan.

"Can I ask for an examination at once?" I inquired.

"Maybe; if the judge is there."

"And if he isn't?"

"You'll have to wait till to-morrow morning. You see it isn't-- Hello!
thunder and lightning! what's that?"

As the officer uttered the exclamation there was a wild cry on the
streets, and the next instant the crowds of people scattered in every
direction.

And no wonder, for down the pavement came an infuriated bull, charging
everybody and everything before him.

The animal had evidently broken away from a herd that was being driven
to the stock-yards, and his nose, where the ring was fastened, was
torn and covered with blood, and he breathed hard, as if he had run a
great distance.

"It's a mad bull!" I cried. "Take care, or he'll horn both of us!"

My words of caution were unnecessary, for no sooner had the bull
turned in our direction than the officer let go his hold upon me and
fled into a doorway near at hand.

For an instant I was on the point of following him. Then came the
sudden thought that now would be a good chance to escape.

To think was to act. No sooner had the policeman jumped into the
doorway than I dodged through the crowd and hurried across the street.
Reaching the opposite side, I ran into an alley. It was long and led
directly into the back garden of a handsome stone mansion.

The garden was filled with beautiful flowers and plants, and in the
centre a tiny fountain sent a thin spray into the air. At one side,
under a small arbor, stood a garden bench, and on this sat a little
girl playing with a number of dolls.

Her golden hair hung heavy over her shoulders, and she looked
supremely happy. She greeted my entrance with a smile, and took me at
once into her confidence.

"This is my new dolly," she explained, holding the article up.

"Is it?" I asked, hardly knowing what to say.

"Yes; papa bringed it home yesterday. Does oo like dollies?"

"Oh, yes, nice ones like that. You must have lots of fun. I--"

I did not finish the sentence. There was a noise in the alley, and the
next instant the mad bull came crashing into the garden!

For a second I was too surprised to move or speak. The little girl
uttered a piercing scream, and gathering her dolls in her arms huddled
into a corner of the bench.

Why the animal had followed so closely behind me I could not tell, but
once in the garden, it was plain to see he was bent upon doing
considerable damage. He was more enraged than ever, and scattered the
sodding about in every direction.

At first some red flowers attracted his attention, and he charged upon
these with a fury that wrecked the entire flower-bed in which they
were standing.

While the bull was at this work I partly recovered my senses, and then
the first thought that came to my mind was the necessity of getting
the little girl to a place of safety. Let the bull once get at her,
and her life might pay the penalty. I was not many feet away from the
little miss, and a few bounds took me to her side.

"Come, let me take you into the house," I said, and picked her up.

She made no reply, but continued to scream and clung to me with all
the strength of her little arms.

There was a back piazza to the mansion five or six steps high. I knew
that if we once reached this we would be safe, for no matter what the
bull might do, he could not climb.

"Oh, Millie, my child!" came s voice from the house, and I saw a lady
at one of the windows. "Oh, save her! Bring her here!" she cried, as
she caught sight of the bull.

I uttered no reply, but sprang toward the steps.

But though I wasted no time, the bull was too quick for me. Springing
over the flower-bed, he planted himself directly in my path.

It made my blood run cold to have him face me with that vicious look
and those glaring eyes. One prod of those horns and all would be over.

"Oh, save Millie! Save my child!" The lady had opened the door and now
came running out upon the piazza.

"I will if I can!" I returned. "Don't come down here. He'll tear you
all to pieces!"

Even as I spoke the bull made a plunge for me. I darted to one side
and sprang over to the edge of the piazza corner.

"Give her to me! Hand her up!" exclaimed the lady, as she rushed over,
and as I held the little one on my shoulder, the lady drew her up and
clasped the child, dolls and all, to her breast.

Hardly had I got rid of my charge than the bull came for me again. The
trick I had played on him only served to increase his rage, and he
snorted loudly.

