Burnham Breaker Part 19

"Yes, I'll foot the bill; how much is it?" taking out his little leather wallet as he spoke.

"It'll be three dollars," said b.u.mmerton; "a dollar an' a quarter apiece for the dinner, an' a quarter apiece for the drinks."

Ralph looked up in amazement. He had never before heard of a dinner being worth so much money.

"Oh! it's all right," said Joe. "This is rather a high-priced hotel; but they get up everything in first-cla.s.s style, do you see?

"If in style you drink and eat, Lofty bills you'll have to meet."

"But I ain't got that much money," said Ralph, unstrapping his wallet.

"How much have ye got?" inquired the bar-tender.

"I've only got a dollar'n eighty-two cents."

"Well, you see, sonny," said b.u.mmerton, "that ain't more'n half enough. Ye shouldn't order such a fancy dinner 'nless ye've got money to pay for it."

"But I didn't know it was goin' to cost so much," protested Ralph.

"Uncle Billy an' me got jest as good a dinner last Fourth o' July at a place in Scranton, an' it didn't cost both of us but seventy cents.

Besides, I don't b'lieve--"

"Look here, b.u.mmerton!" said Joe, rising and leading the bar-tender aside. They whispered together for a few moments and then returned.

"It's all right," said Joe. "You're to pay him what money you have, and he's to charge the remainder on my bill. I'll stand the rest of it for you.

"I'll be that precious 'friend in need,'

Who proves himself a friend indeed."

"Then," said Ralph, "I won't have any money left to pay my fare back home."

"Oh, I'll see to that!" exclaimed Joe. "I invited you to ride up with me, didn't I? and of course I'll pay your fare; _das verstekt sich_; that goes without saying.

"I'll never desert you, oh, never! he spake, We'll stand by each other, asleep or awake."

It was not without much misgiving that Ralph gave the dollar and eighty-two cents to the bar-tender, and returned the empty wallet to his pocket. But Rhyming Joe soon engaged him again in conversation.

The young man seemed to be deeply interested in the movement to restore the boy to his family rights and possessions. He asked many questions about it, about Craft, about Sharpman, about Ralph's knowledge of himself; the whole ground, indeed, was gone over carefully from the beginning to the present; even the probabilities of the future were fully discussed.

In the meantime, the liquor in the bottle was steadily diminishing in quant.i.ty, as a result of Rhyming Joe's constant attention to it, and Ralph thought he began to detect evidences of intoxication in the speech and conduct of his friend. His nose appeared to be getting redder, his eyelids were drooping, he was sinking lower into his chair, his utterance was growing thick, and his voice had a sleepy tone.

Ralph, too, felt sleepy. The excitement and exercise of the morning, the hearty dinner, the warm, close room, and the fumes of alcohol in the atmosphere, were all having their effect on his senses. He saw, dimly, that Joe's chin was resting on his breast and that his eyes were closed; he heard him mutter in a voice that seemed to come from some distant room:--

"Of all 'e bowls I s-s-smell or see, The wa.s.sail bowl's 'e bowl f-f-for me,"

and the next moment both man and boy were fast asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

When Ralph awoke, it was quite dark in the room. He was still sitting at the round table, but Rhyming Joe had disappeared from the other side of it. He looked around the room, and saw that an oil-lamp was burning behind the bar, and that two or three rough-looking men stood there with the bar-tender, talking and drinking. But the young man who had dined with him was nowhere to be seen. Ralph arose, and went over to the bar.

"Can you tell me where Joe is, please?" he asked of the bar-tender.

"Joe? Oh, he went out a half-an-hour ago. I don't know where he went, sonny." And the man went on filling the gla.s.ses, and talking to the other men. Ralph stood for a moment, in deep thought, then he asked:--

"Did Joe say when he would be back?"

The bar-tender paid no attention to him, and, after a few moments, the boy repeated the question.

"Mr. b.u.mmerton, did Joe say when he would be back?"

"No, he didn't," responded the man, in a surly tone; "I don't know nothing about him."

