Dan The Newsboy 34

Dan The Newsboy 34

No sooner did Hartley see her leave the house, as he could readily do,

for the night was light, than he hurried to Union Square, scarcely five

minutes distant, and hailed a cab-driver.

 

"Do you want a job, my man?" he asked.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Can you hold your tongue?"

 

"Yes, sir, if necessary."

 

"It is necessary."

 

"There is nothing wrong, sir, I hope."

 

"Certainly not. My child has been kidnapped during my absence in Europe.

With your help I mean to recover her."

 

"All right, sir."

 

"She is in the custody of some designing persons, who keep possession

of her on account of a fortune which she is to inherit. She does not

know me to be her father, we have been so long separated; but I feel

anxious to take her away from her treacherous guardians."

 

"You are right, sir. I've got a little girl of my own, and I understand

your feelings. Where shall we go?"

 

Hartley gave the proper address. Fifteen minutes afterward the cab drew

up before Mrs. Brown's door, and Hartley, springing from it, rang the

bell. It so happened that Mrs. Brown was out, and a servant answered the

bell. She looked inquiringly at the visitor.

 

"A lady lives here with a little girl," he said, quickly.

 

"Yes, sir; Mrs. Mordaunt."

 

"Precisely; and the little girl is named Althea."

 

"You are right, sir."

 

"Mrs. Mordaunt has been run over by a street-car, and been carried into

my house. She wishes the little girl to come at once to her."

 

"Is she much hurt?" asked Nancy, anxiously.

 

"I am afraid her leg is broken; but I can't wait. Will you bring the

little girl down at once?"

 

"Oh, yes, sir. I'll lose no time."

 

Nancy went up stairs two steps at a time, and broke into Mrs.

Mordaunt's room breathless.

 

"Put on your hat at once, Miss Althea," she said.

 

"What for?" asked the child, in surprise.

 

"Your ma has sent for you."

 

"But she said she was coming right back."

 

"She's hurt, and she can't come, and she has sent for you. Don't cry, my

dear."

 

"But how shall I know where to go, Nancy?"

 

"There's a kind gentleman at the door with a carriage. Your ma has been

taken to his home."

 

The little girl began to cry once more.

 

"Oh! I'm afraid mamma's been killed," she said.

 

"No, she hasn't, or how could she send for you?"

 

This argument tended to reassure Althea, and she put on her little shawl

and hat, and hurried down stairs.

 

Hartley was waiting for her impatiently, fearing that Mrs. Mordaunt

would come back sooner than was anticipated, and so interfere with the

fulfillment of his plans.

 

"Is mamma very much hurt?" asked Althea, anxiously.

 

"So she calls this woman mamma," said Hartley to himself.

 

"Not very badly, but she cannot come home to-night. Get into the

carriage, and I will tell you about it as we are riding to her."

 

He hurried the little girl into the carriage, and taking a seat beside

her, ordered the cabman to drive on.

 

He had before directed him to drive to the South Ferry.

 

"How did mamma get hurt?" asked the child.

 

"She was crossing the street," said Hartley, "when she got in the way of

a carriage and was thrown down and run over."

 

The child began to cry.

 

"Oh, she will die!" she exclaimed, sobbing.

 

"No, she will not die. The carriage was not a heavy one, luckily, and

she is only badly bruised. She will be all right in a few days."

 

John Hartley was a trifle inconsistent in his stories, having told the

servant that Mrs. Mordaunt had been run over by a street-car; but in

truth he had forgotten the details of his first narrative, and had

modified it in the second telling. However, Nancy had failed to tell the

child precisely how Mrs. Mordaunt had been hurt, and she was not old

enough to be suspicious.

 

"Where is mamma?" was the little girl's next question.

 

"She is at my house."

 

"Where is your house?"

 

"Not far from here," answered Hartley, evasively.

 

"Then I shall soon see mamma."

 

"Is she your mamma?" asked Hartley.

 

"No, not my own mamma, but I call her so. I love her dearly."

 

"Where is your own mamma?"

 

"She is dead."

 

"Do you remember her?"

 

"A little."

 

"Have you a papa?"

 

"My papa is a very bad man. He treated poor mamma very badly."

 

"Who told you this?" demanded Hartley, frowning. "Was it Mrs. Mordaunt?"

 

"No; it was auntie."

 

"I thought this was some of Harriet Vernon's work," said Hartley to

himself. "It seems like my amiable sister-in-law. She might have been in

better business than poisoning my child's mind against me."

 

"Who else lives with you?" he asked, partly out of curiosity, but mainly

to occupy the child's mind, so that she might not be fully conscious of

the lapse of time.

 

"My brother Dan."

 

"How old is Dan?"

 

"I don't know. He is a good deal bigger than me."

 

"Do you like Dan?"

 

"Oh, yes; Dan is a nice boy. He buys me candy. He has gone to a party

to-night."

 

"Has he?"

 

"And he won't be home till late. He told mamma so."

 

"I am glad of that," thought Hartley. "It is the better for my purpose."

 

"Dan is a smart boy. He earns lots of money."

 

"What does he do?"

 

"I don't know. He goes down town every morning, and he doesn't come home

till supper time."

 

Hartley managed to continue his inquiries about Dan, but at last Althea

became restless.

 

"Are we most there?" she asked.

 

"Yes, we are almost there."

 

"I don't see how mamma could have gone so far."

 

John Hartley looked out.

 

"I see how it is," he said. "The cab-driver lost the way, and that has

delayed us."

 

This satisfied the child for a time. Meanwhile they reached the South

Ferry, and Hartley began to consider in what way he could explain their

crossing the water.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII.

 

DONOVAN'S.

 

 

After a moment's thought Hartley took a flask from his pocket, into

which he had dropped a sleeping potion, and offered it to the child.

 

"Drink, my dear," he said; "it will do you good."

 

It was a sweet wine and pleasant to the taste. Althea drank

considerable.

 

"What is it? It tastes good," she said.

 

"It is a cordial," answered Hartley.

 

"I like it. I will ask mamma to get some. How long is it? Are we most

there?"

 

"Almost."

 

"I feel very sleepy," said Althea, drowsily, the potion having already

begun to attack her.

 

"Lean back and shut your eyes. I will tell you when we have arrived."

 

The innocent and unsuspecting child did as she was directed. Her little

head nodded. She struggled against the increasing drowsiness, but in vain. In five minutes she was fast asleep.