CHAPTER XIX PERSISTENCE HAS ITS REWARD AND HERBERT FINALLY MEETS THE

MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

Herbert Harkins was now consumed with a burning desire to meet the mysterious stranger. He had an actual interest in clearing the memory of his father; but above and beyond that he was now filled with a boyish curiosity which insisted upon being satisfied. The thought of the stranger occupied his waking hours, and even disturbed his rest at night. When he was out of doors he stared at all the big men he happened to meet, in order to discover, if possible, a burly man with broad shoulders and a shock of red hair. At times this peculiar quest seemed so absurd that he felt like abandoning it altogether; but such periods of depression were invariably followed by a resolution to persevere till he had accomplished his desire.

This sort of thing went on day after day without bringing any practical results. Just when Herbert was beginning to tire of it, the thought flashed across his mind that publicity was frequently a way of obtaining things that could not be found by ordinary efforts. In other words, he flew to the personal columns of the daily newspapers for assistance. The result of this was the following advertisement which appeared one morning in the New York Herald:

“Will the stranger who called on David Harkins at Cleverly very late one night about five years ago kindly send his address to H. H., care of General Delivery, Post Office. By doing so he may be the instrument of redeeming the memory of a good man.”

Herbert was very much pleased with the phrasing of this advertisement. There was an air of romance about it that appealed quite strongly to his youthful fancy. The day after its appearance he hurried to the post office with the expectation of receiving a letter, but he was doomed to disappointment. No reply of any kind had been received. On the second day he called at the post office again, and this time was rewarded by the receipt of a very much soiled postal card. The writer informed him that he had called on David Harkins at Cleverly about five years ago and would be glad to meet the person who was in quest of information. The address given was that of a low-grade lodging house on the Bowery. Herbert felt a trifle disappointed at the tone of this communication, but nevertheless resolved to run it out to the end. He visited the Bowery that afternoon, and was received by a short, stout man with a very red nose and a somewhat husky voice.

“You sent me this postal card,” said Herbert, exhibiting the square piece of manila board.

“Yes,” said the other, with a leer, “what is there in it for me if I give you the information you are after?”

“I don’t know that that has anything to do with it,” said Herbert.

“Oh, yes,” retorted the other, with a chuckle, “it has everything to do with it, my young chappie. I’m a business man.”

“A business man?” queried Herbert.

“Yes, sir, a business man. My motto is, no cash no information. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?”

“Too plain,” said Herbert, picking up his hat and starting towards the door.

“Hold on!” cried the other, jumping up; “I don’t want much from you, and I’ll tell you anything you wish to know.”

“I have no doubt of it,” replied Herbert; “but unfortunately you are not the man I want.”

“Oh, yes, I am,” insisted the other eagerly, “I’m the man that called on David Harkins at Cleverly.”

Herbert shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; then as if it were an afterthought, he turned to the seedy-looking person and said:

“Do you insist that you are the identical man who called on David Harkins?”

“I insist,” repeated the man, trying to draw himself up in a dignified way.

“Now, I am sure that I have no business with you,” said Herbert, “because it so happens that the man who called on David Harkins had bright red hair--it was bushy, too, while you are almost bald-headed and your hair is black.”

The fellow snickered a little at this, and said:

“I lost me hair durin’ a very bad attack o’ fever.”

Herbert could not forbear smiling himself.

“I suppose the color turned, too, at the same time.”

“Yes,” answered the man, “it did indeed. You needn’t laugh. Scientific men will tell you that a man’s hair often changes color in a single night.”

“Well, good-by,” said Herbert, “I’ll leave you to settle that with the scientists.”

Three weeks passed by after this amusing episode and Herbert received no further replies from the personal that he had inserted in the Herald. He was reading the paper one afternoon, and while running his trained eye down the many columns of small advertisements, happened to see his own name in print. He looked closer, and this is what he read:

“If Herbert Harkins, son of the late David Harkins, of Cleverly, New Jersey, will make his whereabouts known to the undersigned, he may learn of something to his advantage. Write without delay to Captain Thomas Janson, Anchor Inn, Jersey City, N. J.”

Feverish with anxiety, Herbert immediately sent a letter in response to this advertisement. Within forty-eight hours after that he received an answer, written in a large, sprawling hand, inviting him to call on Captain Janson at his domicile in Jersey City. He responded without delay. He found Anchor Inn to be an obscure hotel in a deserted part of the town. It was a popular resort for seafaring men. Upon inquiry for Captain Janson, he was informed that the Captain had removed that very morning to a new two-story house which he had erected on the outskirts of the city. He had left a message for Herbert, however, giving him explicit directions where he could find his new domicile.

Herbert listened very carefully, and then made his way to the address that had been given him. He found it to be the quaintest looking house it had ever been his good fortune to gaze upon. The front of it was shaped like the prow of a boat, and under the eaves of the house was a wooden effigy of a mermaid, shaped and painted like those used upon sailing craft in the Eastern waters. He rang the bell, and the call was answered by a colored youth dressed up in blue clothing, with brass buttons, to represent a cabin boy. He was ushered into a small, low-ceilinged apartment which resembled the captain’s quarters upon a boat. The beds on either side of the room were fitted up to resemble bunks. The windows had been so constructed that they were perfect reproductions of port holes. A little desk, a brass-rimmed clock, such as can be seen in the cabins of pleasure yachts, a coil of rope, a large marine glass, and cheap colored pictures of the admirals of the United States Navy adorned the walls of this strangely furnished room.

