CHAPTER VII.

THE NIGHT FIRE.

It was past midnight and the silence of the night was broken only by the tread of some weary watchman on duty or the hurried step of some belated traveler.

At this unusual time for boys to be abroad, Rodney Darringford and Tim Downey met at the street corner designated by the former. The first looked anxiously around him as if he expected to see an enemy suddenly spring into his path. The second, more hardened in such nefarious work as they had been doing, showed little, if any, trepidation, as he faced his companion with the simple word:

“Well?”

“Where you going, Tim?”

“To a restaurant first to see if I cannot get a bite to eat, or mebbe a lunch cart will answer us best.”

“All right; go ahead. I will pay the bill.”

“Guess I can afford it myself.”

“You got some money from father?”

“I stung him for two hundred,” was the cool reply.

“What’s for?”

“That’s telling.”

“Was it in regard to the new steamer?”

“Yep.”

“What about that?”

“Puff!” was the mysterious reply.

“Explain,” cried Rodney, catching him by the arm, while a feeling of terror he could not exactly understand took possession of him.

“The _Spray_ goes up in smoke!”

The troubled look on Rodney’s countenance deepened.

“Did father want you to do that, Tim?”

“That’s what he paid me for.”

“That’s bad work.”

“What’s the odds? Needn’t trouble ye. ’Twill burn while ye sleep. Two trusty fellers do the work. Who’s the wiser?”

Rodney shook his head, sorry that his father had fallen into the power of such an unscrupulous person as his companion. He did not realize yet how completely he was being drawn into the tangled web of crime.

“Let’s get our lunch as soon as we can. I have an appointment an hour hence.”

“With the fellow who was to see Dean Mercer?”

“Yes.”

Half an hour later this same precious couple entered a miserable basement saloon, where even at that unseemly hour the sound of coarse revelry greeted their ears.

A man was waiting for them at the door--the same person who had met Dean Mercer on the _Spray_ and obtained Judge Oglesby’s check in payment for the steamer.

“Have you got it?” demanded Rodney, eagerly.

“You bet,” handing the other the strip of paper which meant so much.

“Here’s your two hundred.”

“It’s not enough,” muttered the man. “I want an extra hundred.”

“But that is all I agreed to pay you.”

“Don’t care. It was risky business. Pay me another hundred or I’ll see----”

Rodney checked him by handing out a crisp hundred dollar bill.

It was fifteen minutes later when Rodney and Tim came out of the place, and Rodney’s step was decidedly unsteady. Tim, more used to drinking, walked off without showing the effects of his recent potations. Both were elated over their success.

“See there!” exclaimed Tim, pointing excitedly down the street, where a bright blaze illuminated the night sky.

“What is it?” asked Rodney.

“Where are yer eyes? They’ll hev to be sharper ’n they are now to find the _Spray_ in the morning.”

The truth suddenly dawned upon the clouded mind of Rodney Darringford. The men hired for the miserable work had set the new steamer on fire!

There would be no rival to his father’s old-time packet.

The excitement attending this discovery quite overcame the effects of the liquor, and Rodney felt frightened.

“Let’s see what that check looks like,” said the cunning Tim. “I hain’t more’n got a glimmer of it.”

Glad to have his mind diverted from the object which had so disconcerted him, Rodney brought forth from his pocket the envelope which had been handed him by his accomplice in crime. It was the same one Judge Olgesby had given Dean before starting for Springfield.

“I ain’t so big a fool as to give three hundred dollars for nothing,” declared Rodney, triumphantly, producing the check.

“Come under the electric light where we can see it,” requested Tim, and the other did as he was asked, though not without some misgivings.

“What if a policeman should see us?”

“Reading a check ain’t ag’in the law,” retorted Tim, his eye running over the narrow strip of paper as he spoke.

“Good for a cool eight thousand dollars,” declared Tim.

“But the check is payable to Dean Mercer. How am I to get it?”

“Easiest thing in the world. Just sign--turn it over.”

Rodney did as he requested.

“It’s signed by Dean Mercer,” said Tim, with a ring of exultation in his voice.

“But they won’t recognize me,” said Rodney. “If they did, I would not dare to put my name on it.”

“What bank is it payable at?”

“The Atlas.”

“And you are sure they do not know you there?”

“Yes.”

“If they don’t know ye, it’s as easy as sliding down a greased pole. Ye are Dean Mercer, see?”

Rodney either dared not or could not understand his companion.

“There’s something else in the envelope. Let me see.”

Tim quickly drew forth a sheet carefully folded. It was the letter Judge Olgesby had written for Dean, and Tim asked his companion to read it. Rodney then read in a low tone:

“MR. JAMES RAWLINSON, Cashier Atlas Bank, Springfield.

“Dear Sir--Allow me to introduce to you the bearer, Mr. Dean Mercer, my business manager in a new venture I am about to undertake upon the lake. As he will doubtless call often to your bank with checks, I have O. K’d. his signature at the end of this letter so you will know it.”

Under the letter was the name of Dean Mercer in his own handwriting, verified as genuine by the judge’s signature below.

“Don’t you see, everything is as clear as ice,” said Tim. “You go to the bank in the morning as soon as it is opened, pretending you are Dean Mercer; get the money, and we will divide the haul.”

“I--I think so,” replied Rodney, who had not reached the condition of mind which his companion had gained.

“That’s easy enough, Rod. Now let’s look up a stopping place, and once there, we will divide the money got from the kid.”

“You mean Marcus Ellison? You have that money?”

“Every cent--and the papers.”

“Where’s the boy?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Where he won’t trouble you and me any more.”

“Won’t he be missed?”

“Oh, mebbe. What if he is?”

“They will search for him.”

“But they won’t find him. I do nothing by the halves, Rod. It was really another blow at Dean Mercer. He’d no business to be his friend. Then, there was the money.”

“What have you done with him?” asked Rodney for the second time.

“Sometimes it’s better not to know too much,” replied Tim. “Jess as it is ’bout that burning boat. He’s gone, and thet settles it. I’ve got the wallet and all there is in it.”

“There were papers concerning his father’s trial?”

“They were not intrusted to me. It is not my lookout what his old man does or gets done to him. Come; going to the Raven with me?”

Five minutes the couple were safely in their room at the hotel.

“I do not see any signs of the fire,” commented Tim, as he prepared to retire for the few hours of the night left. “But it is safe to say the _Spray_ will not make that trip to Millville to-morrow. I mean to-day.”