“Mr. Cutter came in, turning on the electric light as he did so.”
Page [164]

Tom the Telephone Boy

Or
The Mystery of a Message

BY
FRANK V. WEBSTER
AUTHOR OF “BOB THE CASTAWAY,” “THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS,” “THE
YOUNG TREASURE HUNTER,” “ONLY A FARM BOY,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

BOOKS FOR BOYS

By FRANK V. WEBSTER

12 mo. Illustrated. Bound in cloth. Price per
volume, 35 cents, postpaid

ONLY A FARM BOY, Or Dan Hardy’s Rise in Life

TOM THE TELEPHONE BOY, Or The Mystery of a Message

THE BOY FROM THE RANCH, Or Roy Bradner’s City Experiences

THE YOUNG TREASURE HUNTER, Or Fred Stanley’s Trip to Alaska

BOB THE CASTAWAY, Or The Wreck of the Eagle

THE YOUNG FIREMEN OF LAKEVILLE, Or Herbert Dare’s Pluck

THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS, Or Who Was Dick Box?

THE BOY PILOT OF THE LAKES, Or Nat Morton’s Perils

TWO BOY GOLD MINERS, Or Lost in the Mountains

JACK THE RUNAWAY, Or On the Road with a Circus

Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York

Copyright, 1909, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
TOM THE TELEPHONE BOY

CONTENTS

TOM THE TELEPHONE BOY

CHAPTER I
A QUEER CUSTOMER

“Hurrah! Good news, mother!” cried Tom Baldwin, as he hurried into the house, throwing his hat on the rack. “Fine luck! Where are you?”

“Upstairs, sewing,” replied a woman’s voice. “My, Tom, but you are making quite a noise.”

“Can’t help it, mother! I’ve got good news! I’ve got a job!”

“Have you really, Tom? Come right up and tell us about it. I’m very glad!”

“Tell him to be sure and wipe his feet,” added another woman’s voice, from the same upstairs-room where Mrs. Baldwin was sewing. “The snow’s melting outside, and he’ll track it all over the house.”

“I guess he has already done so, Sallie,” said Tom’s mother a little ruefully. “He’s half-way upstairs now.”

“Land sakes! And that carpet only just cleaned! What terrible creatures boys are!”

“Not so very bad, Sallie,” replied Mrs. Baldwin with a smile.

Meanwhile, Tom was coming up the stairs with a rush, and when he reached the top he found his mother in the hall waiting for him. He kissed her affectionately, and then followed her into the room from which she had emerged to greet him.

The apartment was a small front one, and contained two sewing machines, and, from the cloth, patterns, needles and thread scattered about, it did not need a sign to tell that dressmaking was conducted in it.

“Hello, Aunt Sallie!” exclaimed Tom, as he prepared to sit down on a chair near the door.

“Mercy! Goodness me! Don’t sit there!” cried Miss Sarah Ramsey, Tom’s maiden aunt, who was called “Sallie” by Tom and by his mother. “Look out, Thomas!”

“Why? What’s the matter? Is there a pin or a needle in it?” asked Tom, as he paused and looked apprehensively at the chair, which contained some fluffy white material.

“Needle! Pin! Why, Thomas Jefferson Baldwin! That’s the ruching for the neck of Mrs. Anderson’s new dress, and if you had sat on that, and crushed it, I don’t know what I’d have done,” and Aunt Sallie became positively pale over the thought.

Tom knew she had been much wrought up over the threatened calamity, for she never gave him his full name—Thomas Jefferson Baldwin—unless she was very serious indeed.

“Huh!” exclaimed the boy. “I didn’t think that bunch of white stuff was anything.”

“There, Tom, I’ll take it out of the way,” said his mother. “Now you can sit down and tell us all about it.”

“Yes, and try and be quiet about it,” cautioned his aunt. “When you talk so loud you make my head ache, and my nerves are all unstrung now with trying to get the sleeves in this waist. I never saw such styles as they wear now-a-days.”

“Have you really got work, Tom?” asked Mrs. Baldwin.

“Yes, mother, and a good job, too.”

“Where is it?”

“I hope it is in some place where you will have a chance to advance, and improve yourself,” put in Miss Ramsey quickly. “Boys need improving very much, now-a-days.”

“Then this ought to be just the place for it,” said Tom, with a laugh. “It’s in a book store, and I expect, before long, I’ll know enough, from reading the books, to become a school teacher or a professor.”

“That would be very nice,” remarked Tom’s aunt, as if he really meant what he said.

“Have you really got a place in a book store, Tom?” inquired his mother, as she threaded a sewing machine, preparatory to doing some stitching.

“Yes, in Townsend’s Book Emporium, as it’s called. It’s on Milk Street, and it’s one of the largest book stores in Boston. I saw a sign out ‘Boy Wanted,’ and I went in. I didn’t expect to get the place, for I’ve been disappointed so often of late, but I made up my mind I’d try.

“Mr. Townsend—he’s a nice elderly gentleman—asked me a lot of questions, and when I got through answering them he told me to come to work in the morning. Isn’t that good news?”

“Indeed, it is,” replied Mrs. Baldwin.

“How much will you get?” asked his aunt anxiously. “When I was a girl, boys in book stores didn’t get more than three dollars a week.”

“Times have changed since then,” declared Tom, with a laugh. “I’m to get five dollars. There’s only one bad thing about it, though.”

“What’s that?” asked Mrs. Baldwin.