Ralph went back, and stood by the stove to consider the matter. He thought it was very strange. He could hardly believe that Rhyming Toe had intended to desert him in this way. He preferred to think that the fellow had become helpless, and that b.u.mmerton had dragged him into some other room. He knew that Joe used to get that way, years before, in Philadelphia. He had seen much of him during the wretched period of his life with Simon Craft. Joe and the old man were together a great deal during that time. They were engaged jointly in an occupation which was not strictly within the limit of the law, and which, therefore, required mutual confidence. The young fellow had, apparently, taken a great liking to Ralph, had made much of him in a jovial way, and, indeed, in several instances, had successfully defended him against the results of Old Simon's wrath. The child had come to regard him as a friend, and had not been displeased to meet him, after all these years, in this unexpected manner. He had had a general idea that the young man's character was not good, and that his life was not moral, but he had not expected to be badly treated by him. Now, however, he felt compelled to believe that Joe had abused the privileges of friendship. The more he thought of it, the more sure he became that he had been deceived and deserted. He was alone in a strange city, without money or friends. What was to be done?

Perhaps the bar-tender, understanding the difficulty, would help him out of it. He resolved to apply to him.

"Mr. b.u.mmerton," he said, approaching the bar again, "now't Joe's gone, an' I ain't got no money, I don't see how I'm goin' to git home.

Could--could you lend me enough to pay my fare up? I'll send it back to you right away. I will,--honest!"

The man pushed both his hands into the pockets of his pantaloons, and stood for a minute staring at the boy, in feigned astonishment.

"Why, my little innocent!" he exclaimed, "what do ye take me for; a reg'lar home for the friendless? No, I ain't in the charitable business jist now. By the way, did ye know that the law don't allow hotel-keepers to let boys stay in the bar-room? Fust thing I know they'll be a constable a-swoopin' down on me here with a warrant.

Don't ye think ye'd better excuse yourself? That's the door over yonder, young feller."

Ralph turned, without a word, went to the door, opened it, and stepped into the street. It was very dark outside, and a cold wind was blowing up. He stood, for a few minutes, on the corner, shivering, and wondering which way to go. He felt very wretched indeed; not so much because he was penniless and lost, as because he had been deceived, abused, and mocked. He saw through the whole scheme now, and wondered how he had fallen so easily into it.

On a distant corner there was a street-lamp, burning dimly, and, without much thought of where he was going, the boy started toward it.

There were other drinking-saloons along the street, and he could hear loud talking and quarrelling in them as he pa.s.sed by. A man came out from one of them and hailed him gruffly. It frightened him, and he started to run. The man followed him for a little way, shouting savagely, and then turned back; but Ralph ran on. He stumbled, finally, on the uneven pavement, and fell headlong, bruising his side and hurting his wrist. His cap had rolled off, and it took him a long time to find it. Then he crossed the street to avoid a party of drunken revellers, and limped along until he came to the lamp that he had seen from the distance. Down another street there were a number of lights, and it looked more inviting; so he turned in that way. After he had gone two or three blocks in this direction, avoiding carefully the few persons whom he met, he turned again. The streets were growing lighter and wider now, and there were more people on them, and that was something to be thankful for. Finally he reached a busy, well-lighted thoroughfare, and turned into it, with a sigh of relief.

He had not walked very far along it before he saw, over to the right, surrounded by lights, a long, low building, in the middle of an open square. It occurred to him, suddenly, that this was the railroad station, and he hurried toward it. When he reached the door he remembered that he was without money, but he thought he would go in at any rate. He was very tired, and he knew of no better place in which to stop and rest. So he went into the waiting-room, and sat down on a bench, and looked around him.

There were not many people there, but they began to come very soon, and kept coming until the room was nearly full. Finally, there was a puffing of a locomotive out on the track, and a ringing of an engine bell, and the door-keeper called out:--

"All aboard for Pittston, Scranton, and Carbondale!"

The people crowded toward the door, and just then a carriage drove up to the other side of the station, and a gentleman and a lady and a little girl came into the waiting-room from the street entrance. The lady was in deep mourning; but, as she threw aside her veil for a moment, Ralph recognized her as Mrs. Burnham, and the little girl as her child. His heart gave a great throb, and he started to his feet.

The gentleman was saying: "I trust you will reach home safely and comfortably."

And Mrs. Burnham replied: "Oh, there is no doubt of it, Mr. Goodlaw! I have telegraphed to James to meet us at the station; we shall be there before nine o'clock."

"I will see that you are comfortably settled," he said, as they crossed the room toward the waiting train.