Brandon of the Engineers. Harold Bindloss
something, Dick? It’s your duty to tell all that you suspect.”
Dick winced. Helen was right; it was his duty, but he was not going to carry it out. He began to see what this meant, but his resolution did not falter.
“If I knew I’d been robbed, it would be different, but I don’t, and if I blamed people who were found to be innocent, I’d only make matters worse for myself.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she agreed coldly. “However, you have made your choice and it’s too late now. Where are you going, Dick?”
“To New York by the first boat from Liverpool.”
He waited, watching her and wondering whether she would ask him to stop, but she said quietly: “Well, I shall, no doubt, hear how you get on.”
“It’s unlikely,” he answered in a hard voice. “I’ve lost my friends with my character. The best thing I can do is to leave them alone.”
Then he looked at his watch, and she gave him her hand. “For all that, I wish you good luck, Dick.”
She let him go, and as he went back to the gate he reflected that Helen had taken the proper and tactful line by dismissing him as if he were nothing more than an acquaintance. He could be nothing more now, and to yield to sentiment would have been painful and foolish; but it hurt him that she had realized this.
When he wheeled his bicycle away from the gate he saw a boy who helped his father’s gardener running along the road, and waited until he came up, hot and panting. The boy held out a small envelope.
“It came after you left, Mr. Dick,” he gasped.
“Then you have been very quick.”
The lad smiled, for Dick was a favorite with his father’s servants.
“I thought you’d like to have the note,” he answered, and added awkwardly: “Besides, I didn’t see you when you went.”
It was the first hint of kindness Dick had received since his disgrace and he took the lad’s hand before he gave him half a crown, though he knew that he must practise stern economy.
“Thank you and good-by, Jim. You must have taken some trouble to catch me,” he said.
Then he opened the envelope and his look softened.
“I heard of your misfortune and am very sorry, but something tells me that you are not to blame,” the note ran, and was signed “Clare Kenwardine.”
For a moment or two Dick was sensible of keen relief and satisfaction; and then his mood changed. This was the girl who had robbed and ruined him; she must think him a fool! Tearing up the note, he mounted his bicycle and rode off to the station in a very bitter frame of mind.
CHAPTER IV
ADVERSITY
When he had sold his motorcycle at Liverpool, Dick found it would be prudent to take a third-class passage, but regretted this as soon as the liner left the St. George’s channel. The food, though badly served, was good of its kind, and his berth was comfortable enough for a man who had lived under canvas, but when the hatches were closed on account of bad weather the foul air of the steerage sickened him and the habits of his companions left much to be desired. It was difficult to take refuge in the open air, because the steerage deck was swept by bitter spray and often flooded as the big ship lurched across the Atlantic against a western gale.
A spray-cloud veiled her forward when the bows plunged into a comber’s hollow side, and then as they swung up until her forefoot was clear, foam and green water poured aft in cataracts. Sometimes much of her hull before the bridge sank into the crest of a half-mile sea and lower decks and alleyways looked like rivers. The gale held all the way across, and Dick felt jaded and gloomy when they steamed into New York, a day late. He had some trouble with the immigration officers, who asked awkward questions about his occupation and his reason for giving it up, but he satisfied them at length and was allowed to land.
The first few days he spent in New York helped him to realize the change in his fortunes and the difficulties he must face. Until the night he lost the plans, he had scarcely known a care; life had been made easy, and his future had looked safe. He had seldom denied himself anything; he had started well on a career he liked, and all his thoughts were centered on fitting himself for it. Extravagance was not a failing of his, but he had always had more money than would satisfy his somewhat simple needs. Now, however, there was an alarming difference.
To begin with, it was obvious that he could only stay for a very limited time at the cheap hotel he went to, and his efforts to find employment brought him sharp rebuffs. Business men who needed assistance asked him curt questions about his training and experience, and when he could not answer satisfactorily promptly got rid of him. Then he tried manual labor and found employment almost as hard to get. The few dollars he earned at casual jobs did not pay his board at the hotel where he lived in squalid discomfort, but matters got worse when he was forced to leave it and take refuge in a big tenement house, overcrowded with unsavory foreigners from eastern Europe. New York was then sweltering under a heat wave, and he came home, tired by heavy toil or sickened by disappointment, to pass nights of torment in a stifling, foul-smelling room.
He bore it for some weeks and then, when his small stock of money was melting fast, set off to try his fortune in the manufacturing towns of Pennsylvania and Ohio. Here he found work was to be had, but the best paid kind was barred to untrained men by Trade-union rules, and the rest was done by Poles and Ruthenians, who led a squalid semi-communistic life in surroundings that revolted him. Still, he could not be fastidious and took such work as he could get, until one rainy evening when he walked home dejectedly after several days of enforced idleness. A labor agent’s window caught his eye and he stopped amidst the crowd that jostled him on the wet sidewalk to read the notices displayed.
One ticket stated that white men, and particularly live mechanics, were wanted for a job down South, but Dick hesitated for a few minutes, fingering a dollar in his pocket. Carefully spent, it would buy him his supper and leave something towards his meals next day, and he had been walking about since morning without food. If he went without his supper, the agent, in exchange for the dollar, would give him the address of the man who wanted help, but Dick knew from experience that it did not follow that he would be engaged. Still, one must risk something and the situation was getting desperate. He entered the office and a clerk handed him a card.
“It’s right across the town, but you’d better get there quick,” he said. “The job’s a snap and I’ve sent a lot of men along.”
Dick boarded a street-car that took him part of the way, but he had to walk the rest, and was tired and wet when he reached an office in a side street. A smart clerk took the card and gave him a critical glance.
“It looks as if we were going to be full up, but I’ll put down your name and you can come back in the morning,” he remarked. “What do you call yourself?”
“A civil engineer,” said Dick. “But where is the job and what’s the pay?”
“I guess Central America is near enough; mighty fine country, where rum’s good and cheap. Pay’ll pan out about two-fifty, or perhaps three dollars if you’re extra smart.”
“You can get as much here,” Dick objected, thinking it unwise to seem eager.
“Then why don’t you get it?” the clerk inquired. “Anyhow, you won’t be charged for board and all you’ll have to do is to drive breeds and niggers. It’s a soft thing, sure, but you can light out now and come back if you feel it’s good enough for