Newspaper Page Text
IN LUCK AT LAST
BY WALTER BESANT.
CHAPTER I.
WITHIN THREE WEEKS.
Host deligh ■
fill spot in all
London for a
iecond-h and
shop is that
lied by Em
a’s in the
’s road, Chel-
Emblem's is one of two or three shops
which stan 1 together, but it differs from its
neighbors in many important particulars.
For it has no plate-glass, as the others have;
nor does it stand like them with open doors;
nor does it A ire away gas at night; nor is it
bright with gilding and frosh paint; nor
does it seek to attract notice by posters and
bills. On the contrary, it retains the old,
small and unpretending panes of glass which
it lias always had: in the evening it is dimly
lighted, and itclosesearly; itsdoorisalways
shut, and although the name over the shop is
dingy, one feels that a coat of paint, while it
would certainly freshen up the place, would
take something from its character. For a
second-hand bookseller who respects him
self must present an exterior which has
something of faded splendor, of worn paint
and shabbiness. Within the shop books line
the walls and cumber the floor. There are
an outer and an inner shop; in the former a
small table stands among the books, at
which Mr. James, the assistant, is always at
work cataloguing, when he is not tying up
parcels; sometimes even with gum and
paste repairing the slighter ravages of
time—foxel bindings and close-cut margins
no man can repair. In the latter, which
is Mr. Emblem’s sanctum, there are chairs
and a table, also covered with books, a
writing-desk, a small safe and a glass case,
wherein are secured the most costly books
in stock. Emblem’s, as must be confessed,
is no longer quite what it was in former
days; twenty, thirty or forty years ago
that glass case was filled with precious
treasures, in those days if a man wanted a
book of county history, or of genealogy, or
of heraldry he knew where was his best
chance of finding it, for Emblem’s, in its
prime and heyday, had its specialty.
But Emblem is now old, and Emblem’s
shop is no longer what it was to the collector
of the last generation.
It was an afternoon in late September, and
in this very year of grace, eighteen hundred
and eighty-four. The day was as sunny and
warm as any of the days of its predecessor
Augustus the Gorgeous, but yet there was an
autumnal feeling in the air which made it
self felt even in the streets where there were
no red and yellow Virginia creepers, no
square gardens with long trails of mignon
ette and banks of flowering nasturtiums. In
fact, you cannotany where escape the autum
nal feeling, which begins about the middle
of September. It makes old people think
with sadness that the grasshopper is a bur
den in the land, and that the almond-tree is
about to flourish; but the young it fills with
a vinous and intoxicated rejoicing, as if the
time of feasting, fruits, harvests and young
wine, strong and fruity, was upon the world.
It made Mr. James—his surname has never
been ascertained, but man and boy, Mr.
James has been at Emblem’s for twenty-five
years and more—leave his table where he
was preparing the forthcoming catalogue,
and go to the open dpor, where he wasted a
good minute and a half in gazing up at the
Clear sky and down the sunny street Then
be stretched his arms and returned to his I
work, impelled by the sense of duty rather
than bv the scourge of necessity, because
there was no hurry about the catalogue and
most of the books in it were rubbish, and at
that season of the year few customers could
be expected, and there were ne parcels to tie
up and send out.
Behind the shop, where had been original
ly the "back parlor” in the days when
every genteel house in Chelsea had both its
front and back parlor—the latter for sitting
and living in, the former for the reception
of company—sat this afternoon the proprie
tor, the man whose name had stood above
the'shop for fifty years, the original and
only Emblem. He was—nay, he is—for you
may still find him in his place, and may
make his acquaintance over a county his
tory any day in the King’s Road—he is an
oldman now, advanced in the seventies, who
was born before the battle of Waterloo was
fought, and can remember Chelsea when it
was full of veterans wounded in battles
fought long before the Corsican Attila was
let loose upon the world. His face wears
the peaceful and wise expression which be
longs peculiarly to his profession. Other
callings mak j a man look peaceful, but not
all other callings make him look wise. Mr.