I was in a bad fix. Between the piazza and the next-door fence was a
distance of but ten feet, and behind me was the solid stone wall of
the house. Escape on any side was impossible. Had I had time I might
have climbed up to the piazza, but now this was not to be thought of,
and another means of getting out of danger must be instantly devised.

"Oh, he will be killed!" cried the lady, in horror. "Help! help!"

I glanced around for some weapon with which to defend myself. I had
nothing with me. Even my valise lay at the other end of the garden,
where I had dropped it when the animal first made his appearance.

As I said, I looked around, and behind me found a heavy spade the
gardener had at one time or another used for digging post holes. It
was a strong and sharp implement, and I took it up with a good deal of
satisfaction.

The bull charged on me with fury. As he did so, I took the spade and
held it on a level with my waist, resting the butt end on the wall
behind me.

The next instant there was a terrific crash that made me sick from
head to foot. With all his force the bull had sprung forward, only to
receive the sharp end of the spade straight between his eyes.

The blow was as if it had been delivered by an axe. It made a
frightful cut, and the blood rushed forth in a torrent.

With a mad cry of pain the bull backed out. At first I thought he was
going to charge me again, but evidently the blow was too much for him,
for with several moans he turned, and with his head hanging down, he
staggered across the garden to the alley and disappeared.

  CHAPTER XXVI

 SAMMY SIMPSON

I gave a sigh of relief when the bull was gone. The encounter with the
mad animal had been no laughing matter. I had once heard of a man
being gored to death by just such an infuriated creature, and I
considered that I had had a narrow escape. I put my hand to my
forehead and found the cold sweat standing out upon it. Taking my
handkerchief, I mopped it away.

"Are you hurt?" inquired the lady, with great solicitation.

"No, ma'am," I replied. "But it was a close shave!"

"Indeed it was. And you saved my Millie's life! How can I thank you!"

"I didn't do so much. I guess she's scared a good bit."

"She hardly realized the danger, dear child. Did you, Millie, my pet?"

"The bad cow wanted to eat up my dollies!" exclaimed the little miss,
with a grave shake of the head. "But oo helped me," she added, to me.

"I'm glad I was here," I returned.

"May I ask how you happened to come in?" continued the lady.

In a few words I told my story. I had hardly finished when the back
door opened and a gentleman stepped out.

"What is the trouble here?" he asked anxiously. "I just heard that a
mad bull had run into the garden."

"So he did, James; a savage monster indeed. This young man just beat
him off and saved Millie's life."

"Hardly that," I put in modestly. I did not want more praise than I
was justly entitled to receive.

"Indeed, but he did. See the spade covered with blood? Had he not hit
the animal over the head with that, something dreadful would have
happened."

"I didn't hit him exactly," I laughed. "I held it up and he ran
against it," and once more I told my story.

"You have done us a great service, young man," said the gentleman when
I had concluded. "I was once in the butcher business myself,-- in
fact, I am in it yet, but only in the export trade,-- and I know full
well how dangerous bulls can get. Had it not been for you my little
girl might have been torn to pieces. One of her dolls is dressed in
red, and this would have attracted the bull's immediate attention. I
thank you deeply." He grasped my hand warmly. "May I ask your name?"

"Roger Strong, sir."

"My name is Harrison-- James Harrison. You live here in Chicago, I
suppose?"

"No, sir, I come from Darbyville, New Jersey."

"Darbyville?" He thought a moment. "I never heard of such a town."

"It is only a small place several miles from New York. I came to
Chicago on business. I arrived about half an hour ago."

"Really? Your introduction into our city has been rather an exciting
one."

"I've had other adventures fully as exciting in the past few days," I
returned.

"Yes?" and Mr. Harrison eyed me curiously.

"Yes. Our train was delayed, I almost had my handbag stolen, and I've
been arrested as a thief."

"And all in a half an hour?" The gentleman and his wife both looked
incredulous.

"No, sir; since I've left home."

