Читать книгу Phoebe Daring - Baum Lyman Frank, Lyman Frank Baum, Edith Van Dyne - Страница 2

Toby Clark was inexpressibly shocked when one morning he learned that his dear friend and patron had been found dead in his bed. At once the lame boy hobbled over to the Ferguson home, a comfortable house at the far end of Riverdale, to find Mrs. Ferguson prostrated with grief, and Janet, the only daughter, weeping miserably and rejecting all attempts to comfort her. So he crept back to town, mounted the stairs to the homely law offices over the post office and sat down to try to realize that the kindly face he loved would never brighten its dingy gray walls again.

All the morning and till past noon Toby sat in the silent place, where every object reflected the personality of his departed master, bemoaning his loss and living over in memory the happy days that were past. Early in the afternoon steps sounded on the stairs. A key turned in the outer door and Will Chandler, the postmaster, entered the office, accompanied by a stranger.

Toby knew that Chandler, who owned the building, usually kept Judge Ferguson’s office key. Whenever the old judge, who was absent-minded at times, changed his trousers at home he would forget to change the contents of the pockets. So, to avoid being obliged to return home for his key on such occasions, he was accustomed to leave it in Chandler’s keeping, where it might be conveniently found when needed. Of late years the judge had seldom required the key to the outer door, for Toby Clark was always on hand and had the offices swept, dusted and aired long before his master arrived. Mr. Chandler was a reliable man and as fully trusted by Mr. Ferguson as was Toby.

“Oh, you’re here, eh?” exclaimed the postmaster, in surprise, as his eyes fell upon the boy.

Toby nodded his reply, staring vacantly.

“The Fergusons have been inquiring for you,” continued Chandler. “I believe Janet wants you at the house.”

Toby slowly rose and balanced himself on his crutch. Then he cast a hesitating glance at the stranger.

“You’ll lock up, sir, when you go away?” he asked.

“Of course,” replied Will Chandler. “I only came to show this gentleman, Mr. Holbrook, the offices. He’s a lawyer and has been in town for several days, trying to find a suitable place to locate. As poor Ferguson will not need these rooms hereafter I shall rent them to Mr. Holbrook – if they suit him.”

The stranger stepped forward. He was a young man, not more than twenty-five years of age, handsome and prepossessing in appearance. He had a dark moustache and dark, expressive eyes, and his face was cheery and pleasant to look at. In the matter of dress Mr. Holbrook was something of a dandy, but neat and immaculate as was his apparel there was little cause to criticise the young man’s taste.

“The rooms need brightening a bit,” he said, glancing around him, “but the fact that Judge Ferguson has occupied them for so long renders them invaluable to a young lawyer just starting in business. The ‘good will’ is worth a lot to me, as successor to so prominent an attorney. If you will accept the same rent the judge paid you, Mr. Chandler, we will call it a bargain.”

The postmaster nodded.

“It’s a fair rental,” said he; but Toby waited to hear no more. The daughter of his old master wanted him and he hastened to obey her summons, leaving Chandler and Mr. Holbrook in the office.

Janet was pacing up and down the sitting room, red-eyed and extremely nervous. In an easy-chair sat an elderly woman in black, stony-faced and calm, whom Toby at once recognized as Mrs. Ritchie, who owned a large plantation between Riverdale and Bayport. She was one of Judge Ferguson’s oldest clients and the lawyer had for years attended to all of the eccentric old creature’s business affairs.

“This woman,” said Janet, her voice trembling with indignation, “has come to annoy us about some papers.”

Mrs. Ritchie turned her stolid glare upon the clerk.

“You’re Toby Clark,” she said. “I know you. You’re the judge’s office boy. I want all the papers and funds belonging to me, and I want ’em now. They’re in the office, somewhere, in a tin box painted blue, with my name on the end of it. The Fergusons are responsible for my property, I know, but some of those papers are precious. The money could be replaced, but not the documents, and that’s why I want ’em now. Understand? Now!”

Toby was puzzled.

“I remember the blue box marked ‘Ritchie,’ ma’am,” said he, “but I don’t know what’s in it.”

“All my money’s in it – hard cash,” she retorted, “and all my valuable papers besides. I could trust the judge with ’em better than I could trust myself; but I won’t trust anyone else. Now he’s gone I must take charge of the stuff myself. I want that box.”