Emblem was born by nature of a
calm temperament—otherwise he would
not have been happy in his business; a
smile lies generally upon his lips, and his
eyes are soft and benign; his hair is white,
and his face, once ruddy, is pale, yet not
shrunk and seamed with furrows as happens
to so many old men, but round and firm;
like his chin and lips it is clean shaven; he
wears a black coat extraordinarily shiny in
tiie sle -ve, and a black silk stock just as he
used to wear in the thirties when he was
young and something of a dandy, and
would show himself on a Saturday evening
in the pit of Drury Lane; and the stock is
fastened behind with a silver buckle. He is,
1 in fact, a delightful old gentleman to look
at and pleasant to converse with, and oh his
brow everyone who can read may sec,
visibly stamped, the seal of a harmless and
honest life. At the contemplation of such a
man. one’s opinion of humanity is sensibly
raised, and even house-agents, plumbers and
suburban builders, feel that, after all, virtue
may bring wit h it some re ward.
The quiet and warmth of the afternoon,
unbroken to his accustomed ear, as it would
be to a stranger, by the murmurous roll of
London, made him sleepy. In bis hand he
held a letter which he had been reading for
the hundredth time, and which he knew by
heart every word; and as his eyes closed he
went back in imagination to a passage in
the past which it recalled.
He stood, in imagination, upon the deck
of a sailing ship—an emigrant ship. Ths
year was eighteen hundred and sixty-four,
a year when very few were tempted to try
their fortunes in a country torn by civil
war. With him were his daughter and his
, son-in-law, and they were come to bid the
P latter farewell.
“My dear—my dearl” cried the wife, in
TIIE SAYANN
her busband's arms, "come what may, I will
J iia you in a year.”
11 r husband shook his head sadly.
“They do not want me here, ”he said; “the
work goes into stronger and rougher hand*
Perhaps over there We may get on better,
and besides, it seems an opening.”
If the kind of work which he wan ed was
given to stronger and rougher hands than
his in England, far more would it be the case
in young and rough America. It was jour
nalistic work—writing work—that he want
ed; and he was a gentleman, a scholar, and
a creature of retired and refine 1 tastes and
manners. There are, perhaps, some still
living w’ho have survived tile tempestuous
life of the ordinary Fleet street “newspaper
m in” of twenty or thirty years ago; perhaps
one or two among these remember Claude
Aglen—but he was so short a time with them
that it is not likely; those who do remember
him will understand that the way to success,
rough and thorny for ail, for such as Aglen
was impossible.
"But you will think every day of little
Iris?’ said his wife. “Oh, my dear, if 1
were only going with you. Ami but for me
you would be at home with your father, well
and happy.”
i Then in his dream, which was also a mem
ory, the old man saw how the young hus
band kissed and comforted his wife.
“My dear,” said Claude, “if it were not
for you, what happiness could I have in the
world? Courage, my wife, courage and hope.
■ I shall think of you and of Iris all day and
all night until we meet again.”
And so they parted and the ship sailed
away.
The old man opened his eyes and looked
i about him. It was a dream.
i “It was twenty years ago,” he said, “ and
Iris was a baby in arms. Twenty years ago,
and he never saw his wife again. Never
again! Because she died,” he added after a
pause; “my Alice died.”
i He shed no tears, being so old that the
, time of tears was well-nigh past—at seventy
five the eyes are drier than at forty, and one
■ is no longer surprised or disappointed, and
seldom even angry, whatever happens.
But he opened the letter in his hand and
read it again mechanically. It was written
> on thin foreign paper, and the creases of the
folds bad become gaping rents. It was
' dated September, 1866, just 18 years l ack.
i “ When you read these lines,” the letter
i said, “I shall be in the silent land, whither
i Alice, my wife, has gone before me. It
l would be a strange thing only to think upon
this journey wiiich lies before nie, and
which I must take alone, had I time left for
thinking. But I have not. I may last a
week, or I may die in a' few hours. There-
> fore, to the point.
1 “ In one small thing we deceived you,
1 Alice and I—my name is not Aglen at all;
' we took that name for certain reasons. Per
il haps we were wrong, but we thought that
5 as we were quite poor, and likely to remain
poor, it would be well to keep our secret to
> ourselves. Forgive us both this suppression
’ of the truth. We were made poor by our
own voluntary act and deed, and because I
I married the only woman I loved.