"I should like to hear your story-- that is, if you care to tell it."

"I will tell you the whole thing if you care to listen," I returned,
reflecting that my newly made friend might give me some material
assistance in my quest.

"Then come into the house."

"I'd better shut the alley gate first," said I, and running down I did
so, and picked up my handbag as well.

Mr. Harrison led the way inside. I could not help but note the rich
furnishings of the place-- the soft carpets, artistically papered
walls, the costly pictures and bric-a-brac, all telling of wealth.

Mrs. Harrison and the little girl had disappeared up the stairs. Mr.
Harrison ushered me into his library and motioned me to a seat.

I hardly knew how to begin my story. To show how John Stumpy had had
me arrested, it would be necessary to go back to affairs at
Darbyville, and this I hesitated about doing.

"If you have time I would like to tell you about my affairs before I
started to come to Chicago," I said. "I would like your advice."

The gentleman looked at the clock resting upon the mantel shelf.

"I have an engagement at eleven o'clock," he returned. "Until then I
am entirely at your service, and will be in the afternoon if you
desire it. I'll promise to give you the best advice I can."

"Thank you. I am a stranger here, and most people won't pay much
attention to a boy," I replied.

Then I told my story in full just as I have written it here. Mr.
Harrison was deeply interested.

"It is a strange case," he said, when I had concluded. "These men must
be thorough rascals, every one of them. Of course it yet remains to be
seen what this Chris Holtzmann has to do with the affair. He may be
made to give evidence for or against your father just as he is
approached. I think I would be careful at the first meeting."

"I did not intend to let him know who I was."

"A good plan."

"But now if I venture on the street I may be arrested," I went on.

"It is not likely. Chicago is a big city, and unless the officer who
arrested you before meets you, it is improbable that he can give an
accurate enough description of you for others to identify you. Then
again, having failed in his duty, he may not report the case at all."

"That's so; but if I do run across him--"

"Then send for me. Here is my card. If I can be of service to you, I
shall be glad."

Mr. Harrison gave me minute directions how to reach Holtzmann's place.
Then it was time for him to go, and we left the house together. I
promised to call on him again before quitting Chicago.

It was with a lighter heart that I went on my way. In some manner I
felt that I had at least one friend in the big city, to whom I could
turn for advice and assistance.

Guided by the directions Mr. Harrison had given me, I had no
difficulty in making my way in the direction of Chris Holtzmann's
place of business or house, whatever it might prove to be.

As I passed up one street and down another, I could not help but look
about me with great curiosity. If Chicago was not New York, it was
"next door" to it, and I could have easily spent the entire day in
sightseeing.

But though my eyes were taking in all that was to be seen, my mind was
busy speculating upon the future. What would Chris Holtzmann think of
my visit, and what would be the result of our interview?

At length I turned down the street upon which his place was located.
It was a wide and busy thoroughfare, lined with shops of all kinds.
Saloons were numerous, and from several of them came the sounds of
lively music.

"Can you tell me where Chris Holtzmann's place is?" I asked of a man
on the corner.

"Holtzmann's? Sure! Down on the next corner."

"Thank you."

"Variety actor?" went on the man, curiously.

"Oh, no!" I laughed.

"Thought not. They're generally pretty tough-- the ones Chris hires."

"Does he have a variety theatre?"

"That's what he calls it. But it's nothing but a concert hall with
jugglers and tumblers thrown in."

I did not relish the idea of going into such a place, and I knew that
my sister Kate and the Widow Canby would be horrified when they heard
of it.

"What kind of a man is this Holtzmann?" I continued, seeing that the
man I had accosted was inclined to talk.

"Oh, he's a good enough kind of a fellow if you know how to take him,"
was the reply. "He's a bit cranky if he's had a glass too much, but
that don't happen often."

"Does he run the place himself?"

"What, tend bar and so?"

"Yes."

