After what we have said of Tim Downey, it is to be expected that he would act promptly in doing what he could to baffle Dean Mercer in his purpose. Unexpectedly he had come into possession of the other’s secret. He had followed Dean Mercer to Judge Oglesby’s house, and by means of an open window in the library he had overheard the conversation about the new steamer.
If this had been no fault of Dean’s, it was Tim’s good fortune, and he resolved to improve his advantage to the utmost. Fired with the spirit of this discovery, he started toward the pier, his crafty eyes lighting with satisfaction as he murmured the words which indicated his intentions:
“I’ll see Rodney Darringford!” he chuckled. “Won’t he be surprised? Won’t the old colonel be kerflummixed? A new steamer! that cooks their dough sure.”
Tim reached the pier. It was always a scene of bustle and activity at leaving time. Juvenile Millville loved to haunt the shadow of the steamer, and, besides, the Warrior carried considerable freight and many passengers on its afternoon trip to Springfield.
“Hey, boy! come here!”
Tim had addressed a keen-eyed, ragged urchin.
“What is it?” demanded the latter, eying Tim with no great favor.
“Want to earn a nickel?”
“Yes, I do, but you haven’t got one!”
“Haven’t I? See here!” and Tim produced the designated coin. “Come with me.”
He led the way to where a pile of lumber shut out a view of the boat.
“Now, then,” he said, “you go aboard the steamer.”
“What for?”
“And find Rodney Darringford.”
“All right, I know him!”
“Tell him that Tim Downey wants to see him, and bring him here.”
“All right. Gimme the nickel.”
“There it is.”
The urchin scampered off. Tim sat down and waited patiently for the result of his experiment.
The place was secluded from the sight of people on the pier, the only persons in sight being some children down the beach, playing with an old box that had floated ashore.
It was, perhaps, ten minutes later when a shadow fell across the sand in front of the waiting Tim. The latter looked up; a boy about his own age stood before him.
He was better dressed than Tim; in fact, his garments were of the latest style; but fine clothes did not conceal a face that bore fully as much of craftiness and evil as that of his companion.
It was Rodney Darringford, the son of the wealthy colonel, and clerk of the steamer Warrior.
Rodney Darringford had of late been given employment by his father as clerk of the Warrior, and Dean, knowing this, was not at all in love with the idea of a sail down the lake in his company.
He was a vicious and ill-tempered boy, a dandy in dress, prided himself as being a full-fledged “dasher” in matters of juvenile dissipation, and had sneered at Dean whenever he met him.
An actual fisticuff row had resulted about a week previously, in which Rodney was worsted, and several Millville boys had informed Dean that Rodney “had it in for him!”
Rodney’s brow was drawn in a deep furrow, and he looked angry enough to fight Tim then and there.
“Well!” he ejaculated coarsely, “Tim Downey?”
“Yes, Tim Downey!” chuckled Tim, a little aggressively and defiantly, at Rodney’s contemptuous words and manner.
“You haven’t got any check, have you!”
“Oh! enough to carry me through, I guess!” replied Tim carelessly.
“What did you send for me for?”
“Business!”
“I have none with you!”
“Oh! yes, you have. See here, Mr. Rodney Darrington! no airs with me, because I won’t stand it. I sent for you because I wanted to see you, and I want to see you because I want money.”
“Well, get it.”
“I intend to, and because I wanted to go to Springfield.”
“Well, go!”
“I intend to--on the Warrior. I want ten dollars and a free ride to Springfield, and I want ’em from you, and no back talk about it!”
Tim Downey’s face grew sullen as he noticed the deepening scowl on Rodney’s face.
“See here!” cried the latter angrily.
“No, see here!” interrupted Tim savagely. “You just do as I say, and no jaw about it, or I’ll peach on you. You’ve been stealing! you have, and I know all about it. You and Jem Vance, that drunken engineer of yours, robbed a passenger, and stole two hundred dollars of your father’s money.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” gasped Rodney, with an alarmed glance about them.
“No, I won’t shut up. I know all about it. I’ll shout it out to all Millville, if you don’t do as I say.”
Rodney Darringford stood pale and trembling with fear and rage, silent for some moments.
He knew that Tim Downey spoke the truth. Tim shared the secret of the crimes he had committed to secure money to play billiards and “cut a dash” generally in Millville.
Secretly he chafed like a caged lion. He could scarcely speak for anger, but he said finally:
“All right, Tim Downey. You have got me in your power, and I suppose you intend to keep me there; but look out--you may go too far some day. Come aboard when the boat starts, and I’ll pass you. Mind you, though, don’t you come sneaking around me as if you knew me.”
