Chapter 8

IN THE MISER’S HOUSE

The invitation came from a boy of about sixteen, a slim, eminently attractive chap, who smiled persuasively through the aperture. Laurie knew that he had seen him somewhere, but it was not until they had followed, somewhat protestingly, into a hallway and from there into a large and shadowy drawing-room that he recognized him as one of the day pupils. Lee, it seemed, knew him slightly and called him by name.

“We oughtn’t to come in here,” Lee apologized. “We’re soaking wet, Starling.”

“It doesn’t matter,” answered their host. “Wait till I find a match and we’ll have a fire here.”

“Don’t bother, please,” George protested. “We’re going right on in a minute.”

“Might as well get dry a bit first. The fire’s all laid.” The boy held a match at the grate and in a moment the wood was snapping merrily. “Pull up some chairs, fellows. Here, try this. Some rain, isn’t it?”

“Rather,” agreed Lee. “By the way, do you know Turner? And Watson?” The three boys shook hands. “I didn’t know you lived here,” Lee continued. “Saw the house had been taken, but didn’t know who had it. Corking big place, isn’t it?”

Starling laughed. “It’s big all right, but it’s not so corking. Let me have that rain-coat, Turner. The rooms are so frightfully huge that you get lost in them! I have the bedroom above this, and the first morning I woke up in it I thought I was in the Sahara Desert! This was the only place we could find, though, that was for rent, and we had to take it. Dad came here on short notice and we didn’t have much time to look around. Pull up closer to the fire, Watson, and get your feet dry. I’ve got some slippers upstairs if you want to take your shoes off.”

“No, thanks. I guess the wet didn’t get through. I’ve seen you over at school, haven’t I?”

“Yes, I’m a day boy; one of the ‘Hep, heps!’”

Lee grinned. “Sort of a mean trick, that, Starling, but they always do it every year.”

“Wish I’d known about it beforehand. I’d have sneaked over a fence and through a window. It was fierce! I was the last fellow to get in this fall. Dad made application in August, and some fellow who had entered in the spring changed his mind; otherwise I’d have had to go to the high school.”

“That would have been an awful fate,” said George, gravely.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have minded. I like Hillman’s, though. Do any of you chaps play tennis?”

“I try to,” answered George.

“Wish you’d give me a game some day. Tennis is about the only thing I know much about, and I saw some dandy courts over at the field.”

“Glad to,” George assured him. “Any day you like, Starling. I’m not much of a player, though, so don’t expect a lot.”

“Guess you’re good enough to handle me,” laughed the other. “I like it better than I can play it. How about to-morrow afternoon?”

“Suits me,” answered George. “Three-thirty?”

“Fine! I’m going to get Dad to build a court in the yard here, if I can. There’s lots of room, but there’s a tumble-down old grape-arbor right in the middle.”

“Yes, there’s surely room enough,” agreed Lee. “We used to come over here last fall and get pears—there’s a dandy seckel tree back there. I’d say there was room for two or three courts if some of the trees were cut down.”

“What could he do with three of them?” asked Laurie.

“I suppose we’d have to get the owner’s permission to even take that rickety old arbor down,” Starling said.

“I thought the owner was dead,” Lee observed.

George chuckled. “If he was dead he wouldn’t be the owner, you simple! Old Coventry died three or four years ago, but somebody owns the place, of course. If what they tell of the old chap is true, it must have broken his heart to know he couldn’t take the place with him! Maybe he took his money with him, though. Anyway, the story goes that he had slathers of it, and they could only find a couple of thousands when he died.”

“What was he, a miser?” asked Starling.

“Yes, one of the sort you read about in the stories. Lived here all alone for years and years with only a negro servant. They say you could never see a light in the place at night, and he never went off the front porch more than a couple of times a year. Then a carriage came for him and he got in and went down to the boat. He didn’t use the train because it cost too much. Of course, when he died, folks expected to find that he had left a mint of money; but all any one could discover was about two thousand dollars in one of the banks here—that, and this property. The heirs, whoever they were, pretty near tore the insides out of the house, they say, looking for coin, but they didn’t get any thing.”

“And at night the old codger’s ghost walks around,” added Lee; “and if you follow him, he’ll take you to the place the money’s hidden.”

“Honest?” exclaimed Starling, joyfully. “Gosh, that’s great! I always wanted to live in a house with a ghost.”

“I’m sorry, then,” said George, “for I just made that part up.”

“You did?” Lee looked incredulous. “Where do you come in? I’ve heard that ever since I came here.”

“No, sir; you may have heard the rest of the story, but not the part about the ghost. I wrote the yarn up in my junior year for an English comp., and tacked on the ghost feature as a sort of added climax. Got good marks, too, and the Orstead paper published the thing. I’ll show it to you, if you like.”

Lee looked unconvinced still, and Starling disappointed. “Well, it’s a good story, anyway, and makes the place more interesting. Some day I’ll have a look myself for the hidden millions.”

