Part 73

He stood over Boyne, arguing, promising, urging, and the young man, at last, sweating, flushed, trembling, bent over his documents, sorted them, and made up his records.

“We'll send on a copy to the office of the Vose line by registered mail,” commanded Fogg. “Attest it as a copy of the true record by notary. When it drops in on 'em I will be there, with my directors and my little story--and the face of Uncle Vose will be worth looking at, though his language may not be elevating. You come out with me, Boyne. I'm going to the telegraph office.”

“But I must get in touch at once with Mr. Franklin's family--offer my services,” pleaded the clerk.

“There isn't a thing you can do right now,” snapped the masterful gentleman from New York. “I suggest that you close the office. Send the girl home. You should do that much out of respect to your employer's memory.”

Ten minutes later the record had been mailed and the flustered Boyne was trotting around town with Mr. Fogg. The latter seemed to have a tremendous amount of business on his hands. He hired a cab and was hustled yon and thither, leaving the young man in the vehicle, with instructions to stay there, whenever a stop was made. But at last Mr. Fogg returned from an errand with some very tangible results. He put a packet of bank-notes into Boyne's shaking hands.

“Did you ever see as much real money before, my son?” asked Fogg, genially. “That's your five thousand. And here's five hundred toward that expense money we promised. I'm suggesting that you leave town to-night. Tuck that cash away on yourself and duck out of sight.”

Having secured the money and placed that powerful argument in the young man's hands, Mr. Fogg's hurry and anxiety seemed to be over. When he had seen the packet buttoned inside Boyne's coat he smiled.

“The trade is clinched and the job is done, son, and I feel sure that, being a healthy young American citizen with plenty of cash to pay your way, you're not going to let go that cash nor do any foolish squealing.”

“I've gone too far to back out,” admitted Boyne, patting the outside of his coat. “But it seems like a dream.”

“I've heard a little piece of good news while I've been running around--forgot to tell you,” said Fogg, in a matter-of-fact way. “That fool attendant at the hospital must have misunderstood me, or I misunderstood him. Franklin isn't dead.”

“He-isn't-dead?”

“No. Last report is that he's better this forenoon. But that's the way some of these crazy attendants mix things up when anybody inquires at a hospital. Now, of course, seeing that the registered copy is on its way and Franklin is getting better, that's all the more reason why you don't care to hang around these diggings and be annoyed. I've got a scheme. It will take you out of town in a very quiet style. I have telephoned down to the docks, and there's a Vose freighter in here discharging rails. Do you live at home or at a boarding-place?”

“I board,” said Boyne, still wrestling with the sickening information that he had betrayed an employer who was alive; somehow the sentiment that it was equally base to betray a deceased employer had not impressed itself on his benumbed conscience. He was now keenly aware that he feared to meet up with a living and indignant Lawyer Franklin. Fogg questioned, and Boyne gave his boarding-house address.

“We'll drive there, and I'll wait outside in the cab until you can scratch together a gripful of your things. Don't load yourself down too much. Remember, you've got plenty of cash in your pockets.”

A little later Fogg escorted the young man up the gang-plank of the Nequasset, from whose hold the last of her load of clanging rails was being derricked by panting windlass engines. To Captain Zoradus Wass, who was lounging against the rail just outside the pilot-house, Mr. Fogg marched with business promptitude, and spoke with assurance.

“Captain, my name is Fletcher Fogg. Within forty-eight hours the directors of the Vose line will elect me president and general manager. That news may be rather astonishing, but it's true.”

The veteran skipper did not reply. He shifted a certain bulge from one cheek to the other.

“Well?” queried Fogg, a bit sharply.

“I ain't saying anything”

“You believe what I tell you, don't you?”

“I don't know you.”

“This young man is David Boyne, acting clerk of the Vose line corporation. The annual meeting has just been held in this city. He made the official records. He will tell you that a new board of directors has been chosen--the old crowd is out.”

“That is so,” stated Boyne, obeying the prompting of Fogg's quick glance.

“I don't know you, either.”

Mr. Fogg was not abashed. “It isn't especially necessary that you know us. How soon do you leave?”

“We're going out light as soon as them rails are on the wharf.”

“I am sending Mr. Boyne with you on a tour of inspection, captain. Please give him quarters and use him right.”

“Nothing doing till I get orders from the owners,” declared Captain Wass.