“All right--and the money?”
“I’ll slip it to you during the trip. I hope you’re going to Springfield to stay.”
“Well, I ain’t,” grinned Tim maliciously.
“Ain’t what?”
“Going to Springfield to stay.”
“What are you going for, then?”
“To get work.”
“You work!” sneered Rodney contemptuously.
“Yes; me work!”
“At what?”
“Steamboating.”
Rodney Darringford regarded Tim contemptuously.
“Who’ll hire you?”
“The new steamboat company.”
“Oh, at Springfield--down the river?”
“No; at Millville,” mimicked Tim, with the keenest satisfaction at tormenting Rodney--“up the lake.”
“What!” ejaculated Rodney.
“Yes; up the lake.”
“The new steamboat company?”
“Precisely.”
“There ain’t any.”
“Ain’t there?”
“Not that I heard of.”
“You ain’t in the secret.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“A new company?”
“With new boats. Judge Oglesby owns it, and your dearest friend, Dean Mercer, is to be captain of the first steamer, the Spray.”
Rodney Darringford stared at Tim Downey as if he found it impossible to credit his amazing story.
He listened with an excited face as Tim proceeded to tell how he had overheard the talk of the judge and Dean and Carboy.
“It ruins your business,” he said.
“Ruins it? Say, Tim, are you sure there’s no mistake? A new line of steamers. I must see my father. Come aboard later,” and in a wild flutter of excitement, Rodney darted away from the spot.
Tim Downey chuckled. He enjoyed witnessing the downfall of those above him.
“You young scoundrel. Is it you that my boy came to see?”
Tim Downey, about to stroll toward the steamer at the pier, became suddenly conscious of the intrusion of a portly form from behind the pile of lumber.
At the same moment that the harsh tones sounded on his hearing, a rough hand grasped his arm.
Tim looked up, somewhat startled. Colonel Ebenezer Darringford, pompous, red-faced, and unmistakably intoxicated, glared down at him.
“Hello, colonel!” muttered Tim.
“Hello, colonel!” bellowed the wealthy shipowner. “You young thief, I’ll cane you for your insolent familiarity. See here, I saw my boy come here. He’s been getting into bad company lately, and I’ve been watching him. Did he come here to see you?”
“He did, colonel.”
“What about?”
Tim drew a breath of relief. The colonel, then, had not overheard their conversation.
“About--well, you see, I’m only a poor boy!” whined Tim hypocritically.
“A thief and vagabond, you mean.”
“Yes, sir,” murmured Tim humbly, dropping the vernacular in which he usually spoke. “Rodney has got a kind heart in him, and he offered to take me free to Springfield to get work.”
“Hum! You work! What else? Out with it, you reprobate. I can see by your eye that you are lying to me.”
“Well, sir, I told him about the new line of steamers,” and in voluble words, Tim Downey revealed Judge Oglesby’s scheme entire.
His crafty eye twinkled covertly as he did it. A deep plotter was Tim Downey, and he watched his victims as he played his cards.
If the son had been amazed, the father was fairly petrified. He gasped, roared and raved.
“A new line of steamers--Judge Oglesby--the interloper, the scoundrel!” yelled the colonel, the liquor he had drunk making a madman of him.
He became quieted at last. Then he questioned Tim closely.
About to go, Tim approached him with an air of mystery. He decided to make a bold move.
“Colonel,” he said, “if the new steamers run on the lake, it’s bad for you, ain’t it?”
“Bad? it’s ruin!” groaned the colonel.
“All right, sir. You know your business. I know mine. You give me two hundred dollars afore we reach Springfield, and the Spray don’t sail to-morrow, nor next day, nor never.”
The colonel started violently and stared at the presumptuous boy who had dared to add to the torture of dread of rivalry, a hint of dishonor and scheming.
He uttered a cry of choleric rage, struck Tim a sounding blow with his cane, and then in a passion, he stalked away toward the pier.
“So--ho!” exclaimed Tim, looking after the retreating figure of the colonel with a wicked twinkle in has eye. “I’ll fetch ye yet, ol’ ‘boozer,’” and with this thought in his mind he followed the colonel on board the packet.
Fuming over what he had heard from Tim Downey, no sooner had Colonel Darringford gained the boat than he ordered that the Warrior start without longer delay.
In vain did the captain ask for more time to complete the repairs he felt were necessary. The owner would not brook the loss of any more time.
This was how the boat left her pier before Dean Mercer had expected her to start.