“Guess the old chap never had that much,” said George. “Thirty or forty thousand is about what he was supposed to have salted away.”

“Scarcely worth bothering about,” observed Laurie, with a yawn.

“But look here, what became of the servant?” asked Starling. “Maybe he got the dough and made off with it.”

“Lots of folks thought that,” replied George; “but the theory didn’t pan out for a cent. The negro stuck around here for quite a while and then ambled off somewhere. He claimed that old Coventry died owing him a month’s wages, and tried to get some one to pay him, but I guess he never got any of it, if it was really owing.”

“Where did he go to?” asked Starling.

“I don’t know. New York City, I think.”

“I’ll bet he either had the money or knew where it was,” declared Starling, with conviction. “Don’t you see, fellows, he did just what any one would do in his case? He stuck around so he wouldn’t be suspected. If he’d gone right off, folks would have said he was trying to avoid being asked about the money. And then he faked up the yarn about the old gentleman owing him wages. A first-class detective would have got trace of the coin, I’ll wager!”

“You’ve been reading Sherlock Holmes,” laughed Lee. “Why don’t you follow up your clue, find the negro, and restore the lost wealth to the starving heirs?”

“Huh! If he did get the money, he’s where even Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t find him by this time. Some one should have followed the fellow and kept watch on him right then. How old was he, Watson?”

“About fifty, I guess. They say he had white whiskers, anyway. Oh, he didn’t know any more than he said he did. He was all right. He had been with old Coventry for years and years, one of those old-time family servants, you know, honest and faithful. Why, he went on something fierce when the old chap died!”

“Say, how much of this guff is real and how much of it is English composition?” asked Lee, suspiciously. “How do you know the negro took on when the old codger died? You weren’t here.”

“Maybe I heard it,” replied George, grinning.

“Yes, and maybe you just made it up, like the stuff about the ghost,” Lee retorted sarcastically. “I’ve heard the yarn two or three times, but I never heard that the negro had white whiskers or that he went into mourning!”

“It’s a fact, though,” declared the other, warmly. “I prepared mighty well on that comp.; talked with half a dozen persons who knew the story. Got most of the stuff from the Widow Deane, though. Old Coventry had been dead only about two years then and folks were still talking about him. The Widow doesn’t think the old chap had nearly as much money as he was supposed to have.”

“She has the little store around on the back street?” asked Starling.

“Yes. She took that as her share.”

“Her share of what?” demanded Lee.

“Why, of the estate. Old Coventry owned the whole half-block right through from Walnut Street to Pine. She rented that house from him until he died; paid a good stiff price, too; and then, when the estate was finally settled, she took it as her share, although she had to pay the other heirs something because they claimed that it was worth more than she had a right to.”

“Look here,” said Lee, “do you mean that the Widow Deane was one of old Coventry’s heirs?”

“Of course! Didn’t you know it? She was a half-sister. She lived over in New Jersey, she told me, until her husband died. Then she wrote to old Coventry, asking him to help her because she didn’t have much money, and he invited her to come here. She thought he meant to give her a home with him; but when she got here, the best he would do was rent her that little house around on Pine Street and stock it up for her as a store. Then he built a fence between the two places. It used to be open right through.”

“Gee, you certainly know a lot of ancient history!” marveled Lee.

“I believe in being thorough,” laughed George. “When I tackle a subject I get a fall out of it.”

“So when I trail the murderer—I mean the thief,” reflected Starling, “I’ll be doing the old lady back there a good turn, won’t I?”

“Surest thing you know!” agreed George.

“And she needs the money, I guess. I don’t believe she makes a fortune out of that emporium. And that daughter of hers is a nice kid, too.”

“How many other heirs are there to share in the money when Starling finds it?” asked Laurie.

“I don’t know. Quite a bunch, I believe. The old chap wasn’t married, and the heirs are nephews and nieces and things like that. The Widow’s the only one living around here, though.”

“Well, when I do find it,” laughed Starling, “I’ll keep it quiet and hand it all over to the Widow.”

“He wants to make a hit with Polly,” said Lee. “He’s a fox.”

“I’ve never seen her,” Starling denied.

“Well, she’s a mighty pretty girl,” George avowed. “If you don’t believe me, ask Nod.”

Laurie looked intensely innocent and very surprised. “Why me?” he asked blandly.

George shook his head, grinning. “You can’t get away with it, son! Think I didn’t see you making love to the old lady this afternoon?”

“Well,” Laurie laughed, “I thought it was Polly you spoke of.”

“Sure, but she was busy waiting on a bunch of juniors and so you made up to the Widow. We saw you smirking and talking sweet to her, didn’t we, Lee? Butter wouldn’t have melted in the dear lamb’s mouth. And I thought the old lady seemed rather taken with him, too; didn’t you, Lee?”

“Rather! It was positively sickening! Talk about foxes—”

“Oh, dry up and blow away!” muttered Laurie. “Say, the rain’s stopped now—pretty nearly.”