"Oh, no; he's too high-toned for that. He only bosses things. They say
he's rich. Be came from the East some years ago with quite a little
money, and he's been adding to it ever since."

"Then you know him quite well?"

"Worked for him two years. Then he up one day and declared I was
robbing him. We had a big row, and I got out."

"Did he have you arrested?"

"Arrested? Not much. He knew better than to try such a game on me.
When I was in his employ I kept my eyes and ears open, and I knew too
much about his private affairs for him to push me, even if I had been
guilty. Oh, Sammy Simpson knows a thing or two."

"That is your name?"

"Yes; Samuel A. Simpson. Generally called Sammy for short. I was his
bookkeeper and corresponding clerk."

"Maybe you're just the man I want to see," I said. "Do you know
anything about Mr. Holtzmann's private affairs in the East?"

"In Brooklyn?"

"Yes."

Sammy Simpson hesitated for a moment.

"Maybe I do," he replied, with a shrewd look in his eyes. "Is there
anything to be made out of it?"

"I will pay you for whatever you do for me."

"Then I'm your huckleberry. Who are you and what do you want to know?"

  CHAPTER XXVII

 THE PALACE OF PLEASURE

Mr. Sammy Simpson was a character. He was tall and slim, certainly not
less than fifty years of age, but with an evident desire to appear
much younger. His face was cleanly shaven, and when he removed his hat
to scratch his head I saw that he was nearly bald.

He was dressed in a light check suit and wore patent-leather shoes. I
put him down as a dandy, but fond of drink, and that he proved to be.

"Whom do you work for now?" I asked.

"No one. To tell the truth, I'm down on my luck and I'm waiting for
something to turn up."

"You say you worked for Holtzmann two years ago?"

"No, I said I worked for him two years. I only left last month."

"And he accused you of stealing?"

"Yes; but it was only to get rid of me because I knew too much of his
private affairs."

"What do you know of his private affairs?"

Sammy Simpson rubbed his chin.

"Excuse me, but who am I talking to?" he asked abruptly.

"Never mind who I am. I am here to get all the information I can about
Chris Holtzmann, and I'm willing to pay for it. Of course I'm not
rich, but I've got a few dollars. If you can't help me I'll have to go
elsewhere."

My plain speech startled Sammy Simpson.

"Hold up; don't get mad because I asked your name. You've a perfect
right to keep it to yourself if you want to. Only make it sure to me
that I'll get paid for what I tell and it will be all right."

I was perplexed. I had half a mind to mention Mr. Harrison's name, but
if I did that, the man might expect altogether too much.

"I will promise you that you lose nothing," I said. "But we can't talk
things over in the street. Tell me where I can meet you later on."

"Want to see Holtzmann first?"

"Yes."

"You won't get anything out of him, I'll wager you that."

"I don't expect to. I want to see what kind of a man he is."

"Well, you'll find me at 28 Hallock Street generally. If I'm not in,
you can find out there where I've gone to."

"I'll remember it. In the meantime don't speak of this meeting to any
one."

"Mum's the word," rejoined Sammy Simpson.

I went on my way deep in thought. I considered it a stroke of luck
that I had fallen in with Chris Holtzmann's former clerk. No doubt the
man knew much that would prove of value to me.

I doubted if this man was perfectly honest. I was satisfied that the
concert-hall manager had had good grounds for discharging him. But it
often "takes a rogue to catch a rogue," and I was willing to profit by
any advantage that came to hand.

At length I reached the next corner. On it stood a splendid building
of marble, having over the door in raised letters:--

                          CHRIS HOLTZMANN'S
                         PALACE OF PLEASURE.
                  Open all the Time. Admission Free!

For a moment I hesitated. Should I enter such a hole of iniquity?

Then came the thought of my mission; how I wished to clear the family
name from the stain that rested upon it and free my father from
imprisonment, and I went in.

