Читать книгу The Last Cruise of the Spitfire: or, Luke Foster's Strange Voyage - Stratemeyer Edward - Страница 2

"Luke!"

"Yes, Mr. Stillwell."

"Why didn't you sweep and dust the office this morning?"

"I did, sir."

"You did!"

"Yes, sir."

"You did!" repeated the gentleman, who, I may as well state, was my esteemed uncle. "I must say, young man, that lately you have falsified to an astonishing degree."

"Excuse me, but I have not falsified – not to my knowledge, sir."

"Stop; don't contradict me – "

"I am telling the truth, sir."

"Stop, I tell you! I will not have it! Look here, and then dare to tell me that this office has seen the touch of a broom or duster this day!"

And my Uncle Felix motioned me majestically into his office with one hand, while with the other he pointed in bitter scorn at the floor.

Mr. Felix Stillwell was in a bad humor. His sarcastic tones told this quite as well as the sour look upon his face. Evidently some business matters had gone wrong, and he intended to vent the spleen raised thereby upon me. He was a high-strung man at the best, and when anything went wrong the first person in his way was sure to catch the full benefit of his ire.

I was an orphan, and had lived with my Uncle Felix three years. Previous to that time I was a scholar at the Hargrove Military and Commercial Academy, a first class training-school for boys, situated upon the Palisades, overlooking the Hudson River.

My father was a retired lawyer, who, being in ill health, went with my mother on a two years' trip to Europe. They journeyed from place to place for sixteen months, and then lost their lives in a terrible railway accident in England. The death of both my parents at once was a fearful blow to me, and for a long while I could not think, and was utterly unable to judge what was taking place around me. At the end of three months I was informed that Mr. Stillwell had been appointed my guardian, and then I was taken from school and placed in his office in New York City.

My duties at the office of Stillwell, Grinder & Co. were varied. In the morning I was expected to clean everything as bright as a pin. Then I went to the post-office, and on a dozen other errands; after which I did such writing as was placed in my hands.

For this work I was allowed my board, clothing and fifty cents a week spending money – not a large sum, but one with which I would have been content had other things been equal.

But they were far from being so. I lived with my uncle, but I was not treated as one of the family. His wife – I do not care to call her my aunt – was a very proud woman who had come from a blue-blooded Boston family, and she hardly deigned to notice me. When she did it was in a patronizing manner, as if I was a menial far beneath her.

My two cousins, Lillian and Augustus, were even less civil. Lillian, who was a fashionable miss of seventeen, never spoke to me excepting when she wanted something done, and Gus, as every one called him, thought it his right to order me around as if I was his valet.

In the matter of food and clothing I was scarcely considered. Any of Gus's cast-off suits were thought good enough for the office, and my Sunday suit was two years old. I had my breakfast with the servants before the others were up, took my noon lunch with me, and dinner when I returned from the office, which was generally two hours after Mr. Stillwell, when everything was cold.

Looking back at those times I often wonder how it was I stood the treatment as long as I did. During my parents' lives I had had nearly everything that my heart wished, and to be thus cut short, not only in my bodily wants, but also in consideration and affection, was hard indeed.

To my mind there was no reason why I should be treated as one so far beneath the family. My mother had been a gentlewoman and my father a gentleman, and I was conceited enough to think that by both breeding and education I was fully the equal of my cousins. Besides, my father had been well-to-do, and had, no doubt, left me a fair inheritance.

Had I had less to do I would have been lonely in a city where I hardly knew a soul. But my work kept me so busy I had no time to think of myself, and perhaps this is one reason why I did not rebel before I did.

In the whole of the metropolis there was but one person whom I considered a friend. That was Mr. Ira Mason, who had his law offices in the same building with Stillwell, Grinder & Co. I had done a number of errands for this gentleman, and in return he had become interested in me.

To Mr. Mason I confided my story in all its details, and when I had finished he told me that if matters did not mend, or got worse, to let him know, and he would see what could be done for me.

My uncle did not like Mr. Mason, who, on several occasions, had had clients who wished to obtain patents, and whom he had taken elsewhere; the reason given being that Stillwell, Grinder & Co.'s rates were too high, though their peculiar methods of getting patents had much to do with it.

It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday. I had requested my uncle, several days previous, to give me a holiday, which I intended to spend with an old school chum of mine, Harry Banker, at his home in Locustville, a pretty village, fifty miles northwest of the city.

