Part 6 (1/2)

”There's no one else to leave it to,” said the old man. ”It isn't much, but you shall have it.”

Here he drew out, with trembling fingers, the key suspended to a piece of twine which, through all his sickness, he had carried around his neck. He held it in his hand a moment, and a spasm convulsed his pale features. To give it up seemed like parting with life itself. It was a final parting with his treasure, to which, small though it was, his heart clung even in this solemn moment. He held it, reluctant to give it up, though he knew now that he must.

”Take this key, Tom,” he said. ”It is the key to my box of gold.”

”I didn't know you had a box of gold,” said Tom, rather surprised.

”It is not much--a hundred dollars. If I had lived longer, I might have got more.”

”A hundred dollars, Jacob? I did not think you were so rich.”

”It will never do me any good,” said the old man, bitterly. ”I was a fool to go out in the street that day. I might have lived to be as old as my father. He was seventy-five when he died.”

Tom would like to have comforted him, but he would give him no hope of life, and that was what the old man longed for.

”Where is the box of money?” he asked, seeking to divert Jacob's mind, as well as to gain a necessary piece of information.

”It is under the floor of the room. You lift up a board just before you get to the pantry, and you will see a tin box underneath. You will find something else in it, Tom. It is a paper in which I wrote down all I know about you. You said you would forgive me for wronging you.”

”Yes, Jacob.”

”Perhaps you can get back your rights; but I am afraid not.”

”My rights!” repeated Tom, bewildered.

”Yes; I can't tell you about it; I am too weak; the paper will tell you.”

The old man began to show signs of exhaustion. The excitement of learning his hopeless condition, and the conversation which he had already held with Tom, had overtasked his feeble strength, and he showed it by his appearance.

”I am afraid I have staid too long, Jacob,” said Tom, considerately. ”I will go, now, but I will come back to-morrow morning.”

”You won't look for the box till I am gone, Tom?” said the old man, anxiously. ”I--the doctors might be wrong; and, if I get well, I would want it back again.”

”No, Jacob, I will not look for it while you are alive.”

”Promise me,” said Jacob, suspicious to the last, where money was concerned.

”I promise, Jacob. Don't be troubled. I would rather have you live than take all the money.”

”Good boy!” said Jacob, faintly, as his head sank back on the pillow.

Tom left the hospital ward with one last glance of compa.s.sion at the miserable old man, who clung to life, which had so little that is ordinarily counted agreeable, with despairing hope. It was the last time he was to see Jacob alive. The next day, when he called to inquire after the old man, he was told that he was dead. He sank steadily after his last interview with our hero, and, having parted with the key to his treasure, it seemed as if there was nothing left to live for.

CHAPTER VI.

THE REVELATION.

Tom had already made up his mind upon one point. He would accept the bequest of his old companion, since, in so doing, he was robbing no one better ent.i.tled to it. So far as he knew, the old man had no relatives or friends, except himself. But he was determined that, since Jacob had money, he should not be buried at the public expense. He would take so much of the hundred dollars as might be necessary, and place it in the hands of the doctor at Bellevue Hospital to defray the expenses of Jacob's funeral. He would say nothing about it, however, till he had actually found the money. It might be a hallucination of Jacob's, and have no real existence.