I do not care to describe the scene that met my eyes. The magnificent
decorations of the place were to my mind entirely out of keeping with
its character. The foulness of a subcellar would have been more
appropriate.

In the back, where a stage was located, were a number of small tables.
I sat down at one of these and had a waiter bring me a glass of soda
water.

"Is Mr. Holtzmann about?" I asked.

"Yes, sir. There he is over by the cigar counter. Shall I call him?"

"No."

I paid for my soda and sipped it leisurely. The place was about half
full, and all attention was being paid to "Master Ardon, the Wonderful
Boy Dancer," who was doing a clog on the stage.

Mr. Chris Holtzmann was very much the style of a man I had imagined
him to be. He was short and stout, with a thick neck and a double
chin. He was loudly dressed, including several seal rings and a heavy
gold watch chain.

I calculated that he would be a hard man to approach, and now that I
was face to face with him I hardly knew how to proceed.

At first I thought to ask him for a situation of some kind and thus
get on speaking terms with him, but concluded that openness would pay
best in the end, and so, rising, I approached him.

"Mr. Holtzmann, I believe?" I began.

"Yes," he said slowly, looking me over from head to foot.

"If you please I would like to have a talk with you," I went on.

"What is it?" and he turned his ear toward me.

"I have come all the way from Darbyville, New Jersey, to see you."

"What!" He started. "And what is your business with me, sir?" he went
on sharply.

"I would like to see you in private," and I glanced at the clerk and
several others who were staring at us.

"Come to my office," he returned, and led the way through a door at
one side, into a handsomely furnished apartment facing the side
street.

"Ross, you can post the letters," he said to a clerk who was writing
at a desk. "Be back in half an hour."

It was a hint that we were to be left alone, and the clerk was not
long in gathering up the letters that had been written, and leaving.

"I suppose Woodward sent you," began Chris Holtzmann, when we were
seated.

This remark nearly took away my breath. I thought he would deny all
knowledge of having ever known the merchant, and here he was
mentioning the man at the very start.

I hardly knew how to reply, and he continued:--

"I've been expecting him for several days."

"Well, you know there was an accident on the railroad," I began as
coolly as I could. "The bridge shifted and the trains couldn't run."

"Yes, I heard of that." He paused for a moment. "What brought you?"

This was a home question. I plunged in like a swimmer into a deep
stream.

"I came to get the papers relating to the Strong forgeries. You have
all of them, I suppose."

I was surprised at my own boldness. So was my listener.

"Sh! not so loud," he exclaimed. "Who said I had the papers?"

"John Stumpy spoke about them to Mr. Woodward."

"He did, eh?" sneered Chris Holtzmann. "He had better keep his mouth
shut. How does he know but what the papers were destroyed long ago?"

"I hope not," I replied earnestly.

"What does Woodward want of the papers?"

"I don't know exactly. The Strong family are going to have the case
opened again, and he's afraid they may be dragged in."

"No one knows I have them but him, Stumpy-- and you." He gave me a
suspicious glance. "Who are--"

"The Strongs know," I put in hastily, thus cutting him off.

"What!" He jumped up from his chair. "Who was fool enough to tell
them?"

"Nicholas Weaver left a dying statement--"

"The idiot! I always said he was a weak-minded fool!" cried Chris
Holtzmann. "Who has this statement?"

"I don't know where it is now, but Carson Strong's son had it."

"Strong's son! Great Scott! Then Woodward's goose is cooked. I always
told him he hadn't covered up his tracks."

"Yes, but he paid you pretty well for your share of the work," I
returned. I was getting mixed. The deception could not be kept up much
longer, and I wondered what would happen when the truth became known.

"Didn't pay me half of what I should have got. I helped him not only
in Brooklyn, but here in Chicago as well. How would he have accounted
for all his money if I hadn't had a rich aunt die and leave it to
him?" Chris Holtzmann gave a short laugh. "I reckon that was a neat
plan of mine."

"You ran a big risk."

