"You can't tell," responded Steve, shaking his head knowingly. "Anyway, you want to keep an eye on those bags every minute. I'll be right back, though. Want to see my paper?" And Steve handed an Evening Sun, purchased on the car, to his chum and wound his way through the throng toward the entrance.
Left to himself, Tom looked at the clock and saw that the hour was three-thirty-two, glanced apprehensively about him in search of possible malefactors, dragged the bags closer to his feet and unfolded the paper. But he couldn't find much to interest him in it. Besides, he had to look at the clock every few minutes, and whenever a man in a uniform appeared with a megaphone and announced the impending departure of a train Tom had heart disease, seized both bags and crouched ready for instant flight until he was assured that the word "Brimfield" was not among the list of stations enunciated through the trumpet. It was after he had sunk back with a sigh of relief on finding that a train for "Pittsburgh, Chicago and the West" was not his that he discovered that an empty seat at his right had been occupied during his strained interest in the announcer. Glancing around he saw that the occupant was the well-dressed, good-looking youth who had been seated next to him before. The youth seemed very interested in the paper he was reading, his gaze being apparently fixed on a column headed "Tiger's Football Players Report," but Tom refused to be deceived. Only the fact that a grey-coated station policeman was standing within hail kept him from a second flight. Steve, he reflected nervously while he wound both feet around the bags, would return in a minute or two and then they could go to the train. Tom devoutly wished himself and the bags there now. Once he was conscious of the fact that the youth beside him was glancing his way, but he pretended not to be aware of it. Then his neighbour spoke.
"Princeton ought to have a pretty good team this year," he observed genially. Tom, his heart in his mouth, nodded.
"Y-yes," he said.
"Interested in football?" went on the other. Tom dared a quick glance at the smiling face and shook his head.
"No, thank you. I meanyes, a little." He didn't want to talk because he had read that confidence men always engaged their victims in conversation before selling them counterfeit money or leading them to gamble away their savings. Tom's eyes darted anxiously about in search of Steve and he wondered how soon the smooth-voiced stranger would call him by name or ask after the folks in Tannersville. He hadn't long to wait!
"It's a great game," pursued the other. Then, after a short pause: "Say, I've met you before, haven't I? Your face looks familiar."
"No," answered Tom shortly, digging his feet convulsively against the bulging sides of the bags on the floor.
"My mistake, then. I thought perhaps you were from Tannersville, Pennsylvania."
Tom almost jumped, although he had been expecting some such remark. It was, he reflected agitatedly, absolutely marvellous the way these fellows learned things! In a moment the fellow would tell him his name!
The fellow didn't, though. He only said:
"Tannersville is a fine town. Ever been there?"
Tom shook his head energetically. "Never!" he fibbed.
"Oh!" The confidence-manfor Tom had fully decided that such he wasseemed disappointed. But he wasn't discouraged. "Which way are you travelling?" he asked.
Tom did a lot of thinking then in a fragment of a minute.
"Philadelphia," he blurted.
"Philadelphia! Why, say, you're in the wrong station. You ought to go to the Pennsylvania Terminal. I guess you're a stranger here, eh? Tell you what I'll do. You come with me and I'll put you on a car that'll take you right there."
"II've got to wait for a friend," muttered Tom desperately, sending an appealing glance toward the policeman who had now begun to saunter slowly away.
"That so? Well" The other got up with a glance at the clock and reached down for his suit-case. Tom's gaze followed the direction of that hand closely. It was, he thought, odd that a confidence-man should carry a suit-case, but that might be only an attempt to avert suspicion. The bag held the inscription "A. L. M., Orange, N. J." Probably the bag had been stolen. Tom fixed that inscription firmly in his mind. "I'll have to be going," said "A. L. M." "Sorry I can't be of assistance to you, kid. I thought that maybe if you were going my way, out to Brimfield, I could give you a hand with your bags."
Tom gasped! How did he know about Brimfield?
"Thanks," he muttered. "II'll get on all right." Standing there in front of him "A. L. M." looked very youthful to be such a deep-dyed villain and Tom felt a bit sorry for him. But the villain was smiling broadly and, as it seemed to Tom, a trifle mockingly.
"Better keep a sharp lookout for crooks," advised the other. "There are lots of 'em about here. See that old chap over there with the basket of fruit in his lap?" The stranger moderated his voice and leaned toward Tom. Tom, turning his head a trifle to follow the other's gaze, felt one of the bags between his feet move and made a grab toward it. But the stranger had not, apparently, touched it, unless with a foot. "That," he was saying, "is Four-Fingered Phillips, one of the cleverest confidence-men in New York. Well, so long!"
