ABOUT ten days after the happenings recorded in the foregoing chapter old Simon Walton sat alone in his office. A typewriter was clicking in the counting-room adjoining, its sound deadened by the closed door and thin partition through which it passed. With noiseless tread Toby Lassiter, now older, more careworn, more machine-like than ever, entered and laid a bulky express envelope before his employer.
“What is this?” the banker asked, as he examined the heavy wax seals and reached for his paper-knife.
“I don’t know, sir; it came just now,” and Toby silently withdrew.
Walton clipped the twine, pried under the seals, and tore open the thick paper. It contained money. Six five-hundred-dollar bills were drawn out and laid on the desk. Wondering what it meant, the old man looked into the envelope. There was a letter, and it covered several pages of paper. A glance at the writing caused him a dull thrill of surprise. There was no address from which it was written, and it bore no date. It ran as follows:
My dear Father,—I am sure you will be surprised to hear from me. I would have written before this if it could have done either of us any good. As I wrote you when I left, I had determined to turn over a new leaf, if such a thing were possible. It was an awful fight against big odds.
Finally, however, I happened to meet—and it was when I had almost given up—a rich man with a good heart who befriended me, and offered me a position in his big wholesale store. I had a struggle with myself as to what I ought to do in regard to revealing my past life, but I finally decided to tell him the truth, and I am glad to say he overlooked it all and became my friend and benefactor. I never knew it, when I was a wild, headstrong boy, bent on ruining myself and you, but I now realize that every growing soul needs some sort of incentive to endeavor, and I have found two which have helped me a lot. The first was to refund by honest earnings what I took from you, the next to prove my worthiness of the trust my employer placed in me when all hope was lost. I see now that I never could have overcome my bad habits if I had stayed on in Stafford. It was getting out into the world and learning what it means to fight adversity, with no one to lean on, that helped me. When I think over what you, yourself, had to go through with to get your start in life, and remember that I was deliberately throwing away the hard-won rewards of your efforts, the blood of shame fairly boils in my veins.
I am sending herewith three thousand dollars, which are my savings up to date. I had got together only twenty-five hundred, but when my employer, at my suggestion, succeeded in putting a certain deal through the other day which he considered advantageous to his interests, he insisted on adding five hundred dollars to the amount which I had told him was going to you. I am sending the money by express instead of by draft on any bank, for I would still prefer for you not to know where I am at present. When I have made the last payment on my debt (if you will let me call it that), I may feel differently, but until I am able to clear it all up I shall still hide from you and everybody who knew me in the past. I do hope you will read these lines kindly. I have wronged you (terribly wronged you), dear father, but I am trying now to live right, and surely you will be glad to know that, even at this late day. Concealing my whereabouts may anger you, I am well aware of that; but the good man for whom I am working thinks it is best—for a while, at any rate. Of course, if I could have a talk with you, I’d know better how you look at the matter, but being so far away leaves me no alternative than to let things remain as they are. Good-bye, dear father. It has taken six years to get together the money I am sending, but if I live and keep my health I feel reasonably sure that I can send the balance, including the interest, within the next two years, for I am doing much better than I was.
When he had finished reading the letter, Simon Walton laid it on the desk before him and sat in deep thought for several minutes. Then, with no visible trace of emotion on his wrinkled face, he took the money in his hands, laid it on the letter, and rose and went to the door opening into the counting-room. He stood looking at the workers for several minutes, and then, happening to catch the glance of Toby, who was dictating to a stenographer, he signalled him to approach. Handing him the letter and the bills, he said, curtly:
“Credit the money on my private account, then read that letter carefully and bring it back to me. Don’t let anybody see it. It’s private.”
“Very well, sir,” said the clerk. “I was just dictating a note to Morton & Co., telling them that we can’t possibly extend—”
“Never mind about that now,” Walton ordered, sharply. “Do as I tell you!” And he turned back into his office, where he sat slowly nodding his great, shaggy head, as was his habit when making up his mind over any matter of importance.
“Huh!” he said, suddenly and with a sneer, “that’s it! I can see through a millstone if it has a big enough hole in it. Huh, yes, that’s it! I’d bet a yearling calf to a pound of butter that I am onto the game, and it is one, too, that would take in nine men out of ten.” He tapped his brow with his pencil and smiled craftily. “Deep scheme; good scheme; bang-up idea! Might have pulled the wool over my eyes once. But a burnt child dreads the fire, and I’ve certainly been burnt.”
The door creaked. Toby Lassiter, with the letter quivering in his excited hand, approached. His lethargic face was filled with emotion; his mild eyes were glowing ecstatically.
“I always thought—I mean I always hoped, Mr. Walton—that it would turn out this way.” He started to say more, but checked himself as his glance fell on the parchment-like face craftily upturned to his.
“Yes, I know, Toby!” Simon snarled, as he took the letter and put it into his desk drawer. “Y............