Burnham Breaker Part 4

"Then you will pay me no money, and the boy will return home with me."

Burnham wheeled suddenly in his chair and rose to his feet. "Listen!"

he exclaimed, earnestly. "If you will bring my boy to me, alive, unharmed, my own boy Ralph, I will give you twice three thousand dollars."

"In cash?"

"In cash."

"It's a bargain. You shall see him within two days. But--you may change your mind in the meantime; will you give me a writing to secure me?"

"Certainly."

Mr. Burnham resumed his seat and wrote hurriedly, the following contract:--

"This agreement, made and executed this thirtieth day of June, 1867, between Simon Craft of the city of Philadelphia, party of the first part, and Robert Burnham of the city of Scranton, party of the second part, both of the state of Pennsylvania, witnesseth that the said Craft agrees to produce to the said Burnham, within two days from this date, the son of the said Robert Burnham, named Ralph, in full life, and in good health of body and mind. And thereupon the said Burnham, provided he recognizes as his said son Ralph the person so produced, agrees to pay to the said Craft, in cash, the sum of six thousand dollars. Witness our hands and seals the day and year aforesaid.

"ROBERT BURNHAM." [L.S.]

"There!" said Burnham, handing the paper to Craft; "that will secure you in the payment of the money, provided you fulfil your agreement.

But let me be plain with you. If you are deceiving me or trying to deceive me, or if you should practise fraud on me, or attempt to do so, you will surely regret it. And if that child be really in life, and you have been guilty of any cruelty toward him, of any kind whatever, you will look upon the world through prison bars, I promise you, in spite of the money you may obtain from me. Now you understand; go bring the boy."

The old man did not answer. He was holding the paper close to his eyes, and going over it word by word.

"Yes," he said, finally; "I suppose it's all right. I'm not very familiar with written contracts, but I'll venture it."

Burnham had risen again from his chair, and was striding up and down the floor.

"When will you bring him?" he asked; "to-morrow?"

"My dear sir, do not be in too great haste; I am not gifted with miraculous powers. I will bring the boy here or take you to him within two days, as I have agreed."

"Well, then, to-day is Tuesday. Will you have him here by Friday?

Friday morning?"

"By Friday afternoon, at any rate."

The old man was carefully wrapping up the articles he had exhibited, and putting them back into his hand-bag. Finally, Burnham's attention was attracted to this proceeding.

"Why," he exclaimed, "what are you doing? You have no right to those things; they are mine."

"Oh no! they are mine. They shall be given to you some time perhaps; but, for the present, they are mine."

"Stop! you shall not have them. Those things are very precious to me.

Put them down, I say; put them down!"

"Very well. You may have these or--your boy. If you force these things from me, you go without your child. Now take your choice."

Old Simon was very calm and firm. He knew his ground, and knew that he could afford to be domineering. His long experience in sharp practice had not failed to teach him that the man who holds his temper, in a contest like this, always has the best of it. And he was too shrewd not to see that his listener was laboring under an excitement that was liable at any moment to break forth in pa.s.sionate speech. He was, therefore, not surprised nor greatly disturbed when Burnham exclaimed, vehemently:--

"I'll have you arrested, sir! I'll force you to disclose your secret!

I'll have you punished by the hand of the law!"

"The hand of the law is not laid in punishment on people who are guilty of no crime," responded Craft, coolly; "and there is no criminal charge that you can fairly bring against me. Poverty is my worst crime. I have done nothing except for your benefit. Now, Mr.

Burnham you are excited. Calm yourself and listen to reason. Don't you see that if I were to give those things to you I would be putting out of my hands the best evidence I have of the truth of my a.s.sertions?"

"But I have seen you produce them. I will not deny that you gave them to me."

"Ah! very good; but you may die before night! What then?"

"Die before night! Absurd! But keep the things; keep them. I can do without them if you will restore the child himself to me. When did you say you would bring him?"

"Friday afternoon."

"Until Friday afternoon, then, I wait."

"Very well, sir; good day!"

"Good day!"

The old man picked up his cane, rose slowly from his chair, and, with his satchel in his hand, walked softly out, closing the door carefully behind him.

Robert Burnham continued his walk up and down the room, his flushed face showing alternately the signs of the hope and the doubt that were striving for the mastery within him.

For eight years he had believed his boy to be dead. The terrible wreck at Cherry Brook had yielded up to him from its ashes only a few formless trinkets of all that had once been his child's, only a few unrecognizable bones, to be interred, long afterward, where flowers might bloom above them. The last search had been made, the last clew followed, the last resources of wealth and skill were at an end, and these, these bones and trinkets were all that could be found. Still, the fact of the child's death had not been established beyond all question, and among the millions of remote possibilities that this world always holds in reserve lingered yet the one that he might after all be living.

And now came this old man with his strange story, and the cap and the cloak and the locket. Did it mean simply a renewal of the old hope, destined to fade away again into a hopelessness duller than the last?

But what if the man's story were true? What if the boy were really in life? What if in two days' time the father should clasp his living child in his arms, and bear him to his mother! Ah! his mother. She would have given her life any time to have had her child restored to her, if only for a day. But she had been taught early to believe that he was dead It was better than to torture her heart with hopes that could only by the rarest possibility be fulfilled. Now, now, if he dared to go home to her this night, and tell her that their son was alive, was found, was coming back to them! Ah! if he only dared!

The sunlight, streaming through the western window, fell upon him as he walked. It was that golden light that conies from a sun low in the west, when the days are long, and it illumined his face with a glow that revealed there the hope, the courage, the honor, the manly strength that held mastery in his heart.

There was a sudden commotion in the outer office. Men were talking in an excited manner; some one opened the door, and said:--

"There's been an accident in the breaker mine, Mr. Burnham."

"What kind of an accident?"

"Explosion of fire-damp."

"What about the men?"

"It is not known yet how many are injured."

"Tell James to bring the horses immediately; I will go there."

"James is waiting at the door now with the team, sir."

Mr. Burnham put away a few papers, wrote a hurried letter to his wife, took his hat and went out and down the steps.