The other moved away, walking nonchalantly past the station policeman who had now wandered back to his post. Tom held his breath. But the policeman, although he undoubtedly followed the youth with his gaze for a moment, failed to act, and Tom was not a little relieved. Even if the fellow was a crook he seemed an awfully decent sort and Tom was glad he hadn't been arrested.
It was getting perilously near a quarter to four now and still Steve had not returned. Tom watched the long hand crawl toward the figure IX, saw it reach it and pass. He would, he decided then, give Steve another five minutes. His gaze fell on "Four-Fingered Phillips" and he viewed that gentleman perplexedly. He didn't look in the least like a confidence-man. He appeared to be about sixty years of age, eminently respectable and slightly infirm. He clutched a basket of fruit and an ivory-headed cane and seemed quite oblivious to everything about him. New York, reflected Tom, with something like a shudder, must be a terribly wicked place! And then, while he was still striving to discern signs of depravity under the gentle and kindly exterior of the elderly confidence-man, a young woman, leading a little boy of some three or four years of age and bearing many bundles, hurried up to "Four-Fingered Phillips," spoke, helped him to his feet and guided him away toward the train-shed. Tom sighed. It was too much for him! Of course he had read of female accomplices, but it didn't seem that a four-year-old child could be a part of the game! For the first time he wondered whether "A. L. M.," perhaps chagrined at his failure to decoy Tom to some secret lair, had deceived him about "Four-Fingered Phillips"!
Then it was ten minutes to four, good measure, and Tom, in a sudden panic, seized his bags, gazed about him despairingly and made for the train-shed. He had given Steve fair warning, he told himself, and now he could just fend for himself. But his steps got slower and slower as he approached the gate and when he reached it he set the bags down, got his ticket out and waited. After all, it would be a pretty mean trick to leave Steve. At least, he'd wait there until the last moment. The minutes passed and the hands on the clock further along the barrier crept nearer and nearer to the time set for the departure of the Brimfield accommodation. Tom wondered when the next train after this one would leave.
"Going on this train, son?" asked the gateman.
"Yes," answered Tom, and took a step toward the gate. Then he stopped and shook his head. "No, I guess not," he muttered. "When does the next one go, sir?"
"Yes," answered Tom, and took a step toward the gate. Then he stopped and shook his head. "No, I guess not," he muttered. "When does the next one go, sir?"
"Where to?" asked the gateman, punching the ticket of a late arrival.
"Brimfield."
"Four-twelve." The gate closed and the matter was irrevocably settled. Tom took his bags and hurried back to the waiting-room and found his place again. No Steve was in sight!
"I'll give him ten minutes," said Tom savagely. "Then I'll go. Andand I won't come back the next time!"
And then, just as the clock announced the hour Steve appeared, a little flushed and breathless, but smiling broadly.
"Gee, you ought to have been with me, Tom!" he said excitedly. "There was a peach of a fire just around in the next street! Seven engines and a hook-and-ladder and hundreds of hose-carts and one of those water-towers! And most of the engines were automobiles, Tom! It was corking!"
"Maybe it was," replied Tom coldly. "I'm going to Brimfield on the four-twelve. What you going to do? Find another fire?"
"Why, no. When I saw I'd lost that other train I thought I might as well wait and see the fire out. There's lots of time, anyway. We'll have plenty of school before we get through with it, Tom."
"That's all right," responded Tom bitterly, "but you're way off if you think it's any fun for me sitting around here and waiting for you while you have a good time going to fires!"
"You said you didn't want to go"
"Well, what if I did?" demanded Tom, working himself into a very respectable fit of anger. "I didn't want to go. But that's no reason why you should leave me alone for the rest of the day toto stave off robbers and thieves and confidence-men andand all!"
"Oh, well, come on," said Steve. "We haven't done anything but lose a train"
"We've lost two trains!"
"And the man says there's another at twelve minutes after."
"And we'll lose that if you stand here talking much longer," declared Tom peevishly. "Take up your bag and come along. There's only six or seven minutes."
"Where is it? Haven't you got it?"
"Got what?"
"My bag," said Steve crossly.
"Isn't it staring you in the face?" asked Tom disgustedly, indicating the suit-case against the seat. "Are you blind?"
"That? That isn't mine. Where" Steve looked at the bag in Tom's hand and then around the floor. "Where's mine?"
"What!" Tom was gazing in stupefied amazement at the bag between them.
On the end appeared the legend: "A. L. M., Orange, N. J."