I "I was engag' dto a girl whom I did not
I love. We had been brought up like brother
’ and sister together, but I did not love her,
i though I -was engaged to her. In breaking
■ this engagement I angered my father. In
> marrying Alice I angered him still more.
> “I now know that he has forgiven me;
he forgave me on his death-bed; he revoked
i hjs former will and made me his sole heir—
just as if nothing had happened to destroy
, lis old affection—subject to one condition—
viz., that the girl to whom I was first en
gaged should receive the whole income until
I, or my heirs, should return to England in
order to claim the inheritance.
“It is strange. I die in a wooden shanty,
in a little western town, the editor of a
miserable little country paper. I have not
money enough even to bury me, and yet, if
I were at home, I might be called a rich
man, as men go. My little - Iris will be an
heiress. At the very moment when I learn
that I am my father’s heir, I am struck
down by fever; and now I know that I shall
never get up again.
“It is strange. Yet my father sent me
bis forgiveness, and my wife is dead, and
the wealth that has come is useless to me.
Wherefore, nothing now matters much to
me, and I know that you will hold my last
wishes sacred.
" 1 desire that Iris shall be educated as
well and thoroughly as you can afford; keep
her free from rough and rude companions;
make her understand that her father was a
gentleman of ancient family: this knowl
edge will, perhaps, help to give her self
respect. If any misfortune should fall upon
you, such as the loss of health or wealth,
give the papers enclosed to a trustworthy
solicitor, and bid him act as is best in the
interests of Iris. If, as I hone, all will go
well with you, do not open the papers until
my child’s twenty-first birthday; do not let
her know until then that she is going to be
rich; on her twenty-first birthday, open the
papers and bid her claim her own.
“To the woman I wronged—l know not
whether she has married or not —bid Iris
carry my last message of sorrow at what
has happened. Ido not regret, and I have
never regretted, that I married Alice. But
I gave her pain, for which I have never
ceased to grieve. 1 have been punished for
this breach of faith. You will find among
the papers an account of all the circum
stances connected with this engagement.
There is also in the packet my portrait,
taken when I was a lad of 16; give her that
as,well; there is the certificate of my mar
riage, my register of baptism, that of Iris’s
baptism, my signet ring ” “His arms”—
die old man interrupted his reading—“his
arms were: quarterly: firstand fourth, two
roses and a boar’s head, erect; second and
third, gules and fesse between—between—
but I cannot remember what it was be
tween—r" He went on reading: “My
father’s Inst letter to me; Alice’s letters, and
one or two from yourself. If Iris should
unhappily die before her twenty-first birth
day, open these papers, find out from them
the owner’s name and address, seek her out,
and tell her that she will never now be dis
turbed by eny claimants to the estate.”
The letter ended here abruptly, as if the
writer had designe 1 to ami more, but was
prevented by death.
For there was a postscript, in another
hand, which stated: "Mr. Aglen died No
vember 25.1 i, 1866, and is buried in the ceme
tery of Johnson City, Ill.”
The old man folded the letter carefully,
and laid it on the table. Then he rose air!
walked across the room to the safe, which
stood with open door in the corner farthest
from the fireplace. Among its contents was
a packet sealed and tied up in red tape,
endorsed: "For Iris. To be given te her
on her twenty-first birthday. From her
father.”
“It will be her twenty-first birthday,” he
said, “in three weeks. Then 1 must give
her the packet. So—so—with the portrait
of her father, and his marriage certificate.”
He fell into a fit of musing, with the papers
in his hand. “She will be safe, whatever
happens to me; and as for me, if I lose her—
of’course I shall lose her. Why. what will
AH DAILY TIMES, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 14, ISBS.
it matter? Have I not lost all, except Iris?
One must not be selfish. Oh. Iris, what a
surprise—w hat a surprise I have in store for
you!”
He placed the letter he had been reading 1
within the tape which fastened the bundle,
so that it should form a part of the commit* !
nication to be made on Iris’s birthday.