"So we did-- but it paid."

"And John Stumpy helped, too."

"He did in a way. But he drank too much to be of any great use. By the
way, do you drink?"

As Holtzmann spoke he opened a closet at one side of the room, behind
a screen, and brought forth a bottle of liquor and a pair of glasses.

"No, thank you," I replied.

"No? Have a cigar, then."

"Thank you; I don't smoke."

"What! Don't smoke or drink! That's queer. Wish I could say the same.
Mighty expensive habits. What did you say your name was?"

At this instant there was a knock on the door, and Chris Holtzmann
walked back of the screen and opened it.

"A man to see you, sir," I heard a voice say.

"Who is it?" asked Chris Holtzmann.

"Says his name is Aaron Woodward."

  CHAPTER XXVIII

 A DEAL FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS

I was thunderstruck by the announcement that Mr. Aaron Woodward was
waiting to come in. Had it been John Stumpy who was announced, I would
not have been so much surprised. But Aaron Woodward! The chase after
me was indeed getting hot.

Evidently the merchant was not satisfied to leave affairs in Chicago
entirely in his confederate's hands. Either he did not trust Stumpy or
else the matter was of too much importance.

I did not give these thoughts close attention at the time, but
revolved them in my mind later. Just now I was trying to resolve what
was best to do. Would it be advisable for me to remain or had I better
get out?

To retire precipitately might not be "good form," but it might save me
a deal of trouble. I had had one "round" with the merchant in his
mansion in Darbyville, and I was not particularly anxious for another
encounter. I was but a boy, and between the two men they might carry
"too many guns" for me.

I looked around for some immediate means of escape. As I have said,
the office was located on the side street. Directly in front of the
desk was a large window, opened to let in the fresh morning air. For
me to think was to act. In less than a minute I was seated on the desk
with my legs dangling over the window sill.

"Aaron Woodward!" repeated Chris Holtzmann, in evident surprise.

"Yes, sir, and he says he must see you at once."

"Did you hear that?" called out Holtzmann to me.

"Yes, I did," I returned as coolly as I could.

"Did you expect him?"

"No."

"Humph!"

Holtzmann made a movement as if to step into view, and I prepared to
vanish from the scene. But he changed his mind and walked from the
office.

I was in a quandary. To remain would place me in great peril, yet I
was anxious to know the result of the meeting between the two men.
They were the prime movers in my father's downfall, and nothing must
be left undone to bring them to justice.

I resolved to remain, even if it were at the peril of my life. I was
not an over-brave boy, but the thought of my father languishing in
prison because of these men's misdeeds, nerved me to stay.

The closet door was still open, and that gave me a sudden idea.

As I jumped from the desk another idea struck me, and without any
hesitation I scattered the papers on the floor and upset the ink-well.

Then I squeezed myself into the closet, crouching down into one
corner, behind several canes and umbrellas.

I was not an instant too soon, for hardly had I settled myself than
the door opened, and Chris Holtzmann reentered, followed by Mr. Aaron
Woodward.

Both men were highly excited, and both uttered an exclamation when
they saw the room was empty.

"He's gone!" cried Holtzmann.

"Gone?" repeated the merchant. "Get out, Holtzmann! He was never
here."

"I say he was, less than two minutes ago."

"Well, where is he now?"

"I don't know. Ha! I see it! He has jumped through the windows. See
how he has upset the ink and scattered the papers. It's as clear as
day."

"Can you see anything of him outside?"

Chris Holtzmann leaned out of the window.

"No; he's up and around the corner long ago."

"We must catch the rascal," went on Mr. Woodward, in a high voice. "He
knows too much; he will ruin us both."

"Ruin us both?" sneered the proprietor of the Palace of Pleasure. "I
don't see how he can ruin me."

"You're in it just as deep as I am-- just as deep."

"Not a bit of it," returned Holtzmann, with spirit. "You are the only
one who profited by the whole transaction, and you are the one to take
the blame."

