Dan The Newsboy 35

Dan The Newsboy 35

"There will be no further trouble," thought Hartley. "When she wakes up

it will be morning. My plan has been a complete success."

 

It might have been supposed that some instinct of parental affection

would have made it disagreeable to this man to kidnap his own child by

such means, but John Hartley had never been troubled with a heart or

natural affections. He was supremely selfish, and surveyed the sleeping

child as coolly and indifferently as if he had never before set eyes

upon her.

 

Two miles and a half beyond the South Ferry, in a thinly settled

outlying district of Brooklyn, stood a three-story brick house, shabby

and neglected in appearance, bearing upon a sign over the door the name

 

 

DONOVAN'S

 

WINES AND LIQUORS.

 

 

It was the nightly resort of a set of rough and lawless men, many of

them thieves and social outlaws, who drank and smoked as they sat at

small tables in the sand-strewn bar-room.

 

Hugh Donovan himself had served a term at Sing Sing for burglary, and

was suspected to be indirectly interested in the ventures of others

engaged in similar offenses, though he managed to avoid arrest.

 

John Hartley ordered the hackman to stop. He sprang from the carriage,

and unceremoniously entered the bar-room. Donovan, a short, thickset man

with reddish whiskers, a beard of a week's growth, and but one

serviceable eye, sat in a wooden arm-chair, smoking a clay pipe. There

were two other men in the room, and a newsboy sat dozing on a settee.

 

Donovan looked up, and his face assumed a look of surprise as he met the

glance of the visitor, whom he appeared to know.

 

"Where did you come from, Mr. Hartley?" he asked, taking the pipe from

his mouth.

 

"Hist! Come out here," said Hartley.

 

Donovan obeyed directions.

 

"Is your wife at home, Hugh?" asked Hartley.

 

"Yes, Mr. Hartley. She's up stairs."

 

"I have a job for her and for you."

 

"What is it now?"

 

"I have a child in that carriage. I want her taken care of for a few

days or weeks."

 

"Shure, the old woman isn't a very good protector for a gal. She's drunk

half the time."

 

"I can't help it. There are reasons--imperative reasons--why the girl

should be concealed for a time, and I can think of no other place than

this."

 

"Who is the girl?"

 

"It is my own child."

 

Donovan whistled.

 

"I see you are surprised. I have little time for explanation, but I may

tell you that she has been kept from me by my enemies, who wanted to get

hold of her money."

 

"Has she got money?" asked Donovan, with curiosity.

 

"She will have, sometime. She is her mother's heiress."

 

"Did the old lady leave it all away from you, then? Shure, it's hard."

 

"Of course it is. The least I can expect is to be made guardian of my

own child. But we are wasting time. Is there no way of getting up stairs

except by passing through the bar-room?"

 

"Yes, Mr. Hartley, we can go up the back way. Just take the child and

follow me."

 

Hartley did so. At the rear of the house was a stair-way, up which he

clambered, bearing the sleeping child in his arms.

 

Donovan pushed the door open, and disclosed a dirty room, with his

better-half--a tall, gaunt woman--reclining in a rocking-chair,

evidently partially under the influence of liquor, as might be guessed

from a black bottle on a wooden table near by.

 

She stared in astonishment at her husband's companions.

 

"Shure, Hugh, who is it you're bringin' here?"

 

"It's a child, old woman, that you're to have the care of."

 

"Divil a bit do I want a child to worrit me."

 

"You'll be well paid, Mrs. Donovan," said John Hartley.

 

"Will I get the money, or Hugh?" asked the Celtic lady.

 

"You shall have half, Bridget," said her husband.

 

"Will you shwar it?" asked the lady, cautiously.

 

"Yes, I'll swear it."

 

"And how much will it be?"

 

"I will pay ten dollars a week--half to you, and half to your husband,"

said Hartley. "Here's a week's pay in advance," and he took out two

five-dollar bills, one of which was eagerly clutched by Mrs. Donovan.

 

"I'll take care of her," said she, readily. "What's her name?"

 

"Althea."

 

"Shure that's a quare name. I niver heard the like."

 

"You needn't call her that. You can call her any name you like," said

Hartley, indifferently. "Perhaps you had better call her Katy, as there

may be a hue and cry after her, and that may divert suspicion."

 

"How old is the crathur?"

 

"Five or six--I forget which. Where shall I put her?"

 

"Put her in here," said Mrs. Donovan, and she opened the door of a small

room, in which was a single untidy bed.

 

"She won't wake up till morning. I gave her a sleeping potion--otherwise

she might have made a fuss, for she doesn't know me to be her father."

 

"Shure ye knew what to do."

 

"Now, Mrs. Donovan, I depend upon your keeping her safe. It will not do

to let her escape, for she might find her way back to the people from

whom I have taken her."

 

"I'll see to that, Mr. Hartley," said Donovan.

 

"Say nothing about me in connection with the matter, Donovan. I will

communicate with you from time to time. If the police are put on the

track, I depend on your sending her away to some other place of

security."

 

"All right, sir."

 

"And now good-night. I shall go back to New York at once. I must leave

you to pacify her as well as you can when she awakes. She is sure to

make a fuss."

 

"I'll trate her like my own child," said Mrs. Donovan.

 

Had Hartley been a devoted father, this assurance from the coarse,

red-faced woman would have been satisfactory, but he cared only for the

child as a means of replenishing his pockets, and gave himself no

trouble.

 

The hackman was still waiting at the door.

 

"It's a queer place to leave a child," thought he, as his experienced

eye took in the features of the place. "It appears to be a liquor

saloon. The gentleman can't be very particular. However, it is none of

my business. I suppose it is all right."

 

"Driver, I am ready," said Hartley. "I'll go back with you."

 

"All right, sir."

 

"Go over Fulton Ferry, and leave me at your stand in Union Square."

 

The ride was a long one. Hartley threw himself back on the seat, and

gave himself up to pleasant self-congratulation.

 

"I think this will bring Harriet Vernon to terms," he said. "She will

find that she can't stand between me and my child. If she will make it

worth my while, she shall have the child back, but I propose to see that

my interests are secured."

 

The next morning Hartley stepped into an up-town hotel, and wrote a

letter to his sister-in-law in London, demanding that four thousand

dollars be sent him yearly, in quarterly payments, in consideration of

which he agreed to give up the child, and abstain from further molestation.