“There,” he said, “now I shall read this
letter no more. I wonder how many times I
have read it within the last eighteen years,
and how often I have wondered what the
child’s fortune would be? In three weeks—
in three short weeks. Oh, Iris, if you only
knew I"
He put Lack the letters and the packet.,
locked the safe and resumed his seat.
The red-eyed assistant, still gumming and
/ill
. jifeX II I
b r M
“There,” said Mr. Emblem, “Z shall read I
(his let (er 710 more.''
pasting his slips with punctilious regard tc !
duty, had been following bis master’s move
ments with curiosity.
“Counting his investments again as usual,” I
Mr. James murnr red. “Ah, and adding
’em up! Always at it. Oh, what a trade it
must have been’once!”
Just then there appeared in the door 8
gentleman. He was quite shabby, and even
ragged in his dress, but he was clearly a
’ gentleman. He was no longer young; his
’ shoulders were bent, and he had the un
mistakable stamp and carriage of a stu
dent.
“Guv’nor’s at home,” said the assistant
' briefly.
The visitor walked into the sanctum. Ht
had under his arm half-a-dozen volumes,
which, without a word, he laid before Mr.
1 Emblem, and untied the string.
“You ought to know this book,” he said
without further introduction.
Mr. Emblem looked doubtfully at the
; visitor.
“You sold it to me twenty-five years
ago,” be went on, “for five pounds.”
• “I did. And I remember now. You are
’ Mr. Frank Farrar. Why, it is twenty-five
1 years ago!”
“I have bought no more books for twenty
years and more,” be replied.
“Sad—sad! Dear me—tut. tut!—bought
no books l And you, Mr. Farrar, once my
best customer. And now—you do not mean
• to say that you are going to sell—that you
> actually want to sell—this precious book?”
1 “I am selling, one by one, all my books,’
replied the other with a sigh. “I am going
1 downhill, Emblem, fast.”
I “Oh, dear, dear, dear!” replied the book
seller. “This is very sad. One cannot beat
' to think of the libraries being dispersed and
• sold off. And now yours, Mr. Farrar!
Really, yours? Must it be?”
I “ ‘Needs must,”’ Mr. Farrar said with a
1 sickly smile, “needs must when the devil
drives. I have parted with half my books
already. But I thought you might like to
have this set, because they were once youi
; own.”
“So 1 should” —Mr. Emblem laid a loving
hand upon the volumes—“so I should, Mr.
Farrar, but not from you; not from you. sir.
Why, you were almost my best customer —1
think almost my very best—thirty years
ago, when my trade was better than it is
now. Yes, you gave me five pounds—or was
it five pounds ten?—for this very work. And
it is worth twelve pounds now—l assure you
it is worth twelve pounds, if it is worth a
' penny.”
“Will you give me ten pounds for it,
then?” cried the other eagerly; “I want the
1 money badly.”
’ “No. 1 can’t; but I will send you to a man |
i who can and will. Ido not speculate now:
I never go to auctions. lam old, you see.
Besides, I am poor. I will not buy your
book, but I will send you to a man who will
give you ten pounds for it, I am sure, an i
then he will sell it for fifteen.” He wrote
the address on a slip of paper. “Why, Mr.
Farrar, if an old friend, so to speak, can
pu‘ the question, why in the world
“The most natural thing,” replied Mr.
Farrar with a cold laugh; “I am old, as 1
told you, and the younger men get all the
work. That is all. Nobody wants a gen
ealogist and antiquary.”
“Dear me, dear me! Why, Mr. Farrar, 1
remember now; you used to know my poor
son-in-law, who is dead eighteen years since.
I was just reading the last letter he evei
wrote me, just before he died. You used tc
come here and sit with him in the evening.
I remember now. So you did.
“Thank you for your good will,” said Mr.
Farrar. “Yes, I remember your son-in-law.
I know him before his marriage.”
“Did you? Before his marriage? Then—”
He was going to add, “Then you can tell
me his real name,” but he paused, because
it is a pity ever to acknowledge ignorance,
and especially ignorance in such elementary
matters as your son-in-law's name.
So Mr. Emblem checked himself.
“He ought to have been a rich man,” Mr.
Farrar continued; “but he quarrelled with
his father, who cut him off with a shilling, I
suppose.”
