"Well, then, I didn't wear myself out hunting for the boy's friends, for the first year or two. Time increases the value of some things, you know--lost children, particularly. I knew there was money back of the boy by the looks of his clothes. I kept matters pretty well covered up for a while; allowed that he was my grandson; made him call me 'Grandpa'; carried the scheme a little too far, and came near losing everything. Now, do you see?"

Sharpman nodded, and smiled knowingly. "You're a shrewd man, Craft,"

he said.

But the old man's thought had returned to the wealth he believed to be in store for him. "What's to be done now?" he asked. "Ain't there something we can start on?"

"No; we can do nothing until after I have seen the widow, and that will be a couple of months yet at least. In the meantime, you must not say a word to any one about this matter. The boy, especially, must not know that you have been here. Come again about the first of September.

In the meantime, get together the evidence necessary to establish the boy's ident.i.ty. We mustn't fail in that when it comes to an issue."

"I'll have proof enough, no fear of that. The only thing I don't like about the business is this waiting. I'm pretty bad here," placing his bony hand on his chest; "no knowing how long I'll last."

"Oh! you're good for twenty years yet," said Sharpman, heartily, taking him by the hand, and walking with him to the door. "A--are you pretty well off for money? Would trifling loan be of any benefit to you?"

"Why, if you can spare it," said the old man, trying to suppress his evident pleasure at the offer; "if you can spare it, it would come in very handy indeed."

Sharpman drew a well-filled wallet from his pocket, took two bills from it, folded them together, and placed them into Craft's trembling fingers. "There," he said, "that's all right; we won't say anything about that till we come into our fortune."

Old Simon pocketed the money, mumbling his thanks as he did so. The two men shook hands again at the outer door, and Craft trudged down the avenue, toward the railroad station, his mind filled with visions of enormous wealth, but his patience sorely tried by the long delay that he must suffer before his fingers should close upon the promised money.

Sharpman returned to his office to congratulate himself upon the happy chance that had placed so rich an opportunity within his grasp. If the old man's story were true--he proposed to take steps immediately to satisfy himself upon that point--then he saw no reason why he should not have the management of a large estate. Of course there would be opposition, but if he could succeed so far as to get the funds and the property into his hands, he felt sure that, in one way or another, he could make a fortune out of the estate before he should be compelled to relinquish his hold. As for Simon Craft, he should use him so far as such use was necessary for the accomplishment of his object.

After that he would or would not keep faith with him, as he chose.

And as for Ralph, if he were really Robert Burnham's son, he would be rich enough at any rate, and if he were not that son he would not be ent.i.tled to wealth. There was no use, therefore, in being over-conscientious on his account.

It was a brilliant scheme, worth risking a great deal on, both of money and reputation, Sharpman resolved to make the most of it.

CHAPTER IV.

A SET OF RESOLUTIONS.

It was the morning of the third day after the disaster at Burnham Shaft. The breaker boys were to go that morning, in a body, to the mansion of their dead employer to look for the last time on his face.

They had asked that they might be permitted to do this, and the privilege had been granted.

Grief holds short reign in young hearts, it is true; but the sorrow in the hearts of these children of toil was none the less sincere.

Had there been any tendency to forget their loss, the solemn faces and tearful eyes of those who were older than they would have been a constant reminder.

As Robert Burnham had been universally beloved, so his death was universally mourned. The miners at Burnham Shaft felt that they had especial cause for grief. He had a way of coming to the mines and looking after them and their labor, personally, that they liked. He knew the names of all the men who worked there, and he had a word of kindly greeting for each one whom he met. When he came among them out of the darkness of heading or chamber, there seemed, somehow, to be more light in the mines, more light and better air, and a sense of cheeriness and comfort. And, after he had gone, you could hear these men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of his presence had so lightened their labors. The bosses caught this spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at Burnham Breaker and in the Burnham mines, among all who labored there in any way whatever. But the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon this man as their especial friend. He sympathized with them. He seemed to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day above those moving streams of coal. He always had kind words for them, and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their tasks. They regarded him with something of that affection which a child has for a firm, kind parent. Moreover, they looked upon him as a type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his poor ability, should strive to climb. Even in his death he had set for them a shining mark of manly bravery. He had died to rescue others. If he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now. But he was dead. They had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time.

They would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was, but--they would see it.

They had gathered on the gra.s.s-plot, on the hill east of the breaker, under the shadow of a great oak-tree. There were forty of them. They were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure, patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best.

There was no loud talking among them. There were no tricks being played; there was no shouting, no laughter. They were all sober-faced, earnest, and sorrowful.

One of the boys spoke up and said: "Tell you what I think, fellows; I think we ought to pa.s.s res'lutions like what the miners they done."

"Res'lutions," said another, "w'at's them?"

"W'y," said a third, "it's a little piece o' black cloth, like a veil, w'at you wear on your arm w'en you go to a fun'al."

Then some one proposed that the meeting should first be duly organized. Many of the boys had attended the miners' meetings and knew something about parliamentary organization.

"I move't Ralph Buckley, he be chairman," said one.

"I second the move," said another. The motion was put, and Ralph was unanimously elected as chairman.

"They ain't no time to make any speech," he said, backing up against the tree in order to face the a.s.semblage. "We got jest time to 'lect a sec'etary and draw out some res'lutions."

"I move't Jimmie Donnelly be sec'etary."

"I second Jimmie Donnelly."

"All you who want Jimmie Donnelly for sec'etary, hol' up your right han's an' say yi."

There was a chorus of yi's.

"I move't Ed. Williams be treasher."

Then the objector rose. "Aw!" he said, "we don't want no treasher.

W'at we want a treasher for? we ain't goin' to spen' no money."

"You got to have a treasher," broke in a youthful Gushing, "you got to have one, or less your meetin' won't be legal, nor your res'lutions, neither!"

The discussion was ended abruptly by some one seconding the nomination of Ed. Williams, and the motion was immediately put and carried.

"Now," said another young parliamentarian, "I move't the chairman pint out a committee of three fellows to write the res'lutions."

This motion was also seconded, put, and carried, and Ralph designated three boys in the company, one of whom, Joe Foster, had more than an ordinary reputation for learning, as a committee on resolutions; and, while they went down to the breaker office for pen, ink, and paper, the meeting took a recess.

It was, indeed, a task for those three unlearned boys to express in writing, their grief consequent upon the death of their employer, and their sympathy for his living loved ones, but they performed it.

There was some discussion concerning a proper form for beginning. One thought they should begin by saying, "Know all men by these presents."

"But we ain't got no presents to give 'em," said another, "an' if we had it ain't no time to give any presents."

Joe Foster had attended the meeting at which the resolutions by the miners were adopted, and after recalling, as nearly as possible, the language in which they were drawn, it was decided to begin:--"We, the breaker boys, of Burnham Breaker, in ma.s.s meeting met"--

After that, with the exception of an occasional dispute concerning the spelling of a word, they got on very well, and came, finally, to the end.

"You two write your names on to it," said Jack Murphy; "I won't put mine down; two's enough."

"Oh! we've all got to sign it," said Joe Foster; "a majoriky ain't enough to make a paper like this stan' law."

"Well, I don't b'lieve I'll sign it," responded Jack; "I don't like the res'lutions very well, anyway."

"Why not? they're jest as you wanted 'em--oh, I know! you can't write your name.

"Well, I guess I could, maybe, if I wanted to, but I don't want to; I'm 'fraid I'd spile the looks o' the paper. You's fellows go ahead an' sign it."