CHAPTER IV
OUT FOR BRIMFIELD!
Just as the conductor, snapping his watch shut, waved his hand to the engineer of the four-twelve two boys hurried down the platform and, with the assistance of a negro porter, climbed to the last platform of the moving train. From there, much out of breath, they entered the car, pushed aside a curtain and sank on to the seats of the smoking compartment. And as he did so each set a suit-case between his legs and the front of the seat in a way that suggested that only over his dead body could that bag be removed!
The first of the two, the one with his back to the engine, was a nice-looking youth of fifteenalmost sixteen, to be quite accuratewith a broad-shouldered, slim-hipped body that spoke of the best of physical condition. He had a pair of light-brown eyes, a short straight nose, a nice mouth and a rather sharp chin. His face was tanned, and slightly freckled as well, and he was tall for his age. His full name was Stephen Dana Edwards.
His companion was an inch shorter, a little heavier in build, although quite as well-conditioned physically, and was lighter in colouring. His hair was several shades less dark than his friend's, although it, too, was brown, his eyes were grey and under the sunburn his skin was quite fair. His full name was Thomas Perrin Hall.
Good, healthy, frank-looking youths both of them under normal conditions, but at this present moment very far from appearing at their best. Each face held an expression of gloom and resentment; on Mr. Stephen Edwards' countenance sat what might well be termed a scowl. And, after a minute, by which time the train had plunged into the tunnel and the travellers had somewhat recovered their breaths, the latter young gentleman gave voice to a remark which went well with his expression.
"I like the way you looked after it," he said with deep sarcasm. Mr. Thomas Hall, returning the other's scowl, drummed with his heels on the suit-case.
"Why didn't you stay and look after it yourself?" he asked angrily. "It isn't my fault that you went off chasing after fire-engines."
"I didn't chase after fire-engines. You said you'd watch my bag and"
"I did watch it!"
"Oh, yes, fine! Let someone pinch it right under your eyes! I notice you managed to keep your own bag all right!"
"Oh, dry up!" growled Tom.
Silence ensued until a conductor appeared and demanded tickets. Yielding their transportation, the boys were informed that they were in a parlour car and must pay twenty-five cents apiece to ride to Brimfield. Tom laid hold of his bag with a sigh, but Steve unemotionally produced a quarter and so Tom followed suit. When the conductor had disappeared again through the curtain Steve said:
"Why didn't they tell us this was a parlour car? How were we to know?"
"They just wanted our money, I suppose," replied Tom bitterly. "Everybody in this place is after your money. I wish I was home!"
"So do I," agreed Steve gloomily. More silence then, until,
"I don't see how he ever did it," remarked Tom. "I had both bags between my feet. He was certainly slick. I suppose when he told me to look at 'Four-Fingered Phillips' I sort of turned around and switched my legs away from the bags. But he must have been mighty quick."
"Of course he was quick," said Steve contemptuously. "I warned you against that fellow."
"That's all right, but I'll bet he'd have played the same trick if it had been you instead of me," replied Tom warmly.
"I'll bet he wouldn't!"
"All right!" Tom shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window. They had the compartment to themselves, which, in view of the remarks which were passed, was fortunate.
"It isn't all right, though," pursued Steve. "That bag had all my things in it: pajamas, brushes and comb and collars and handkerchiefs andand everything! I'd like to know what I'm going to sleep in!"
"I dare say we'll get our trunks to-night," said Tom soothingly. "If we don't you can have my pajamas."
"What'll you wear?" asked Steve more graciously.
"Anything. I don't mind. I say, Steve, let's see what's in the bag he left!"
"Would you?" asked Steve doubtfully.
"Why not? He's got yours, hasn't he?"
Steve lifted the suit-case to the seat beside him and tried the catch. It was not locked and opened readily. There wasn't a great deal in it: a pair of lavender pajamas at which Steve sniffed sarcastically, a travelling case fitted with inexpensive brushes and things and marked "A. L. M.," a pair of slippers, a magazine, a soiled collar, one clean handkerchief and a grey flannel cap with a red B sewed on the front above the visor.
"Wonder whose they are," mused Tom, as Steve spread the trousers of the pajamas out and viewed them dubiously. They were several sizes two large for Steve, but they might do if his trunk didn't come in time. "I suppose that fellow swiped this bag, found there wasn't anything valuable in it and thought he'd swap it for another."
"Maybe there was something valuable in it when he got it," said Steve. He tossed the things back and closed it again. "It's a pretty good suit-case; better than mine. Do you suppose it would do any good to advertise?"