Then the pnor scholar, who could find du ;
market for his learned papers, tied up his
books again and went away with hanging
head. J
“Ugh!” Mr. James, who had been listen
ing, groaned as Mr. Farrar passed through '
the door. “Ugh! Call that away of doing ■
business? V» hy, if it had been me, I’d have =
bought the book off of the old chap for a •
couple o’ pounds, 1 would. Aye, or a sov.
so seedy he is, and wants money so ba I 1
An I I know who’d have given twelve pound
for it, in the trade, too. Call that c irrying '
on business? He may well add up his in- 1
vestments every day, if he can afford to 1
chuck such chances. Ah, but he’ll retire
soon.” His fiery eyes brightened, and his
face glowed with the joy of anticipation. 1
“He must retire before long.”
There came another visitor. This time it •
was a lanky boy, with a blue bag over his i
shoulder and a notebook and pencil-stump !
in bis hand. He nodded to the assistant as •
to an o!d friend with whom one may be at i
ease, set down hrs bag, opened his notebook, t
and nibbled his stump. Then he read aloud, *■
with a comma or semicolon between each, a ’
dozen or twenty titles. They were the <
names of the books which his employer
wished to pick up. The red-eyed assistant 1
listened, and shook his head. Then the boy, ]
without another word, shouldered his bag
and departed on his way to the next second
hand book shop.
He was followed, at a decent interval, by
another caller. This time it was an old gen
tleman who opened the door, put in his head,
and looked about him with quick and sus
picious glance. At sight of tiie assistant he
nodded and smiled in the most friendly way
possible, and came in.
“Good morning, Mr. James;good morning,
my friend. Splendid weather. Pray don’t
disturb yourself. lam jusc having n look
round—only a look round, you know. Don’t
move, Mr. James.”
He addressed Mr. James, but he was look
ing at the shelves as he spoke, and. with the
habit of a ’book-hunter, taking down the
volumes, looking at the title-pages and re
placing them; under his arm he carried a
single volume in old leather binding.
Mr. James nodded his head, but did dis
turb himself; m fact, he rose with r. scow!
upon his face, and followed this polite old
gentleman all round the shop, placing him
self close to his elbow. One might almost
suppose that he suspected him, so close and
issiduous was his a? •istance. But the
risitor, accepting these attentions as if they
jvere customary, and the result of high
breeding, went slowly round the shelves,
aking down book after book, but buying
tone. Presently he smiled again, and said
‘hat he must bo moving on, and very po
itely- thanked Mr. James for his kindness.
“Nowhere,” ho was so good as to say,
‘does one get so much personal kindness and
ittention as at Emblem’s. Good morning,
Mr. James; good morning, my friend.”
Mr. James grunted, and closed the door
after him.
“Ugh!” hj said with disgust. “I know you;
I know’ your likes. Want to make your set
complete—eh? Want to sneak 0110 of our
books to do it with, don’t you? Ah!” He
ooked into the back shop before he returned
o his paste and his slips. “That was Mr.
Potts, the great Queen Anne collector, sir.
Most notorious in all London,
Hid the most barefaced. Wanted our fourth
volume of the Athenian Oracle. I saw his
•yes reached out this way, and that way,
md always resting on that volume. I saw
nim edging along to the shelf. Got another
■»dd volume just like it in his wicked old
land, ready to change when 1 wasn’t look
ng ”
“Ah,” said Mr. Emblem, waking up from
lis dream of Iris and her father’s letter;
“Ah, they will try it on. Keep your eyes
•pen, James.”
“No thanks, as usual,” grumbled Mr.
James as he returned to his gum and his
-cissors. “Might as well have left him to
match the book.”
Here, however, James was wrong, be
ause it is the first duty of an assistant to
hinder and obstruct the book-snatcher, who
•arries on his work by methods of crafty
md fraudulent exchange rather than by
lain theft, which is a mere brutal way.
