Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “You are the bill-poster’s boy,” he said, after a start of recognition; “I - I thought it was someone else. What is it, my lad — is anything wrong about the bills?”

  “Not as I knows of,” replied Scroggs, looking up earnestly into Mr. Lawrence’s face; “I thought I’d come an’ tell you ‘bout the kid — him as was lost, you know.”

  Mr. Lawrence sank back into a chair with a white face.

  “What do you know of him?” he asked in a quick, agitated voice.

  “I know everything,” responded Scroggs, with a grin; “I’m the kid!”

  “You!” cried the man, springing to his feet; “Impossible! What do you mean, boy?”

  “Now, don’t you get excited,” said Scroggs, coolly; “Jest set down agin an’ listen, an’ I’ll tell you all about it. You see I couldn’t read the bill myself, not knowin’ how, but I got another boy to read it, an’ the minit he said ‘Trotty’ I knew it was me. ‘Cause why? Trotty’s my name, sir. An’ I allus knew I belonged to somebody, ‘cause I never belonged to old Scroggs, but for the life o’ me I couldn’t remember who it was.”

  By this time Mr. Lawrence was trembling violently, and striving to penetrate the boy’s dirt-begrimed face in search of familiar features; and now, suddenly, the truth came to him in a mighty wave that swept away all doubt.

  “Come with me,” he cried; and taking the child’s hand led him up to his own private room.

  “I must be sure I am right before I speak to my wife,” he thought; “disappointment might kill her.”

  He carefully washed the grime from Scrogg’s countenance, brushed back his curly hair, and then, holding the rosy face firmly between his two hands he gazed upon it earnestly, studying every line of the boy’s expressive features. There was a world of yearning and tenderness in the father’s face, and suddenly he bent down and kissed Scroggs softly upon his forehead.

  “Tell me all about it,” he said gently. Scroggs appeared both bewildered and embarrassed at the warmth of his reception, and was at first at a loss how to begin; but after a moment’s thought he said: T’were all on account o’ that name o’ Trotty. When I lived in this house,” he continued, his eyes roving familiarly around the room, “you used to give me a cane to ride on - a cane with a bird’s head on the end.”

  “Yes, an eagle’s head!” interrupted Mr. Lawrence eagerly.

  “Well, I rode that cane all over the house, upstairs an’ down, an’ so you an’ the lady - was that my mamma? - you an’ she used to call me Trotty. O’ course, you know, I can’t ‘member everything, for I must’ a’ been a pretty small kid then; but when I heard that bill read it seemed to bring back lots of things as I’d forgot all about. I ‘member one day a man comin”round with a music organ, an’ I follered him, ridin’ on my cane an’ not noticin’ where I was goin’. By ‘n’ by I got tired, an’ it was getting’ dark, an’ I cried for my mamma. An’ then the grinder give me a ride on his organ, an’ took me home with him.

  “Next day he promised to take me home, but he didn’t do it. He took off my dress an’ put some pants on me, which he said was more proper for a man; an’ I thought so too. An’ then we went way out into the country an’ walked a good many days, an’ he allus said he was tryin’ to find my home. One day we come to a town where there was a blind man named Scroggs, an’ the grinder sold the cane with the bird’s head to the blind man. I cried when he took the cane away, an’ after we had gone up the road a ways I turned an’ run back to the town. I ‘xpected the grinder would chase me, but he didn’t, an’ when I got back to the town I found the blind man a walkin’ with my cane. He wouldn’t give it up, but he said if I would come with him an’ lead him back to the city he’d find my folks for me again. So I went with him, an’ he was pretty good to me, was Scroggs. An’ he said I got more pennies for him than he ever got before, an’ that I’d better stay with him an’ see the world.

  “Well, after a while we come back to the city, an’ we’ve lived here ever since. I s’pose if Scroggs hadn’t been blind, he’d ‘a’ read your bills an’ give me up, ‘cause he liked money pretty well; but neither o’ us knew as anybody was huntin’ for me. ‘Bout a year ago Scroggs died, an’ I went to work for Dick Rogers, postin’ bills. Ev’rvbody called me Scroggs an’ thought I belonged to the blind man, but I alius ‘membered as my name was Trotty, an’ I’ve got the cane, sir, over to Dick Rogers’s place.”

