Phoebe Daring. Baum Lyman Frank
the boy in many ways. They were not large nor beautiful, but they were so bright and twinkled in such a merry, honest fashion that they won him many friends. He had a whimsical but engaging expression of countenance, and although a bad conversationalist he was a good listener and so alert that nothing seemed to escape his quick, keen glance or his big freckled ears.
“If Toby said all he knows,” once remarked Will Chandler, the postmaster and village president, “he’d jabber night an’ day. It’s lucky for us his tongue don’t work easy.”
The only thing Toby inherited from his shiftless parents was a shanty down by the river bank, on property that no one had any use for, and its contents, consisting of a few pieces of cheap, much-used furniture. His father, who had won the reputation of being too lazy to work, often fished in the river, partly because it was “a lazy man’s job” and partly to secure food which he had no money to purchase. The villagers said he built his shanty on the waste ground bordering the stream – at a point south of the town – for two reasons, one, because he was unsociable and avoided his fellows, the other, because it saved him a walk to the river when he wanted to fish. The house seemed good enough for Toby’s present purposes, for he never complained of it; but after entering Mr. Ferguson’s office the boy grew neater in appearance and always wore decent clothes and clean linen. Living simply, he could afford such things, even on the small weekly wage he earned.
The boy was ambitious. He realized perfectly that he was now a nobody, but he determined to become a somebody. It was hard to advance much in a small town like Riverdale, where everyone knew his antecedents and remembered his parents as little better than the mud on the river bank. The villagers generally liked Toby and were willing to extend a helping hand to him; but he was odd – there was no doubt of that – and as he belonged directly to nobody he was wholly irresponsible.
It is a mystery how the waif managed to subsist before Judge Ferguson took charge of him; but he got an odd job now and then and never begged nor whined, although he must have been hungry more than once.
With his admission to the law office Toby’s fortunes changed. The representative of a popular attorney was entitled to respect and Toby assumed a new dignity, a new importance and a new and greater ambition than before. He read in the law books during every leisure moment and found his mind easily grasped the dry details of jurisprudence. The boy attended court whenever he was able to and listened with absorbed interest to every debate and exposition of the law. Not infrequently, during the last few months, he had been able to call Mr. Ferguson’s attention to some point of law which the learned and experienced attorney had overlooked. Toby seemed to live in every case his employer conducted and in his quiet way he noted the management of the many estates held in trust by the old judge and the care with which every separate interest was guarded. The boy could tell the contents of nearly every one of the precious metal boxes arranged on the shelves of the oak cupboard, for often the lawyer would hand him the bunch of slender steel keys and tell him to get a paper from such or such a box.
This trusteeship was the largest part of Mr. Ferguson’s business, for not many legal differences came to court or were tried in so small and placid a district. There were other prominent lawyers in neighboring towns and a rival in Riverdale – one Abner Kellogg, a fat and pompous little man who had signally failed to win the confidence Judge Ferguson inspired but was so aggressive and meddlesome that he managed to make a living.
CHAPTER II
HOW MRS. RITCHIE DEMANDED HER PROPERTY
Toby Clark was inexpressibly shocked when one morning he learned that his dear friend and patron had been found dead in his bed. At once the lame boy hobbled over to the Ferguson home, a comfortable house at the far end of Riverdale, to find Mrs. Ferguson prostrated with grief, and Janet, the only daughter, weeping miserably and rejecting all attempts to comfort her. So he crept back to town, mounted the stairs to the homely law offices over the post office and sat down to try to realize that the kindly face he loved would never brighten its dingy gray walls again.
All the morning and till past noon Toby sat in the silent place, where every object reflected the personality of his departed master, bemoaning his loss and living over in memory the happy days that were past. Early in the afternoon steps sounded on the stairs. A key turned in the outer door and Will Chandler, the postmaster, entered the office, accompanied by a stranger.
Toby knew that Chandler, who owned the building, usually kept Judge Ferguson’s office key. Whenever the old judge, who was absent-minded at times, changed his trousers at home he would forget to change the contents of the pockets. So, to avoid being obliged to return home for his key on such occasions, he was accustomed to leave it in Chandler’s keeping, where it might be conveniently found when needed. Of late years the judge had seldom required the key to the outer door, for Toby Clark was always on hand and had the offices swept, dusted and aired long before his master arrived. Mr. Chandler was a reliable man and as fully trusted by Mr. Ferguson as was Toby.
“Oh, you’re here, eh?” exclaimed the postmaster, in surprise, as his eyes fell upon the boy.
Toby nodded his reply, staring vacantly.
“The Fergusons have been inquiring for you,” continued Chandler. “I believe Janet wants you at the house.”
Toby slowly rose and balanced himself on his crutch. Then he cast a hesitating glance at the stranger.
“You’ll lock up, sir, when you go away?” he asked.
“Of course,” replied Will Chandler. “I only came to show this gentleman, Mr. Holbrook, the offices. He’s a lawyer and has been in town for several days, trying to find a suitable place to locate. As poor Ferguson will not need these rooms hereafter I shall rent them to Mr. Holbrook – if they suit him.”
The stranger stepped forward. He was a young man, not more than twenty-five years of age, handsome and prepossessing in appearance. He had a dark moustache and dark, expressive eyes, and his face was cheery and pleasant to look at. In the matter of dress Mr. Holbrook was something of a dandy, but neat and immaculate as was his apparel there was little cause to criticise the young man’s taste.
“The rooms need brightening a bit,” he said, glancing around him, “but the fact that Judge Ferguson has occupied them for so long renders them invaluable to a young lawyer just starting in business. The ‘good will’ is worth a lot to me, as successor to so prominent an attorney. If you will accept the same rent the judge paid you, Mr. Chandler, we will call it a bargain.”
The postmaster nodded.
“It’s a fair rental,” said he; but Toby waited to hear no more. The daughter of his old master wanted him and he hastened to obey her summons, leaving Chandler and Mr. Holbrook in the office.
Janet was pacing up and down the sitting room, red-eyed and extremely nervous. In an easy-chair sat an elderly woman in black, stony-faced and calm, whom Toby at once recognized as Mrs. Ritchie, who owned a large plantation between Riverdale and Bayport. She was one of Judge Ferguson’s oldest clients and the lawyer had for years attended to all of the eccentric old creature’s business affairs.
“This woman,” said Janet, her voice trembling with indignation, “has come to annoy us about some papers.”
Mrs. Ritchie turned her stolid glare upon the clerk.
“You’re Toby Clark,” she said. “I know you. You’re the judge’s office boy. I want all the papers and funds belonging to me, and I want ’em now. They’re in the office, somewhere, in a tin box painted blue, with my name on the end of it. The Fergusons are responsible for my property, I know, but some of those papers are precious. The money could be replaced, but not the documents, and that’s why I want ’em now. Understand? Now!”
Toby was puzzled.
“I remember the blue box marked ‘Ritchie,’ ma’am,” said he, “but I don’t know what’s in it.”
“All my money’s in it – hard cash,” she retorted, “and all my valuable papers besides. I could trust the judge with ’em better than I could trust myself; but I won’t trust anyone else. Now he’s gone I must take charge of the stuff myself. I want that box.”
“Well,”