For, first, the book-snatcher marks his prey,
io finds the shop which has a set containing
he volume which is missing in his own set;
?ext, he arms himself with a volume which
•losely resembles the one he covets, and
hen. on pretence of turning over the leaves,
tie watches his opportunity to effect an ex
■hange, aud goes away rejoicing, his set
•omplete. No collector, as is very well
mown, whether of books, coins, pictures,
medals, fans, scarabs, book-plates, auto
graphs, stamps, or anything else, has any
conscience at all. Anybody can cut out
dips and make a catalogue, but it requires
1 sharp assistant, with eyes all over his
head like a spider, to be always on guard
igainst this felonious and unscrupulous
collector.
Next there came two school boys together
who asked for and bought a crib to Virgil,
md then a girl who wanted some cheap
French reading book. Just as the clock be
;an to strike five Mr. Emblem lifted his
head and looked up. The shop door opened,
md there stepped in, rubbing his shoes on
he mat as if he belonged to the house, an
•Iderly gentleman of somewhat singular ap
jiearance. He wore a fez cap, but was
i the wise dressed as an Englishman—in
! Jack frock coat, that is, button si up—ex
cept that his feet were encased in black cloth
shoes, so that he went noiselessly. His hair
was short and white, and he wore a small
white beard; his skin was a rather dark
brown; he w’as, in fact, a Hindoo, and his
name was Lal a Roy.
He nodded gravely to Mr. James and
walked into the back shop.
“It goes well,” he asked, “with the buy
ing an l the selling?”
“Surely, Lal a, surely.”
“A quiet way of buying and selling: away
fit for one who meditates,” said the Hindoo,
looking round. “Tell me, my friend, what
ails the child? Is she sick?”
“The child is well, Lala.”
“Her mind wandered this morning. She
failed to perceive a simple method which I
tried to teach her. I feared she might be
ill.”
“She is not ill, my friend, but I think her
mind is troubled.”
“She is a woman. We are men. There is
nothing in the world that is able to trouble
the mind of the philosopher.”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Emblem manfully, as
if he, too, was a Disciple. “Nothing, is there
now F’
The stoutness of the assertion was sensibly
impaired by the question
“Notpoverty, which is a shadow; nor pain,
which passes; nor the loss of woman’s love,
which is a gain; nor fall frpm greatness-'-no
thing. Nevertheless,” his eyes did look
anxious in spite of his philosophy, “this
trouble of the child—will it be soon be over?”
“I hope this evening,” said Mr. Emblem.
“Indeed I am sure that it will be finised this
evening.”
“If the child had a mother, or a brother,
or any protectors but ourselves, my friend,
we might leave her to them. But she has
nobody but you and me. I am glad that
she is not ill.”
He left Mr. Emblem, and passing through
the door of communication between house
and shop, want noiselessly up the stairs.
One more visitor—unusual for so many to
call on a September afternoon. This time
it was a youngish man of thirty or so, who
stepped into the shop'with an air of business
and. taking no notice at all of the assistant,
walked swiftly into the back shop, and shut
the door behind him.
“I thought so,” murmured Mr. James.
“After lie’s been counting up his invest
ment®, his lawyer calls. Mora invest
ments. ’’
Mr. David Chalker was a solicitor and,
according to his friends, who were proud of
him. a sharp practitioner. He was. in fact,
one of those members of the profession who,
starting with no connection, have to make
business for themselves. This, in London,
they do by encouraging the county court,
setting neighbors by the ears, lending money
in small sums, fomenting quarrels, charging
commissions, and gen rally making them
selves a blessing and a boon to the district
where they reside. But chiefly Mr. Chalker
occupied himself with lending money.
“Now, Mr. Emblem,” he said, not in a
menacing tone, but as one who warns; “now,
Mr. Emblem.”
“Now. Mr. Chalk r,” the bookseller re
peate I mildly.
“What are you going to do for me?”
“I got your usu d notice,” the old book
seller began, hesitating, “s x months ago.”
“Os corns* j’ou diil. Three fifty is the
’ amount. Three fi ty, exactly.”
’ “Just so. But lam afraid lam not pre
pare! to pav off the bill of sale. The inter
est, as usual, will be ready.”
“Os course-. But this time the principal
' must be ready, too ”
“Can’t you get another client to find the
money ?”
“No, I can’t. Money is tight, and your
security, Mr. Emblem, isn’t so good as it
was.”