  Mr. Lawrence listened attentively to this story, which Trotty told very simply and earnestly. When it was ended he took the boy tenderly in his arms.

  “Thank God, my darling,” he said, “that we have found you at last!”

  A few minutes later, when Trotty had shyly released himself from the embrace of his sobbing but delighted mother, who had recognized her boy at the first glance, he remarked, casually:

  “I s’pose there’s no use postin’ the rest o’ them bills?”

  “No,” said his father, with a smile, “the bills have fulfilled their mission.”

  “But the five thousand dollars reward?” asked the boy, anxiously “Why, really, Trotty,” replied the happy father, as he bent down and kissed the bright face, “I believe you’ve earned that reward yourself.”

  The Loveridge Burglary

  There was no doubt about it; the house had been robbed. Mr. Loveridge knew it the moment he got out of bed and saw a vacancy on his white shirt-front where a handsome solitaire diamond had sparkled when he closed his eyes in sleep.

  Mr. Loveridge was not readily excited. He calmly searched his vest pocket and discovered that his valuable time-piece was also missing. From his trousers had been abstracted a well-filled pocketbook.

  Mr. Loveridge sighed. Then he reached over and awakened his wife.

  “Mollie,” he said, “the house has been robbed.”

  Mrs. Loveridge rolled over, dug her dimpled fists into her eves and murmured, sleepily: “What did you say, Charlie?”

  “We have been robbed.”

  Mrs. Loveridge opened wide her eyes and stared at him in astonishment.

  “The house has been entered by burglars,” continued her husband.

  “Burglars! Good gracious!” cried the little woman, springing from the bed in one bound. The word “burglar” was a terrible one to her, as it is, indeed, to every well-constituted woman. “Robbery” docs not sound nearly so awe-inspiring.

  “Look for your jewels, Mollie,” said her husband, pleased at having aroused her at last.

  Mrs. Loveridge rushed to her dressing-table, stooped over it, and held up her hands with a little scream.

  “They’re gone!”

  “So I supposed,” returned Charlie, complacently, “they’ve probably stripped us of everything they could lay hands on.”

  Mrs. Loveridge screamed again.

  “Oh, Charlie! My sealskin!” She ran to a closet, gave a little ejaculation of relief, and returned with a smiling face.

  “They didn’t find it, dear.”

  “But your jewels were much more valuable.”

  “In know, but I’ve only had the cape a week. It would have broken my heart had they taken it.”

  “H-m!” growled her husband; “suppose you dress yourself. We’ll go downstairs and see if they have stolen the silver.”

  Mrs. Loveridge hastily complied, and together they descended to the dining-room. The silver was intact, nor could they find that anything below stairs had been disturbed.

  But as they entered the sitting-room Mollie’s sharp eyes made a discovery, and she ran to the window with a cry of surprise.

  A round hole had been cut in the plate glass, large enough for a man to have reached through and unfastened the sash. The bit of circular glass, with a piece of putty adhering to its centre, was lying on the sitting-room table. The sash was fastened, as if the intruder, having retired with his booty, had been thoughtful enough to close and secure the window behind him.

  “He was a clever fellow,” said Mr. Loveridge, thoughtfully; “I wonder why he did
n’t take the silver; but perhaps jewelry is easier to dispose of. I suppose we must investigate this matter?”

  “Of course,” returned his wife. “But oh, Charlie! isn’t it lucky we have a detective in the family?”

  “Do you think Tom could discover the thief?”

  “I know he could, and we’ll put the case in his hands at once. You know the Pinkertons have tried to get him several times, but he prefers to work on his own account. I suppose Tom is the best detective in America.”

  “Because he’s your cousin.”

  “Nonsense! Because he can find out anything; that’s the reason. He isn’t one of those common, blundering fellows.”

  “Well, I’ll see him when I get downtown, and put the case in his hands.”

