CHAPTER VIII.

TIMOTHY TURNER AFTER HIS GAME.

Turner, anxious to get matters in train for securing the reward promised him by Captain Preston, did not suffer grass to grow under the feet of his horse while he journeyed to Charleston.

Although he was not one of those who are desirous of having a partner in their wicked deeds, yet this abduction was a business which he could not well accomplish without help. For this reason he was well satisfied to follow Preston’s advice, and search out Tom Blanchard.

Jim Fagan’s tavern, was a building well known to Timothy, who had, more than once, passed through its portals. Though frequented by a “pretty hard crowd,” the peace was but seldom broken in the building--Fagan, a tall, broad-shouldered Irishman, having made up his mind that he alone was privileged to do all the fighting which took place upon his premises. More than once had Turner passed the portals of Fagan’s dwelling, and he had, also, often noted the very Tom Blanchard whom Preston had recommended as an assistant. They were “drinking acquaintances,” for, though the traitor was not a man to indulge in drinking to excess, he nevertheless was fond of an occasional glass; “it sharpened his wits and braced his nerves amazingly,” he averred.

In the course of the evening, the day on which he reached Charleston, the tory sauntered into the bar-room, and, with a careless nod, asked Fagan where Tom Blanchard might be found.

Fagan answered that he could be found in the back room--he had just gone in, and was probably engaged with Joe Lawson in a game of cards.

He found the soldier sitting at a small table with a young man of good appearance. A few silver pieces, lying on the table, told that they were betting.

Tom started, when Turner laid his hand on his shoulder, for he, the dragoon, had not seen him enter, the look of alarm was exchanged for one of inquiry, when Turner made a peculiar sign with the fore-finger of his left hand.

“From the captain?” inquired Blanchard.

“Yes!” said Timothy--at the same time placing his finger on his lip to indicate silence.

“Is it right haway?” continued Tom, casting a glance full of regret upon the cards and silver.

“Immediately.”

“Then, Joe, I’ll ’ave to leave you till some hother time. Hi ’ate to do hit, but duty says hi must.”

“Can’t your friend, there, wait a while? Or, perhaps, he would have no objection to take a hand himself?”

Joe Lawson was a professional gambler, although still young, and having an air of respectability about him. Turner, who was an adept at cards, and really longed to finger the greasy trumps, abruptly wheeled about, saying:

“It’s impossible, I cannot spare the time.”

Turner asked for a private room, and, with the dragoon accompanying him, was shown up-stairs. Blanchard turned the key upon the inside of the door, but his companion very quietly unlocked it, saying: “In case you want to make a sudden sally, a locked door is very unhandy.”

“’Ave it yer hown way. Now what’s the go? Yer from the captain, hand must ’ave somethin’ to tell.”

“I am from Preston; and, as we two are to work together, you will have a chance to find out ‘what the go is,’ and fill your pocket with the shiners.”

“If there’s hany thing to be made, hi’m hin. The Cap’s good pay. Tell hus what’s to be done.”

When Tom heard what was expected of them, he merely gave a long whistle, remarking with a savage chuckle, that Preston would have to pay well. Every thing, with this soldier, resolved itself into a question of _pay_. The morality of an action was unquestioned if it was to be rewarded with a full purse.

“It seems,” continued Turner, “that the captain has had you to assist him in several jobs of this kind before. Does it pay well?”

“Twict. In Lunnon. First rate--drive ha long,” answered Blanchard, whose answers were rather terse, though sufficiently expressive.

“Where are we to take her? That is about all that is to be settled upon.”

“Find ha place. Get ha hempty ’ouse somewhere, hand fix hup ha room to receive ’er.”

“Well, I’ll look up the house, and to-morrow evening meet me here about this time to arrange our plans in a definite manner. There must be no bungling work; the girl is to disappear in such a manner that we leave behind no trace by which we may be followed.”

“Trust hus for that.”

“Then you can return to your cards and I will try to get a little sleep. This riding about is enough to wear out a man made of any thing less durable than cast-iron.”

Tom left the room, when the door was locked from within. For some time, Turner stood looking musingly out the window. Not until the clock, striking nine, had aroused him from his reverie, did he throw himself upon the bed for the needed rest and sleep.

When the tory arose the next morning, he passed half an hour in private conference with Jim Fagan; and, though he did not betray any of the secrets intrusted to his keeping, he nevertheless, for a consideration, received--or rather was to receive--valuable assistance. Fagan undertook to provide the room in which the young girl was to be imprisoned, although he abstained from mentioning that it would be in an unrented building which belonged to him.

In the afternoon, Fagan took Preston’s agent to see the house.

It was a little stone structure, which looked as though it might have been a hundred years old. Standing almost alone, near the edge of town--massive, strong, its walls impenetrable to sound--a more desirable place could not be found. The windows were closed with shutters, and the building appeared deserted; but when the Irishman knocked at the door, it was opened by a grim-looking old negress, who surlily surveyed the party, and seemed more inclined to slam the door in their faces than to ask them to enter.

Fagan requested her to show the furnished room up-stairs. The negress seemed scarcely to understand what was wanted of her, but at length led them up the stairway. The room chosen charmed the eye of Turner. The windows were secured with thick, oaken shutters, guarded on the inside by padlocks, the door was strongly made, and the strength of the lock precluded the possibility of a future inmate’s forcing it. The furniture was simple. A table, a dressing-stand, half a dozen chairs and a bedstead. There were no clothes on the bed, but Fagan expressed himself willing to furnish these.

Perfectly satisfied with every thing, Turner withdrew, and, after some conversation with the negress, Fagan followed. Thus the preliminaries were settled, and that evening, when Tom Blanchard and Timothy Turner met, it was agreed that in the second succeeding night the attempt should be made.