“The furniture is there, and so is the
stock.”
“Furniture wears out; as for the stock —
who knows what that is worth? All your
books together may not be worth fifty pounds,
for what I know.”
“Then what am I to do?”
“Find the money yourself. Come, Mr.
Emblem, everybody knows—your grandson
himself told me—all the world knows—you’ve
been for years saving up for your grand
daughter. You told Joe only six months
ago—you can’t deny it—that whatever hap
pened to you she would be well off.”
Mr. Emblem did not deny the charge. But
lie ought not to have told this to his grand
son, of all people in the worl I.
“A* for Joe,” Mr. C. alkor went on, “you
are going to do nothing fur hi.n. I know
that. But is it business-like, Mr. Emblem,
to waste good money which you might have
invested for your granddaughter?”
“You do not understand, Mr. Chalker.
You really do not, and 1 cannot explain.
But about this bill of sale—never mind my
granddaughter.”
“You, the aforesaid Richard Emblem”—
Mr. Chalker began to recite, without com
mas— “have assigned to me David Chalker
aforesaid his executors administrators and
assigns all and singular the several chattels
and things specifically described in the sched
ule hereto annexed byway of security for
the payment of the sum of three hundred
and fitty pounds and interest thereon at the
rate of eight per cent, per annum.”
“TLanc you, Mr. Chalker. I know all
that”
“ You can’t complain, I’m sure. It is five
years since you borrowed the money.”
“ It was fifty pounds and a box of old law
books out of your office, and I signed a bill
fora hundred.”
“ You forget he circumstances.”
“ No, Ido not. My grandson wafe a
rogue. One does not readily forget that
circumstance. He was also your friend, I
remember.”
“ And I held my tongue.”
“ 1 have had no more money from you,
and the sum has become three hundred and
fifty.”
“Os course you don’t understand law, Mr.
Emblem. How should you? But we law
yers don’t work for nothing. However, it
isn’t what you got, but what 1 am to get
Come, my good sir, it’s cutting off your nose
to spit ) your face. Settle and have done
with it, even if it does take a little slice off
your granddaughter’s fortune. Now look
■ here”—his voice became persuasive—“why
not take me into your confidence? Make a
friend of me. You want advice; let me ad
vise you. I can get you good investments —
- far better than you know anything of —good
u and safe investments—at six certain, and
5 sometimes seven and even eight per cent.
5 Make me your man of business—come now.
[ As for this trumpery Bill of Sale—this trifle
; of three fifty, what is it to you? Nothing—
nothing. And as for your intention to en-
. rich your gran I laughter, and cut off your
grandson with a shilling, why I honor you
( for it—there, though he was my friend. For
Joe deserves it thoroughly. I’v to 4 him
, so, mind. You ask him. I’ve told him so a
dozen times. I’ve said: ‘The old man’s
right, Joe.’ Ask him if I haven’t.”
This was very expansive, but somehow Mr.
Emblem did not respond.
Presently, however, he lifted his head.
“I have three weeks still.”
“And if I do not find the money within
three weeks?”
“Why—but of course you will—but if you
do not—l suppose there will be only one
thing left to do—realize the security, sell up j
. —sticks and books and all.”
“Thank you. Mr. Chalker. 1 will look
roundAne. an I—and—do my best Good
day, Mr. Chalker.”
“The tes. you can do, Mr. Emblem,” re
turned the solic.tor, “is to take me as your
adviser. You trust David Chalker.”
/ I '
I,
a
w
“Ta7«- me as your adviser. You trust David
Chalker."
"Thank you. Good-day, Mr. Chalker.”
s On his way out Mr. Chalker stopped for
a moment and looked round the shop.
"How’s business?” he asked of the assist*
I ant.
, "Dull, sir,” replied Mr. James. "He
throws it all away and neglects his chances,
, Naturally, being so rich ”
. "So rich, indeed,” tin solicitor echoed.
, "It wi.l ba bad for his successor,” Mr.
1 James went on, thinking how much he
should himself like to be that successor.
; “The good will won't be worth half what it
ought to be, and the stock is just tailing to
pieces. ”
Mr. Chalker looked about him again
thoughtfully, and opened his mouth as if
about to ask a question, but said nothing.
