The Missing Tin Box.

by Arthur M. Winfield.

CHAPTER I.

AN INTERESTING CONVERSATION.

"What are the bonds worth, Allen?"

"Close on to eighty thousand dollars, Hardwick."

"Phew! as much as that?"

"Yes. The market has been going up since the first of December."

"How did he happen to get hold of them?"

"I don't know the particulars. Mr. Mason was an old friend of the family, and I presume he thought he could leave them in no better hands."

"And where are they now?"

"In his private safe."

"Humph!"

The conversation recorded above took place one evening on a Pennsylvania Railroad ferry-boat while the craft was making the trip from Jersey City to New York.

It was carried on between two men, both well dressed. He, called Allen, was a tall, sharp-nosed individual, probably fifty years of age. The other was a short, heavy-set fellow, wearing a black mustache, and having a peculiar scowl on his face.

They sat in the forward part of the gentlemen's cabin, which was but partly filled with pa.s.sengers. Two seats on one side of them were vacant. On the other side sat a shabbily-dressed boy of sixteen, his hands clasped on his lap and his eyes closed.

"The safe is often left open during the day," resumed Allen, after a brief pause, during which Hardwick had offered his companion a cigar and lit one himself.

"That won't do," replied Hardwick, shortly.

"Why not?"

"Because it won't."

"But we can make it appear----"

"Hush!" The heavy-set man, who sat next to the vacant seats, nudged his companion in the side. "That boy may hear you," he continued, in a whisper.

The man addressed glanced sharply at the youth.

"No, he won't," he returned.

"Why not?"

"He's fast asleep."

"Don't be too sure." The heavy-set man arose. "Let us go out on the forward deck, and talk it over."

"It's too cold, and, besides, it's beginning to--"

"Wrap yourself up in that overcoat of yours, and you will be all right.

We don't want to run any chances, Allen."

"Some one may hear us out there just as well as in here," growled the elderly man.

Nevertheless, he pulled up his coat collar and followed his companion through the heavy swinging doors.

As the two walked outside, the eyes of the boy opened, and he glanced sharply after the pair.

"That was a queer conversation they held," he muttered to himself. "I am half of the opinion that they are up to no good. If I were a policeman I believe I would follow them and find out who they are."

Hal Carson hesitated for a moment, and then arose and walked to the doors.

Stepping outside, he saw the two men, standing in the gangway for horses, in deep conversation.

"They are hatching out some scheme," thought Hal, as he watched the pair.

But it was bitter cold outside for one without an overcoat, and the youth soon returned to his seat in the cabin, leaving the two men to themselves.

Hal was a poor-house boy, having lived at the Fairham poor-house ever since he could remember. Who his parents were he did not know, nor could Joel Daggett, the keeper of the inst.i.tution, give him any definite information on the subject.

"You were picked up in front of Onders' carpenter shop on one Fourth o'

July night," Daggett had said more than once. "They found out some strange man was responsible, but who he was, n.o.buddy knows, or leastwise they won't tell, and that amounts to the same thing."

There had been a peculiar golden locket about Hal's neck when he was found, but this had never led to the establishing of his ident.i.ty, and after the boy was at the poor-house a year the facts concerning his being found were almost forgotten.

But Hal had clung fast to that locket as a sort of birthright, and it was at this moment safe in his trousers pocket.

Two days before the opening of this story the trustees of the Fairham Poor-house had decided to bind Hal out to Daniel Scrogg, one of the most miserly farmers in the county.

Hal had protested, stating he could make more in the town, where a lawyer named Gibson was willing to take the youth into his office on a salary of three dollars a week and found. The trustees were obdurate, and the upshot of the matter was that the youth quietly packed his clothing into a bundle and ran away.

He left a note behind for Joel Daggett, telling what he had done, and stating that as soon as he was in position to do so he would reimburse the trustees for all they had paid out for his keep for the past fifteen years; a big undertaking for any boy, but Hal was plucky, and meant what he said.

Hal's destination was New York. Once in the great metropolis, he felt certain he would find something to do. To be sure, his capital was less than a dollar, but he was used to being without any money, and consequently this did not bother him.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening, and as the man Allen had said, it was just beginning to snow, the first fall of the season. Hal looked out of the window as the flakes glittered in the electric light and fell into the waters of the river.

Presently there came a b.u.mp, and the ferry-boat veered to one side. The slip had been reached, and, pulling shut the rather thin jacket he wore, and bringing his cap further down over his forehead, Hal mingled with the crowd outside, and a minute later went ash.o.r.e.

Once on West Street, Hal stood still, undecided what to do next. He did not know a soul in New York, did not know one street from another, but understood very well that it would be next to useless to try to obtain employment at this late hour.