“Well,” said Toby reflectively, “the box is yours, of course, and you’re entitled to it. But I’m not sure we have the right to remove anything from the judge’s office until an inventory has been made and the will probated. I suppose an administrator or trustee will be appointed who will deliver your box to you.”

“Shucks!” cried Mrs. Ritchie scornfully; “you’re a fool, Toby Clark. You can’t tie up my personal property that way.”

“The law, madam – ”

“Drat the law! The property’s mine, and I want it now.”

Toby looked helplessly at Janet.

“That’s the way she’s been annoying me all the afternoon,” declared the girl, stifling a sob. “Can’t you get rid of her, Toby? Give her anything she wants; only make her go.”

“I’ll go when I get my property,” said Mrs. Ritchie, obstinately settling herself in the chair.

Toby thought about it.

“I might ask Lawyer Kellogg’s advice,” he said. “He wasn’t Judge Ferguson’s friend, but he knows the law and could tell us what to do.”

“Kellogg! That fat pig of a pettifogger?” cried the old woman, sniffing disdainfully. “I wouldn’t believe him on oath.”

“Never mind the law; give her the box, Toby,” implored Janet.

But Toby had a high respect for the law.

“Do you know Mr. Holbrook?” he asked.

“No,” said Janet.

“Who’s Holbrook?” inquired Mrs. Ritchie. “Never heard of him.”

“He is a young lawyer who has just come to Riverdale to practice. I think Will Chandler has rented him our offices,” explained the boy.

“Is he decent?” asked the old woman.

“I – I think so, ma’am. I’ve never seen him but once, a half hour ago. But I’m sure he is competent to advise us.”

“Go get him,” commanded Mrs. Ritchie.

“It will be better for you to come with me,” replied Toby, anxious to relieve Janet of the woman’s disturbing presence. “We will go to the hotel, and I’ll leave you there while I hunt up Mr. Holbrook. He may be stopping at the hotel, you know.”

The woman rose deliberately from her chair.

“It’s getting late,” she said. “I want to get my property and drive home before dark. Come along, boy.”

“Thank you, Toby,” whispered Janet, gratefully, as the two passed out of the room.

Mrs. Ritchie’s horse was hitched to a post in front of the house. They climbed into the rickety buggy and she drove into town and to the rambling old clapboard hotel, which was located on the main street. It was beginning to grow dusk by this time.

On the hotel porch stood the man they were seeking. Mr. Holbrook was smoking a cigarette and, with hands thrust deep in his pockets, was gazing vacantly down the street. Turning his attention to the arrivals the young lawyer seemed to recognize Toby. When the boy and the woman approached him he threw away his cigarette and bowed in deference to Mrs. Ritchie’s sex.

“I am Judge Ferguson’s clerk, sir,” began Toby.

“Yes; I know.”

“And this is Mrs. Ritchie, who employed the judge as her confidential business agent.”

“I am glad to know you, madam. Step into the hotel parlor, please. There we may converse with more comfort.”

When they had entered the parlor Toby explained the situation. Mrs. Ritchie wanted her box of private papers and Toby was not sure he had the right to give them up without legal authority.

“That is correct,” observed Mr. Holbrook. “You must have an order from the Probate Court to dispose of any property left by Judge Ferguson.”

“It’s my property!” snapped the woman.

“Very true, madam. We regret that you should be so annoyed. But you can readily understand that your interests are being safeguarded by the law. If anyone, without authority, could deliver your box to you, he might also deliver it to others, in which case you would suffer serious loss. There will be no difficulty, however, in securing the proper order from the court; but that will require a few days’ time.”

“There’s money in that box,” said Mrs. Ritchie. “I don’t trust those swindling banks, so the judge kept all my ready money for me. In that box are thousands of dollars in cold cash, an’ some government bonds as good as cash. I need some money to-day. Can’t this boy let me into the office so I can take what I want out of the box? I’ve got a key, if Toby Clark will open the cupboard for me. I drove to town to-day for money to pay off my hands with, and found the judge died las’ night, without letting me know. A pretty pickle I’ll be in, if the law’s to keep me from my rightful property!”

“You have no right to touch your box, Mrs. Ritchie. The boy has no right to allow you in Mr. Ferguson’s offices.”

“Never mind that; no one will know, if we keep our mouths shut.”

Mr. Holbrook smiled but shook his head.

“I am sorry you should be so distressed,” he said gently, “but the inconvenience is but temporary, I assure you. If you employ me to get the order from the court I will see that there is no unnecessary delay.”