He remembered, in time, that the shopman
was not likely to know the amount of bis
master’s capital or investments.
“There isn’t a book even in the glass case
, that’s worth a five-pound note,” continued
Mr. James, whispering, “and he don’t look
about for purchases any more, Seems to
havev lost his pluck.”
Mr. Chalker returned to the back shop.
“Within three weeks, Mr. Emblem,” he
■ repeated and then departed.
Mr. Emblem sat in his chair. He had to
find three hundred and fifty pounds in three
weeks. No one knew better than himself
that this was impossible. Within three
weeks! But, in three weeks he would open
the packet of letters and give Iris her in
heritance. At least, she would not suffer.
As for himself He looked round the
little back shop and tried to recall the fifty
years he had spent there, the books he had
bought and sold, the money which had
slipped through his fingers, the friends who
had come and gone. Why, as for the books,
he seemed to remember them every one—his
joy in the purchase, his pride in possession,
and his grief at letting them go. Al! the
, friends gone before him, his trade sunk to
nothing.
. “Yet,” he murmured, “I thought it would
last my time.”
But the clock struck six. It was his tea
, time. He rose mechanically, and went up
stairs to Iris.
. ! [TO BE CONTINUED.]
DRUGS AND MEDICINES.
Shuptrine’s
■ New Pharmacy,
Bolton and Montgomery streets.
JPURE DIMJ OS
Dispensed by Careful and Exr*-
rienced Druggists.
fIAHOY
Not that barque which spreads Its salt
the favoring gale and with every cat
drawing taut, sails the sea, a thing of life
beauty, but that bark which comes from a
cold and hastens the traveler to that port
from whence there is no teturn. For this
bark use
“COUGH AND LUNG BALSAM.”
It Is the best medicine ever presented for
coughs, colds and hoarseness, and for four
seasons has given entire satisfaction. Price
25 cents. Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
j.cnrc. c. ~~
CUj tfsia
CLEANS CLOTHES,
Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish
Tar, Dirt or Soils from any fabric
without injury.
FOR SALE BY
J. R. Haiti wanger,
Cor Broughton and Drayton streets.
Also sold by L. C. Strong and E. A. Knapp
To Clean Your Last Winter’s Suit or
Anything Else Use
‘‘Household Cleaning Fluid.”
It removes grease snots, stains, dirt, etc.,
from woolen, cotton, silk and laces, without
injuring the most delicate fabric.
Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
■ Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
seed and livery
I have removed my entire livery establish
ment from York street to the
Pulaski House Stables
where I may hereafter be found. All orders
for carriages and buggies promptly attended
to Flue Saddle Horses for hire.
E. C. GLEASON,
Proprietor Pulaski House Stables.
hniiak Club, Linr; I Soard Stabiu
Corner Drayton, McDonough and Hull sts.
A. W. HARMON, Prop’r.
Headquarters for fine Turn-Outs. Personal
attention given to Boarding Horses. Tele
phone No. 205.
LUMBER AND TIMBER.
BACON, JOHNSON & CO.
PLANING MILL,
LUMBER
AND
WOOD Y ALt D.
LARGEISTOCK OF
DRESSED AND ROUGH LUMBER
AT LOW PRICES!
«S-Good Lot of Wood Just Received.*®*
J. J. McDonough. T. B. Thompson.
Ed. Bubdett.
McDonough & co.,
Office: 1164 Bryan street.
Yellow Pine Lumber.
Lumber Yard and Planing Mill: Opposite
8., F. & W. Railway Depot,
Savannah, Ga.
Saw Mills: Surrency, Ga., No. 6, Macon and
Brunswick Railroad.
D. C. Bacon, Wm. B. Stillwell.
H. P. Smart.
D. C. D YCO2N & CO
PITCH PINE
-AND—
Cypress Lumber & Timber
BY THE CARGO.
Savannah and Brunswick, Ga.
P. O. SAVANNAH, GA.
Gentlemen In want of fine Overcoats, such
as are not seen in but very few homes, can be
f amid at B. H. Levy <k Bro.’s.
7