CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ABNER TRIMBLE'S PLOT.
Just off First Street, in Portland, Ore., is a saloon, over whichappears the name of the proprietor:
"Abner Trimble."
Two rough-looking fellows, smoking pipes, entered the saloon. Behindthe bar stood a stout, red-faced man. This was Trimble, and hisappearance indicated that he patronized the liquors he dispensed toothers.
"Glad to see you, Floyd," said Trimble.
"That means a glass of whisky, doesn't it?" returned Floyd.
"Well, not now. I want you to go up to the house again, to see mywife."
"About the old matter?"
"Yes; she isn't quite satisfied about the kid's death, and she won'tmake a will in my favor till she is. She wants to ask you a fewquestions."
Floyd made a wry face.
"She's as bad as a lawyer. I say, Abner, I'm afraid I'll get trippedup."
"You must stick to the old story."
"What was it?"
"Don't you remember you said that the kid hired a boat to row in theharbor along with two other boys, and the boat was upset and all threewere drowned?"
"Yes, I remember. It's a smart yarn, isn't it?" grinned Floyd.
"Yes, but you mustn't let her doubt it. You remember how you came toknow about the drowning?"
"No, I forget."
Abner Trimble frowned.
"Look here, Floyd. You'd better remember, or you won't get the money Ipromised you. You were out in a boat yourself, and saw the whole thing.You jumped into the water, and tried to save the kid, but it was nouse. He went to the bottom--and that was the end of him!"
"A very pretty story," said Floyd, complacently. "Won't I get somethin'for tryin' to save the kid's life?"
"As like as not. I'll suggest it to the old lady myself."
"When do you want me to go up to the house?"
"Now. The lawyer's coming at four o'clock, and I want you to confirmMrs. T. in her belief in the boy's death."
"It's dry talkin', Abner," said Floyd, significantly.
"Take a glass of sarsaparilla, then."
"Sarsaparilla!" repeated Floyd, contemptuously. "That's only fit forchildren."
"Lemon soda, then."
"What's the matter with whisky?"
"Are you a fool? Do you think Mrs. T. will believe your story if youcome to her smelling of whisky?"
"You're hard on me, Abner. Just one little glass."
"You can put that off till afterward. Here, take some lemon soda, orI'll mix you a glass of lemonade."
"Well, if I must," said Floyd, in a tone of resignation.
"You can have as much whisky as you like afterward."
"Then the sooner we get over the job the better. I'm ready now."
"Here, Tim, take my place," said Abner Trimble, calling his barkeeper;"I'm going to the house for an hour. Now come along."
Abner Trimble lived in a comfortable dwelling in the nicer portion ofthe city. It belonged to his wife when he married her, and he hadsimply taken up his residence in her house. He would have liked to havelived nearer the saloon, and had suggested this to his wife, but shewas attached to her home and was unwilling to move.
Trimble ushered his visitor into the sitting room and went up to seehis wife. She was sitting in an armchair in the room adjoining herchamber, looking pale and sorrowful.
"Well, Mary," said Trimble, "I've brought Floyd along to answer anyquestions relating to poor Edward's death."
"Yes, I shall be glad to see him," answered his wife, in a dull,spiritless tone.
"Shall I bring him up?"
"If you like."
Trimble went to the landing and called out: "You can come up, Floyd."
Floyd entered the room, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands. He wasnot used to society, and did not look forward with much pleasure to theinterview which had been forced upon him.
"I hope I see you well, ma'am," he said, bobbing his head.
"As well as I ever expect to be," answered Mrs. Trimble, sadly. "Yourname is----"
"Floyd, ma'am. Darius Floyd."
"And you knew my poor son?"
"Yes, ma'am, I knew him well. Ed and I was regular cronies."
Mrs. Trimble looked at the man before her, and was mildly surprised.Certainly Edward must have changed, or he would not keep such company.But, prejudiced against her son as she had been by her husband'smisrepresentations, she feared that this was only another proof ofEdward's moral decadence.
"You have been in New York recently?"
"Yes; I was there quite a while."
"And you used to see Edward?"
"'Most every day, ma'am."
"How was he employed?"
This was not a question to which Mr. Floyd had prepared an answer. Helooked to Mr. Trimble as if for a suggestion, and the latter noddedimpatiently, and shaped his mouth to mean "anything."
"He was tendin' a pool room, ma'am," said Floyd, with what he thought alucky inspiration. "He was tendin' a pool room on Sixth Avenue."
"He must indeed have changed to accept such employment. I hope hedidn't drink?"
"Not often, ma'am; just a glass of sarsaparilla or lemon soda. Them aremy favorites."
Abner Trimble turned aside to conceal a smile. He remembered Mr.Floyd's objecting to the innocent beverages mentioned, and his decidedpreference for whisky.
"I am glad that he was not intemperate. You saw the accident?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Please tell me once more what you can."
"I took a boat down at the Battery to have a row one afternoon, when,after a while, I saw another boat comin' out with three fellers intoit. One of them was your son, Edward."
"Did you know Edward's companions?"
"Never saw them before in my life. They was about as old as he. Well,by and by one of them stood up in the boat. I surmise he had beendrinkin'. Then, a minute afterward, I saw the boat upset, and the threewas strugglin' in the water.
"I didn't take no interest in the others, but I wanted to save Edward,so I jumped into the water and made for him. That is, I thought I did.But it so happened in the confusion that I got hold of the wrong boy,and when I managed to get him on board my boat, I saw my mistake. Itwas too late to correct it--excuse my emotion, ma'am," and Mr. Floyddrew a red silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes; "butwhen I looked out and couldn't see either of the other young fellers,and realized that they were drowned, I felt awful bad."
Mrs. Trimble put her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned. The picturedrawn by Mr. Floyd was too much for her.
"I wish I could see the young man whose life you saved," she said,after a pause, "Have you his name and address?"
"No, ma'am; he didn't even thank me. I didn't get even the price of aglass of--sarsaparilla out of him."
Mr. Floyd came near saying whisky, but bethought himself in time.
"I have been much interested by your sad story, Mr. Floyd," said thesorrow-stricken mother. "You seem to have a good and sympatheticheart."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Floyd; "that is my weakness."
"Don't call it a weakness! It does you credit."
Mr. Floyd exchanged a sly glance of complacency with Abner Trimble, whowas pleased that his agent got off so creditably. He had evidentlyproduced a good impression on Mrs. Trimble.
"You see, my dear," he said, gently, "that there can be no doubt aboutpoor Edward's death. I have thought, under the circumstances, that youwould feel like making a will, and seeing that I was suitably providedfor. As matters stand your property would go to distant cousins, andsecond cousins at that, while I would be left out in the cold.
"I know, of course, that you are younger than myself and likely tooutlive me, but still, life is uncertain. I don't care much for money,but I wouldn't like to die destitute, and so I asked Mr. Coleman, thelawyer, to come round. I think I hear his ring now. Will you see him?"
"Yes, if you wish it. I care very little what becomes of the propertynow my boy i
s no more."
Mr. Trimble went downstairs, and returned with a veryrespectable-looking man of middle age, whom he introduced as Mr.Coleman.
Chester Rand; or, The New Path to Fortune Page 38