  “Do, dear,” replied Mrs. Loveridge. Then, clapping her hands, she added, “Won’t it be jolly when Torn brings the villain to justice and restores all our jewelry!”

  “If the fellow hasn’t pawned it,” remarked her husband; “I’d like to get my watch back again; it was one of your presents to me, you know.”

  Mrs. Loveridge threw up the window-sash and leaned out.

  “How funny!” she exclaimed, after a moment; “see here, Charlie.”

  Mr. Loveridge leaned over the sill and saw a long, narrow indentation in the damp earth beneath the window, running from the path a few yards away directly to the spot below them, where it had made a deep impression. From beneath the window the trail wandered irregularly back to the path again, where it was lost in the gravel.

  “What does it mean?” asked Mr. Loveridge.

  “It’s a bicycle track,” replied Mollie; “it means that we have been robbed by a man on a bicycle!”

  “But there are no tracks where he got off.”

  “He didn’t get off, Charlie — that is, upon the ground — he ran the machine up to the window, leaned it against the wall, and stood upon the seat while he broke open the window.”

  “Humph!” said her husband, “if he’s as clever a rascal as that, Tom will have a job catching him.”

  “Oh, Tom will be a match for him, never fear,” returned the lady, with full confidence in her cousin’s powers; “but let us have breakfast at once, so you can get downtown and let Tom know we have work for him.”

  At ten o’clock Mr. Loveridge walked into his office, hung up his coat and glanced over the mail. Then he went to the telephone and rung up Mr. Tom I Harkins, detective.

  Mr. Harkins was out. “He usually is out when any one wants him,” growled Charlie.

  Mr. Loveridge felt that he had important news to communicate to some one. A man is not burglarized every day. He walked across the hall and rapped at the door of his old friend and crony Jenkin Foreman. “Come in!” cried a hearty voice, and Mr. Loveridge entered to find his friend in company with no less a personage than Mr. Tom Harkins.

  He gave a sigh of satisfaction.

  “Jinks,” he said — Jinks was the familiar name of Mr. Jenkin Foreman — ”I have been robbed.”

  Jinks was sitting in his office chair, with a big cigar in his mouth and his feet upon the table. He removed the cigar, raised his eyebrows slightly and inquired, calmly, “How?”

  Mr. Loveridge was disappointed. Perhaps he had not put the case forcibly enough.

  “My house was ransacked by burglars last night, and all of my own and my wife’s jewelry stolen, as well as a large sum of money.”

  Jinks cast a curious glance at Tom Harkins and smoked more furiously than ever.

  “Any traces of the robbers?”

  “None at all; scarcely any, that is.”

  Here Mr. Loveridge lit a cigar of his own, put his feet on the table beside the other two pair that were occupying it, and proceeded to relate circumstantially the occurrences of the morning.

  “And now,” he said, turning to Mr. Harkins, “I want to put the case in your hands. Mollie is confident you can find the scoundrel and restore our lost property. You’d better go up to the house and examine that bicycle track and see if you can find a clue.”

  “I will,” said the famous detective, with a yawn; “Mollie can give me the pointers, I suppose?”

  “Certainly. And you’d better stay to lunch and keep the poor girl company, if you think you can spare the time.”

  Mr. Harkins slowly drew on his gloves.

  “I shall use my best efforts of course, Loveridge; but you must remember that no man is infallible. And besides, a burglar who rides a bicycle is a new ‘genus homo,’ and is likely to prove slippery.”

  “I know, I know,” returned Charlie; “but you’ve worked out worse cases than this, and I believe you’ll bag the scoundrel in time.”

  “I’ll try,” said Mr. Harkins, and departed upon his errand.

  Jinks smoked in silence for a time.

  “Charlie,” he then exclaimed, “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  “In giving this case to Tom.”

  “Nonsense! Tom is conceded to be a very clever detective, and he’ll take a friendly interest in this affair besides.”

  Mr. Foreman looked thoughtfully at the toe of his patent-leather shoe. “Loveridge,” he remarked, “have you noticed lately that Tom is failing?”

  “Failing how?”