“Wants to get away from the embarrassing subject,” George confided to Starling. “Well, I never desert a pal, Nod. Come on, we’ll trot along. Much obliged for taking us in, Starling. Hope we haven’t ruined your rug. Half-past three to-morrow, if the courts are dry. I’ll meet you in School Hall.”

“Glad to have you drop around at my room some time,” said Lee. “I’m in West; Number 7.”

“Same here,” added Laurie; “16 East Hall. Thanks, Starling.”

“You’re welcome. Come in again, fellows. When I get that tennis-court fixed up, we’ll have some fun here. You needn’t wait for that, though. I’d like you to meet my father and aunt. No one’s at home just now. I say, better take a couple of umbrellas.”

“Not worth it, thanks,” answered Lee. “After that deluge, this is just an April shower. So long!”

Lee’s statement wasn’t much of an exaggeration, and the three continued their way to the school unhurriedly. George remarked gloomily that it didn’t look awfully promising for tennis on the morrow, adding: “I’ll bet that chap’s a corking good player, too.”

“Maybe you’ll learn a little about the game from him,” said Laurie, sweetly. “How old do you say he is?”

“Starling? Oh, seventeen, maybe. He’s in upper middle.”

“Sixteen, more likely,” said George. “He seems a decent sort, eh? How did you come to know him?”

“I didn’t really know him. He’s in some of my classes and we’ve spoken a couple of times. Rather a—an interesting kind of chap. Wonder what his father does here. Funny place for him to come to. He spoke of an aunt, but didn’t say anything about a mother. Guess she’s dead. Auntie probably keeps house for them.”

As they entered the gate George chuckled and Laurie asked, “What’s your trouble, Old-Timer!”

“I was just thinking what a joke it would be if Starling took that stuff seriously about the hidden money and began to hack away the woodwork and dig up the cellar floor!”

“Why, wasn’t it true?”

“Sure! At least, as true as anything is that folks tell. You know, Nod, after being repeated a couple of hundred times a story sort of grows.”

Lee grunted. “After some smart Aleck has written it up as an English comp. its own mother wouldn’t know it! The real joke would be for Starling to wreck the woodwork and find the money!”

“No, that wouldn’t be a joke,” said George, “that would be a movie! Come on! It’s starting again! Last man in East buys the sodas! Come on, Lee!”

Lee and Laurie ran a dead heat, and all the way to George’s room, on the second floor, each sought to shift to the other the responsibility of providing the soda-water for the trio. In the end, George appointed himself referee and halved the responsibility between them.

When, twenty minutes later, Laurie climbed onward to Number 16, he found a very disgruntled Ned curled up in the window-seat, which was now plentifully supplied with cushions. “Where’ve you been all the afternoon?” he demanded aggrievedly.

“Many places,” replied Laurie, cheerfully. “Why the grouch?”

“You’d have a grouch, I reckon, if you’d messed around with a soggy football for almost two hours in a cloud-burst!”

“Did you—er—get wet?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t get wet! I carried an umbrella all the time, you silly toad! Or maybe you think they roofed the gridiron over for us?”

“Well, I got sort of water-logged myself, and don’t you let any one tell you any different! Wait till I return this rain-coat and I’ll tell you about it.”

“I’ve got troubles enough of my own,” grumbled Ned, as Laurie crossed the corridor.

Kewpie wasn’t in when the borrowed garment was returned, but Hop Kendrick was, and Hop said it was quite all right, that Ned was welcome to anything of Kewpie’s at any time, and please just stick it in the closet or somewhere. And Laurie thanked him gratefully and placed the rain-coat, which wasn’t very wet now, where he had found it. And the incident would have ended then and there if it hadn’t started in to rain cats and dogs again after supper and if Kewpie hadn’t taken it into his head to pay a visit to a fellow in West Hall. Which is introductory to the fact that at eight o’clock that evening, while Ned and Laurie were conscientiously absorbed in preparing to-morrow’s Latin, a large and irate youth appeared at the door of Number 16 with murder in his eyes and what appeared to be gore on his hands!

“That’s a swell way to return a fellow’s coat!” he accused.

He brandished one gory hand dramatically, and with the other exhumed from a pocket of the garment a moist and shapeless mass of brown paper and chocolate creams. “Look at this!” he exhorted. “It—it’s all over me! The pocket’s a regular glue-pot! Ugh!”

Laurie looked and his shoulders heaved.

“Oh, Kewpie!” he gurgled, contrition—or something—quite overmastering him. “I’m s-s-so s-s-sorry!”

Kewpie regarded him scathingly a moment, while syrupy globules detached themselves from the exhibit and ran along his wrist. Finally he exploded: “Sorry! Yes, you are!”

Whereupon the door closed behind him with an indignant crash, and Laurie, unable longer to contain his sorrow, dropped his head on his books and gave way to it unrestrainedly.