"See here, Chris, you're not going back on me in this way," exclaimed
the merchant, in a tone of reproach.

"I'm not going back on you at all, Woody. But you can't use me as you
used John Stumpy. It won't go down."

"Now don't get excited, Chris."

"I'm not excited. But I know a thing or two just as well as you do. If
there is any exposure to take place, you must stand the brunt of it.
You were a fool to let the boy get ahead of you."

"I didn't; it was Stumpy. He let the boy get hold of Nick Weaver's
statement, and that started the thing. Then the boy stole some of my
papers that were in my desk, and how much information he has now I
don't know."

"All your own fault," responded Holtzmann, coolly. "Why don't you
destroy all the evidence on hand?"

"Do you do that?" asked Mr. Woodward, furiously.

"I do when I think it isn't going to do me any more good," replied
Holtzmann, evasively.

"Have you destroyed all the evidence in this matter?"

Holtzmann closed one eye. "I'm not so green as you take me to be," he
replied impressively. "All my evidence against you is locked up in my
safe."

"You intend to use it against me?" said the merchant.

"Only if it becomes necessary."

"And yet you pretend to be a friend of mine."

"I was until you cheated me out of my fair share of the spoils. But I
am satisfied, and willing to let the whole matter rest."

"What will you take for the papers you hold?"

"Wouldn't sell them at any price. I'm not running my head into any
trap."

"It will be all right."

"Maybe it will, but I'll run no risk," He paused a moment. "I'll tell
you what I will do. Give me a thousand dollars and I'll let you see me
burn them up.

I was intensely surprised at this proposition, more so, I believe,
than was Mr. Woodward.

"A thousand dollars!" he exclaimed. "Chris, you're crazy."

"No, indeed. I know a thing or two. What do you suppose the Strongs
would pay for them?"

"You don't mean to say you would play me false?" ejaculated the
merchant, hoarsely.

"I mean to say I'd do anything to save myself if you got us into a
hole. As far as I can see, you have allowed this boy to get the best
of you at every turn."

"Humph! You needn't talk. You let him walk right into your confidence
the first thing."

"Only when he told me all about your affairs."

"Well, let that drop. Can't you let me have the papers cheaper?"

"I said I wouldn't let you have the papers at all. I'll burn them up."

"Will you let me see them?"

Chris Holtzmann's brow contracted.

"What for?"

"Oh, I only want to make sure of what you've got.

"Will you pay the price?"

"Make them cheaper."

"No."

"I'll take them."

"You mean have them burnt up."

"Yes. But I must examine them first."

"I'm willing. And I must have my check before they go into the fire."

"You are very suspicious, Chris, very suspicious."

"No more so than you, Woody. I wasn't born yesterday."

"Well, let's have the papers and I'll write out the check. But it must
be understood that you give no more information to the boy."

"Give him information!" cried Holtzmann. "Let him show his face here
again and I'll break every bone in his body," he added grimly.

This was certainly an interesting bit of news. I made up my mind that
to be seen would render matters decidedly warm for me.

But I was even more interested over the fact that the two men intended
to burn up part of the evidence that might clear my father's name.
Such a thing must not happen. I must use every means in my power to
prevent it.

Yet what was to be done? If the documents were produced at once, how
could I save them from destruction?

A bold dash for them seemed the only way. Once snatched from
Holtzmann's or Aaron Woodward's hands, and escape through the window
or the door would be difficult, but not impossible.

Yet while I was revolving these thoughts over in my mind the same
thing evidently suggested itself to the proprietor of the Palace of
Pleasure.

"Wait till I lock the door," he said. "We don't want to be
interrupted."

"No indeed," returned Mr. Woodward; "interruptions don't pay."

"And I'll close the window, too," went on Holtzmann; "it's cool enough
without having it open."

"So it is."

So the window and the door were both closed and fastened. I was
chagrined, but could do nothing.