  “In his mind.”

  “No.”

  “I have,” said Jinks, with emphasis, “and as a personal friend I advise you to hire another detective; that is, if you want to recover your property.”

  “Oh, but I couldn’t do that,” remonstrated Mr. Loveridge; “Mollie would never forgive me, and I’d rather lose the whole thing than show a lack of confidence in a friend.”

  Jinks groaned.

  “Business is business,” he murmured.

  “So it is, but Tom’s head is as right as yours or mine. I believe he’ll catch the burglar within a week.”

  “Tell you what I’ll do,” said Jinks; “I’ll bet you fifty I can find a man who will discover the burglar before Tom does.”

  “Done!” said Charlie. It was one of his weaknesses not to be able to refuse a bet. Mr. Foreman arose, rung the bell of his ‘phone, and called up the City Detective Bureau. He explained that Mr. Loveridge had been burglarized and directed them to send a man to his residence at once to secure evidence against the thief. They promised to do so.

  Mr. Loveridge listened with a smile upon his handsome face.

  “It’s no use, Jinks,” he said, as his friend hung up the ‘phone, “those blundering fools never discover anything. Your fifty is lost already.”

  “Wait,” said Jinks, “I’ll not interfere in any way. If the regular detective doesn’t nail your man before Tom does, the fifty is yours. And now let’s go out and have a drink.”

  Tom Harkins was a good deal surprised, as he sat at luncheon with his cousin Mollie, to hear a detective from the city office announced. He saw the man personally, and was assured that Mr. Loveridge had employed him to work upon the case.

  “This is some of Jinks’ doing,” muttered the young man, as he gravely regarded his rival. He was a seedy-looking chap, and Tom at once estimated him as no better than the average run of city detectives.

  “Look around the place,” he said to him, condescendingly, “and see what you can discover. The fellow rode up on a bicycle, it is certain, but so far as I can determine left no other tracks behind him.”

  And then he bid Mollie good day, assuring her of his faithful endeavors to find her jewels in good time, and caught the next car into the city.

  The other man looked after him thoughtfully. He was pleased at having met and spoken with the celebrated Detective Harkins. Would he ever be able to acquire so great a reputation himself, he wondered?

  Mollie, to whose mercies Tom had commended the man from the city office, stood holding his soiled card rather gingerly in her pretty fingers. She glanced at it now, and asked:

  “Would you like to look over the premises, Mr. Briggs?”

  “If yo
u please, ma’am,” he replied, with deference.

  “I suppose Mr. Loveridge wished you to assist Mr. Harkins on the case,” she continued, doubtfully.

  “He telephoned the office for a man, ma’am, and they sent me,” he answered, evasively.

  “Mr. Harkins has been very thorough in his investigations,” continued Mollie; “he has searched every inch of the carpet and looked all through the grounds, but I don’t think he found anything. And he seemed to be disappointed about it.”

  But Mr. Briggs wished to investigate on his own account, and he went to work very deliberately. He examined the window with its broken pane minutely, and put in his pocket the piece of putty that adhered to the bit of glass left upon the table. Then he went outside and inspected with care the track of the bicycle.

  Mollie, who was watching him from the window, saw him kneel upon the damp ground and put his face close to the track. Creeping along on his hands and knees he examined it inch by inch, and finally paused with a low exclamation of surprise.

  Mrs. Loveridge, becoming curious, went out and joined him.

  “Have you found anything?” she asked.

  “A clue, ma’am!”

  “What is it?”

  He drew a magnifying glass from his pocket and held it over the indentation made by the wheel. She peered through it a moment and then said, “I don’t see anything.”

  “The rear wheel of the bicycle had been punctured,” explained Mr. Briggs, “and was mended by a T-shaped rubber patch.”

  “Can you see it?”

  “I can see the impression of the patch very easily.”

  “Let me look again,” demanded Mollie. “Oh, yes! I can see it quite plainly now. But how do you know it was the rear wheel?”

  “Because had it been the forward one the mark of the patch would have been covered by the wheel that followed it.”

  “Oh, I see. But is this discovery of any value?”