Buck Hawk, Detective | Page 8

I should want to hear the news read at two in the morning, I expect her to be ready to read it. If I see fit to give my amanuensis ten hours vacation out of twelve, that's my business, too. Don't think any of you girls will suit me, unless it is the last one. "What is your name, miss?"
"Etta Evelyn, sir."
"D'ye know how to read and write and figger, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Got any relations-- poor ones?"
"No, sir."
"Know how to play the peanner?"
"Yes, sir."
"Got a beau?"
"No, sir."
"That'll do. Ye kin take off yer things, get yer supper in the dining-room, send Pom for your luggage, and then come in and write four letters, twixt now and bedtime. You other gals can go."
Etta obeyed, wondering if this could all be true, that she way so lucky.
She was a keen reader of human character, and saw from the start that there was no way to get along with her employer, except to humor his whims.
In the dining-rooms, she met the housekeeper, a motherly spinster, and the two became friends, from the start, but Molly (as she gave her name), was not one of the communicative sort, and said very little in regard to the master of the house, whose name was Jason Titus.
After a bounteous supper, Etta dispatched the colored servant for her luggage, and then sought the parlor.
Jason Titus was half asleep, but aroused, when she entered.
"This blasted gout has nigh about worn me out, of late," he growled. "Never had it, did ye?"
"No, sir," Etta admitted, amusedly.
"S'pose not. Might 'a' know'd better. Get the paper, yonder, and see what stocks are doing, in New York."
Etta complied with his request, and read for an hour, to him, on different subjects.
During the evening, a collector came for a sum of money, and it remained for Etta to wait upon him, she procuring the money from a safe, in the library.
Titus then had her bring forth his books, and in an hour she knew about all his business affairs, how much he was worth, and everything that concerned his plans.
His money he kept in his safe, at home, not having any faith in banks.
"Et's all in yer charge, now, an ye can go on an' do bizness same as tho' I was able," the old man announced. "I know you're honest, or I wouldn't trust ye. Your salary will be five dollars a day, an' you are to take it out, o' the cash drawer every day. That's all. You're at liberty for the rest of the evening. Help yourself to the pianner, if you want. Molly will show you your room, when you want to retire. Get up early to-morrow, for a morning drive with me."
Whan Etta retired that night, she was wondering if it could all he true.
Seemingly, it had been a lucky happening for her which had been such a heavy loss to the St. Clairs.
Turk, the messenger boy, felt greatly relieved, on returning to his lodgings, that night, for he had cause to believe that he could depend upon Billy Jones's silence, which would insure him against immediate danger.
So he resolved to return to work the next morning.
On his arrival at the office, the superintendent informed him that he could take charge of an instrument, during the Bi-Centennial week, during each forenoon, to "spell" the different operators, and in the afternoons resume his messenger duties.
There being more money for him by the change, Turk went to work.
He was pretty well versed in telegraphy, and his first forenoon's work went off satisfactorily, and he continued in the capacity of an operator the balance of the week.
The next week was Bi-Centennial week, and there was an extra amount of messages to be received and transmitted.
Tuesday noon, just before he was about to yield his instrument to another operator, two messages came, which somewhat surprised him, as he transferred them to paper.
The longest one was directed to Jerome St. Clair and read as follows:
"I am coming to you for protection. There is no room for me, on the sea, any longer. Besides. I have had grave apprehensions about my child. Expect me at any time. I have no regular schedule.
"Uriah Evelyn."
"Must be the purty pal's dad comin' back," Turk muttered. "Thar's sumthin' secret 'bout that gal, an' I wouldn't mind knowin' it. Reckon I don't want to take no messages up there, though."
The other message came a few minutes later, and was addressed to "Fred St. Clair, No.-- Market street, up-stairs."
It was dated from New York, and ran as follows:
"FRED:-- Cannot do anything with them here. Will bring them back. To-night, at the Social."
There was no signature, but the fact that both messages were for St. Clair, rather aroused the young messenger's curiosity.
"One is to the old boss, and t'other is to a