The Banker family and mine had been well acquainted, and I had received numerous invitations from them to spend some time at their home, a large farm; but was each time forced to decline.

When I had requested my uncle to let me go for just one day, I had thought it would be impossible for him to refuse, as it was the middle of July, and business was dull. I had saved my money for some time, determined to be prepared to pay my own way if he should not give me the price of a ticket.

My request for a day off was met with a sharp refusal. It wasn't necessary, there was work to do, and, besides, Gus was going to take the day to go to Coney Island, and I must attend to his desk during his absence.

I was taken back by the curt negative that I received, and was inclined to "air my mind." I had had no holiday for two years, and was clearly entitled to one. Gus had had a week at Christmas, and half a dozen days since. It was not treating me fairly to pile up the work upon me, and give me no breathing spells.

What made me feel worse was the fact that I had written to Harry telling him of my expectations, so that I might find him home, and we could have a good time. He would surely expect me, and it was doubtful if I could get him word in time telling him I could not come.

On the evening before I had written him a letter and posted it. Gus had seen me do so, and had made a mean remark concerning the fact that I was to stay at home while he was to have a good time.

The remark was entirely uncalled for, and it made me angry. Hot words passed; and he was on the point of hitting me when my uncle came in and stopped the row. But my cousin was fearfully angry still, and vowed to get even with me; and I knew he would try his best to do so.

On arriving at the offices that morning, I was in no bright humor. But I knew sulking would accomplish nothing, and so set to with a will to clean up as usual. This job took fully half an hour, and when it was done I crossed over to Mr. Mason's office to return a book he had loaned me, and also to obtain another from his large library.

While in the office I heard footsteps in the hall, and looking through the partly closed door had seen Gus enter his father's private office, closing the door after him. I was on the point of following, when I remembered what had passed between us, and so waited until some member of the firm might appear.

Fully five minutes elapsed, and then my cousin came out, closing the door softly behind him. He paused for a moment in the hallway, and, seeing no one, hurried down the stairs, and out of the building.

I thought nothing more of his movements, but continued to look over the books, Mr. Mason meanwhile being busy at his desk in a smaller office beyond. Presently I heard my uncle's well-known step, and hurried out, meeting him just after he had been in his private office, which was behind all the others.

"Don't think that because it is your birthday you can neglect your work," he went on, in a rising voice. "This office is to be cleaned thoroughly every morning."

"I cleaned it thoroughly not half an hour ago," I replied stoutly.

"Do you mean to contradict me?" he cried.

"I'm telling the truth," was all I could say.

"Does that look like it?"

The floor certainly did not look like it. Bits of paper were strewn in all directions, and the bottle of ink on the desk had been upset, creating a small blue-black river, running diagonally over the oil-cloth towards the safe that stood beside the window.

Of course I knew at once who had done all this. Gus had vowed to get square with me, and this was his method of doing so. Yet I could not help but wonder what the outcome would be.

"I say, does that floor look like it?" repeated Mr. Stillwell, in gathering wrath.

"I didn't do this, Uncle Felix."

"You didn't?" he sneered. "Well, who did, then? We haven't any cat to do it."

I was on the point of saying it was a two-legged cat, but thinking he would not relish the joke, replied:

"I don't know. Gus was here."

"My son? Impossible! I left him at home half an hour ago."

"He was here not ten minutes since," I said.

"I don't believe it! Besides, why should he make a pig-pen of the office, answer me that?" stormed Uncle Felix.

"Because he knew I had just cleaned it up, and he wanted to get even with me for that row we had yesterday."

"A likely story, I must say! As if Augustus wasn't beyond such childishness! You did this yourself. I want you to clean it up at once."

"I didn't do – " I began.

"Not another word! Clean it up, I say."

My uncle was in such a savage humor I knew it would be useless for me to attempt to reason with him. So getting a sponge and some water, I began to clean up the muss on the desk. I had hardly cleaned the writing-pad when my uncle stopped me.

"If you are going to take all day, do the job when you come back from the post-office. I want some letters to go in the nine o'clock mail. Here they are."

He shoved the letters into my hand.

"Now don't get them all dirty!" he cried, "or I'll crack you over the head. Be off with you."

In a moment I was on my way to the post-office, three blocks distant.