Part 9 (1/2)
”Clarence Brant,” said Clarence, coloring with excitement.
”With Clarence Brant. Take that deposit”--pointing to the money--”and give him a receipt.” He paused as the clerk retired with a wondering gaze at the money, looked again at Clarence, said, ”I think YOU'LL do,”
and reentered the private office, closing the door behind him.
I hope it will not be deemed inconceivable that Clarence, only a few moments before crushed with bitter disappointment and the hopeless revelation of his abandonment by his relatives, now felt himself lifted up suddenly into an imaginary height of independence and manhood. He was leaving the bank, in which he stood a minute before a friendless boy, not as a successful beggar, for this important man had disclaimed the idea, but absolutely as a customer! a depositor! a business man like the grown-up clients who were thronging the outer office, and before the eyes of the clerk who had pitied him! And he, Clarence, had been spoken to by this man, whose name he now recognized as the one that was on the door of the building--a man of whom his fellow-pa.s.sengers had spoken with admiring envy--a banker famous in all California! Will it be deemed incredible that this imaginative and hopeful boy, forgetting all else, the object of his visit, and even the fact that he considered this money was not his own, actually put his hat a little on one side as he strolled out on his way to the streets and prospective fortune?
Two hours later the banker had another visitor. It chanced to be the farmer-looking man who had been Clarence's fellow-pa.s.senger. Evidently a privileged person, he was at once ushered as ”Captain Stevens” into the presence of the banker. At the end of a familiar business interview the captain asked carelessly--
”Any letters for me?”
The busy banker pointed with his pen to the letter ”S” in a row of alphabetically labeled pigeon-holes against the wall. The captain, having selected his correspondence, paused with a letter in his hand.
”Look here, Carden, there are letters here for some chap called 'John Silsbee.' They were here when I called, ten weeks ago.”
”Well?”
”That's the name of that Pike County man who was killed by Injins in the plains. The 'Frisco papers had all the particulars last night; may be it's for that fellow. It hasn't got a postmark. Who left it here?”
Mr. Carden summoned a clerk. It appeared that the letter had been left by a certain Brant Fauquier, to be called for.
Captain Stevens smiled. ”Brant's been too busy dealin' faro to think of 'em agin, and since that shootin' affair at Angels' I hear he's skipped to the southern coast somewhere. Cal Johnson, his old chum, was in the up stage from Stockton this afternoon.”
”Did you come by the up stage from Stockton this afternoon?” said Carden, looking up.
”Yes, as far as Ten-mile Station--rode the rest of the way here.”
”Did you notice a queer little old-fas.h.i.+oned kid--about so high--like a runaway school-boy?”
”Did I? By G--d, sir, he treated me to drinks.”
Carden jumped from his chair. ”Then he wasn't lying!”
”No! We let him do it; but we made it good for the little chap afterwards. h.e.l.lo! What's up?”
But Mr. Carden was already in the outer office beside the clerk who had admitted Clarence.
”You remember that boy Brant who was here?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Where did he go?”
”Don't know, sir.”
”Go and find him somewhere and somehow. Go to all the hotels, restaurants, and gin-mills near here, and hunt him up. Take some one with you, if you can't do it alone. Bring him back here, quick!”
It was nearly midnight when the clerk fruitlessly returned. It was the fierce high noon of ”steamer nights”; light flashed brilliantly from shops, counting-houses, drinking-saloons, and gambling-h.e.l.ls. The streets were yet full of eager, hurrying feet--swift of fortune, ambition, pleasure, or crime. But from among these deeper harsher footfalls the echo of the homeless boy's light, innocent tread seemed to have died out forever.
CHAPTER VIII
When Clarence was once more in the busy street before the bank, it seemed clear to his boyish mind that, being now cast adrift upon the world and responsible to no one, there was no reason why he should not at once proceed to the nearest gold mines! The idea of returning to Mr. Peyton and Susy, as a disowned and abandoned outcast, was not to be thought of. He would purchase some kind of an outfit, such as he had seen the miners carry, and start off as soon as he had got his supper.