Presently the door of an adjoining apartment opened and a big, brawny man, with the rolling gait of a sailor, entered the room. His face was as red as a boiled lobster; his hands were thick-skinned and broad. He had wide shoulders and--this detail made an immediate impression upon Herbert--he also possessed a heavy shock of red hair. The identification was complete. This man, beyond a doubt, was the person who had been with his father on that eventful night.

“Avast there, my hearty!” shouted the newcomer, putting out his broad hand to meet the outstretched palm of his caller; “what are you doing aboard my craft?”

“My name is Herbert Harkins,” said the young man, “and I came here in response to your letter.”

The seaman stopped short with an exclamation on the tip of his tongue. He stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips and rolled his head from side to side as he stared at Herbert with unblinking eyes. The scrutiny appeared to satisfy him.

“So you’re Dave Harkins’ boy, are you? Well, you look like him; you look like him just as he appeared when he was a young man. You’re different from him in some ways, but the resemblance is there just the same. You’re more like a chip off the old block than the old block itself. Now, boy, take a seat on that steamer chair there, get out your log book and tell me all about your journey through life.”

“All right, sir,” replied Herbert, taking the proffered seat; “I’ll do so.”

“By the way,” interrupted the Captain, “before you talk about yourself, tell me about your father.”

“You know that father is dead?” began Herbert.

“Yes, I know that,” answered the other, “but I want some details about it.”

“All right, I’ll try to give them to you.”

“By the way,” he interrupted again, as Herbert started to talk, “will you have a glass of grog to wet your whistle?”

“No, sir,” replied Herbert, “I don’t drink.”

“Good for you; you’re a good deal better without it; but an old salt like myself couldn’t do without his pipe and his grog, especially in his old days.”

Herbert then proceeded to tell the old sailor all about his father, and when he spoke of the mysterious midnight visit and the cloud of false rumors that had arisen therefrom the Captain’s face clouded and he walked up and down the floor of his little cabin shaking his fist.

“The lubbers!” he shouted, “they ought to have been tied to the mast and given a dose of a cat o’ nine tails.”

Having finished this part of his narrative, Herbert then proceeded to tell the story of his own life, and at its conclusion the old salt put out his brawny hand, and taking Herbert’s, gave it a hearty grasp.

“Your story is mighty interesting. I’m mighty glad to hear it, and I think I am in a position to be your friend.”

“I am glad of that,” responded Herbert, “and I’m very curious to find out the real meaning of that midnight visit.”

“I’ll give it to you, my boy, and in mighty quick order. I was a boyhood chum of your father. We grew up together, went to school together, and one never had a thing that wasn’t shared by the other. I had no idea of the sea in my youth; but shortly after I got to be a boy of about your age I was entrusted with a sum of money belonging to another person. I was a sort of trustee. In an evil moment some fellow came along and showed me how it would be possible to double the money without any risk. I tried it, and lost every cent. While I was in this condition, I was called upon to make an accounting of the trust money. In my extremity I went to your father and explained everything. He gave me every penny that he had in the world in order to make good the loss, and my reputation was saved and I had learned a lesson that I have never forgotten since then. I was a wild boy in my younger days. I owed a great deal of money, and finally determined to take to the sea as a means of cooling down my hot blood. During the next ten years I sailed over every part of the civilized globe. I became a master and traded extensively in the Chinese seas. I was fortunate, made money, and finally came home to retire upon my savings.

“The first man I thought of,” said the Captain, leaning back in his easy chair, “was Dave Harkins. I determined to hunt him up and pay him the few hundred dollars he had so generously given me at a critical time in my life. I got to Cleverly late at night; the hotel was closed so that I was unable to secure accommodations there. The thought struck me that I might find Harkins at home. I went to his house, and fortunately found him at a moment when he needed my help just as I had formerly needed his. I compelled him to take that thousand dollars, and I made a condition that he was not to tell of my whereabouts until I got ready to make myself known to the world. I wanted to clear up all of my old debts and to rehabilitate myself before my old friends before I revealed my identity. After leaving him I went to New York, and carrying out a program that had already been arranged, went abroad to settle up some business interests that I had in Liverpool. I came back, only to hear that David Harkins was dead. I was told that the family had moved from Cleverly, and accepted the report without attempting to verify it. Years went by, but I was never quite satisfied. I hunted around in a vague sort of way to find Harkins’ boy. Only last week it occurred to me that a personal in the Herald might bring some results, and thank goodness it did, because here you are with me in the flesh.”

“I am very grateful to hear all of this,” said Herbert after the old sailor had finished; “I can assure you that it makes me very happy indeed. I never doubted my father at any time; but it is a great satisfaction to have the whole matter settled and to have these painful rumors dispelled as you have dispelled them.”

The Captain arose from his chair, took a turn or two around the room, and then putting his arm around Herbert’s shoulder, said:

“My boy, we’ll dispel them in such a way that they’ll never be heard of again. Mark one thing down, and mark it down plain: I’m your friend, and your friend for life.”