“Humph!” said the woman, looking at him shrewdly. “Will it cost anything?”

“Merely my expenses to the city, a slight fee and the court charges.”

“Merely a job to rob me, eh? You want me to pay good money to get hold of my own property?”

“If you are in a hurry for it. Otherwise, by allowing the law to take its course, the property will be returned to you without charge.”

She considered this statement, eyeing the young man suspiciously the while.

“I’ll think it over,” was her final verdict. “To-morrow I’ll drive into town again. Don’t you blab about what I’ve told you is in that box, Holbrook. If you’re goin’ to settle in this town you’ll have to learn to keep your mouth shut, or you’ll get run out in short order. Judge Ferguson never blabbed and you’ll do well to follow his example. Come, Toby; I’m goin’ home.”

“By the way,” remarked Mr. Holbrook, addressing the boy in meaning tones, “you’d better keep out of Mr. Ferguson’s offices until after an inventory is made by the proper authorities. If you have a key, as I suspect – for I saw you in the office – get rid of it at once; for, if anything is missing, you might be held responsible.”

Toby saw the value of this advice.

“I’ll give my key to Mr. Spaythe, at the bank, for safe keeping,” he said.

“That’s right,” returned the young man, nodding approval.

“Mr. Spaythe was the judge’s best friend and I think he’ll be the executor, under the terms of the will,” continued Toby, thoughtfully.

“In any event, get rid of the key,” counseled Mr. Holbrook.

“I will, sir.”

When they were standing alone by Mrs. Ritchie’s buggy the woman asked in a low voice:

“So you’ve got the key, have you?”

“Yes,” said Toby.

“Then we’ll go to the office and get my box, law or no law. I’ll make it worth your while, Toby Clark, and no one will ever know.”

The boy shook his head, casting a whimsical smile at the unscrupulous old woman.

“No bribery and corruption for me, ma’am, thank you. I’m somewhat inclined to be honest, in my humble way. But I couldn’t do it, anyhow, Mrs. Ritchie, because Judge Ferguson always kept the key to the cupboard himself, on the same ring that he kept the keys to all the boxes.”

“Where are his keys, then?”

“At his house, I suppose.”

“Tcha! That impudent girl of his has them, an’ there’s no use asking her to give ’em up.”

“Not the slightest use, Mrs. Ritchie.”

“Well, I’m going home.”

She got into the buggy and drove away. Toby stood motionless a moment, thoughtfully leaning on his crutch as he considered what to do. Spaythe’s Bank was closed, of course, but the boy had an uneasy feeling that he ought not to keep the key to the office in his possession overnight. So he walked slowly to Mr. Spaythe’s house and asked to see the banker, who fortunately was at home.

“I’d like you to take the key to the office, sir, and keep it until it’s wanted,” he explained.

“Very well,” answered the banker, who knew Toby as the trusted clerk of his old friend Judge Ferguson.

“There’s another key,” remarked Toby. “It belonged to the judge, but he always left it in Will Chandler’s care.”

“I have that key also,” said Mr. Spaythe. “Mr. Chandler sent it to me early this afternoon, by the young lawyer who has rented the offices – Holbrook, I think his name is.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Spaythe.”

“I looked in at the offices a while ago and found them in good order,” continued the banker. Then he looked at Toby as if wondering if he had better say more, but evidently decided not to. Toby marked the man’s hesitation and waited.

“Good night, my boy.”

“Good night, Mr. Spaythe.”

Toby hobbled slowly to his lonely shanty on the river bank, prepared his simple supper, for he had forgotten to eat during this eventful day, and afterward went to bed. Every moment he grieved over the loss of his friend. Until after the funeral the boy, seemingly forgotten by all, kept to his isolated shanty except for a daily pilgrimage to the Ferguson house to ask Janet if there was anything he could do.

The day following the funeral the judge’s will was read and it was found that he had left his modest fortune to his wife, in trust for his only child, Janet. There were no bequests to anyone. Mr. Spaythe was named sole executor.

Toby was present during the reading of the will, but he was not surprised that he was not mentioned in it. The boy had never entertained a thought that his former master would leave him money. The judge had paid him his wages and been kind to him; that was enough. Now that the sad strain was over and the man he had known and loved was laid to rest, Toby Clark returned thoughtfully to his poor home to face a new era in his life.

The prime necessity, under the new conditions, was employment.