A moment later I heard Chris Holtzmann at his safe, and then the
rattle of something on his desk.

"The papers are in this tin box," he said. "I placed them there over
six months ago."

He opened the box, and I heard a rustling of documents.

"Why-- why-- what does this mean!" he ejaculated. "They are not here!"

"What!" cried Mr. Aaron Woodward, aghast.

"The papers are not here!" Holtzmann hurried over to his safe and
began a hasty search. "As sure as you're born, Woody, they have been
stolen!"

"It's that boy," exclaimed the merchant. "He's a wizard of a sly one.
He has stolen them, and we are lost!"

  CHAPTER XXIX

 THE PRECIOUS PAPERS

I was not as much surprised over the situation as were the two men. I
could put two and two together as quickly as any one, and I knew
exactly where the papers were to be found.

Sammy Simpson, of 28 Hallock Street, was the thief. He had intimated
that he had evidence against Chris Holtzmann, and these papers were
that evidence.

This being so, there was no further use for my remaining in my cramped
position in the closet, and I longed for a chance for escape. It was
not long in coming.

"I don't see how that boy managed it," said Holtzmann. "He was alone
only a few minutes."

"Never mind. He's as smart as a steel trap. Was the safe door open?"

"Yes. My clerk left it open. He is a new one and rather careless.
What's to be done?"

"I'm going after the rascal," cried Aaron Woodward.

"You'd have a fine time finding him here in Chicago."

"I must find him. Most likely when he discovers how valuable the
papers are he'll be off at once for home with them. I can intercept
him at the depot."

"That's an idea, if you can locate the right depot."

"I'll be off at once," went on Mr. Woodward.

"I'll go with you," returned Chris Holtzmann, and three minutes later
the two men quitted the office, locking the door after them.

I waited several minutes to make sure they were not returning, and
then emerged from my hiding-place.

I was stiff in every joint and nearly stifled from the hot air in the
closet. But at present I gave these personal matters scant attention,
my mind being bent upon escape.

Even if the door had been unlocked, I would not have chosen it as a
means of egress. It led into the main hall of the Palace of Pleasure,
and here I might meet some one to bar my escape.

The window was close at hand, and I threw it open. The noise I made
did not frighten me, for in the main hall a loud orchestra was
drowning out every other sound.

I looked out and saw a number of people walking up and down the
street. No one appeared to be watching me, and waiting a favorable
opportunity, I slid out of the window to the sidewalk below.

With my ever present handbag beside me I hurried down the side street
as fast as my feet would carry me. The neighborhood of the Palace of
Pleasure was dangerous for me, and I wished to get away from it as
quickly as possible.

After travelling several blocks I slackened my pace and dropped into a
rapid walk. Coming to a fruit-stand, I invested in a couple of
bananas, and then asked its proprietor where Hallock Street was.

"Sure an' it's the first street beyant the cable road," was the reply.

"And where is the cable road?" I queried.

"Two squares that way, sor," and the woman pointed it out.

I thanked her and hurried on. When I reached the street, I found the
numbers ran in the three hundreds, and I had quite a walk to the
southward to reach No. 28.

At length I stood in front of the house. It was a common-looking
affair, and the vicinity was not one to be chosen by fastidious
people. The street, sidewalks, and doorways all looked dirty and
neglected. I concluded that since being discharged Sammy Simpson had
come down in the world.

"Does Mr. Simpson live here?" I asked of a slip of a girl who sat on
the stoop, nursing a ragged doll.

"Yes, sir; on the third floor in the front," she replied.

I climbed up the creaky stairs two flights, and rapped on the door.

"Come," said a voice, and I entered. The room was the barest kind of a
kitchen. By the open window sat a thin, pale woman, holding a child.

"Does Mr. Samuel Simpson live here?" I asked.

"Yes, sir, but he's not in now," she returned. "Can I do anything for
you?"