“I’m only hired during the holiday rush. They want a boy to help out, and that’s what I’m to do. I’ll have to look for something else after the first of the year. Still, it’s better than nothing, and there are four weeks more of this year left.”

“I wish it was a permanent place,” remarked Tom’s mother. “But, of course, as you say, it’s better than nothing. Perhaps if you do well, they may keep you permanently.”

“I hope they do, mother. But have you any work that you want me to take home?”

“Not yet, Tom. Mrs. Anderson’s dress isn’t quite finished. There is more work on it than I thought there would be, and it is going to take me a day longer.”

“That means you won’t make so much money then,” said Tom, soberly.

“Yes, that is so. If I had it finished I could sew on that skirt for Mrs. Thompson, and she is prompt pay.”

“I can’t sew as fast as I once could,” remarked Tom’s aunt. “I’m afraid I’m not much help to you, Jeanette.”

“Indeed, you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Baldwin, kindly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you—and Tom.”

“If you haven’t anything for me to do then,” went on the lad, “I think I’ll get something to eat. I didn’t have any dinner.”

“Oh, Tom! Didn’t you?”

“No; I saved the money for car fare, as I didn’t know how far I’d have to go before I struck a job. Then, when I got this one in the book store, I thought I might as well come home and get a bite as to go to a restaurant, so I’ve got the quarter left.”

“But, Tom, you must take care of your health,” said his mother. “Going without your dinner, to save money, is poor economy. You can’t afford to get sick, with two women to look after,” and she smiled fondly at her son.

“Oh, I guess it didn’t hurt me, mother. But I certainly am hungry now. Is there any jam left?”

“Yes; you’ll find it in the pantry.”

Tom went downstairs, and was soon rattling away at the dishes in the cupboard.

“Look at that!” exclaimed his aunt, as she pointed to a patch of snow and mud left by Tom’s shoes in the middle of the sewing room. “Isn’t that awful! Oh, boys are such terrible creatures!”

“I’m glad I have one,” declared Mrs. Baldwin fondly, as she wiped up the mud with an old rag. “There are worse things than muddy shoes, Sallie.”

Miss Ramsey sighed, but said nothing. Meanwhile, the “terrible boy” was satisfying a very healthy appetite, thinking, between bites, of his good luck in finding work.

For he needed employment very much. Tom Baldwin’s father had died about three years before this story opens, leaving his wife and son a small house, in Boston, but no money. Of course, Mrs. Baldwin could have sold the house, and lived for a time on what she got for it, but she preferred to keep it. She had been a good seamstress in her younger days, and she determined to try to earn her living by dressmaking.

But she soon found that dressmaking, as she had seen it conducted when she was a girl in the country, and the way it is done now-a-days, was quite different. She could barely get enough to do to make a living for herself and Tom, who was too young to go to work, and who attended a public school.

Finding she had not the skill necessary to compete with the department stores and with modern dressmakers, Mrs. Baldwin sent for her maiden sister to come and help her. Miss Ramsey was a better sewer than Mrs. Baldwin, but her health was poor, and between them, the two women could barely make both ends meet.

Much against her will Mrs. Baldwin had to take Tom from school and put him to work. He got a position in an office, where he earned three dollars a week. This helped a little, and as he proved efficient he was advanced until in about two years he was earning eight dollars.

Times seemed better then, for, having no house rent to pay, Mrs. Baldwin got along fairly well on Tom’s money, and what she and her sister could earn. But the dressmaking business grew worse, instead of better, and the two women had to depend more and more on Tom.

Then came a dark day when the firm that Tom worked for failed, and he and many others lost their places. From then on the little family of three had a hard struggle. Had it not been for the sewing the women did, and which just managed to keep them, the house would have had to be sold.

Work was hard to get in Boston, that year, and it seemed with the approach of winter, that times were worse than ever. Tom tramped the streets day after day, looking for a situation, but in vain, although occasionally he managed to get odd jobs to do.

Then came the unexpected, when he saw the sign in front of the book store, applied, and was taken. No wonder Tom felt happy as he rushed home with the good news.

The boy was at Townsend’s Book Emporium early the next morning. There were several other clerks employed, and Tom was told by the proprietor, Elmer Townsend, that his duties would be to run on all sorts of errands, to sweep out the store, dust the books, and, in a rush, wait on customers.

“I want you to make yourself as familiar as possible with the books,” said Mr. Townsend. “Here is a catalogue, and I have marked on it just what part of the store each book is in. The price of each book is written on the upper right-hand corner of the first fly-leaf, but as it is in letters, instead of figures, you will have to learn what the letters mean.”

Tom thought it was a queer plan to mark the selling-price in letters instead of figures, but he was soon enlightened.

“That is done so customers will not know the prices of books,” said his employer. “I take a word of ten letters, and each letter represents a figure from 1 to 0. Then, by combining the letters I can make any figure I want. Do you understand?”

Tom said that he did, and he had soon mastered the little problem so that he could, after a little study, tell the selling-price of any book, by looking at the small letters on the first page.

The book store was quite a large one. Tom had never seen so many volumes in one room before, except in a library, and he began to think he had come to just the right place, for he was fond of reading and study, and he made up his mind he would have a good time perusing his favorite volumes.

But if our hero had an idea that clerks in book stores spend their time pleasantly in looking at pictures and reading stories, he was soon disappointed.

He found himself ordered here and there by the other clerks. He had to bring books from the front of the store to the back, and from the back to the front. He had to get out bundles of wrapping-paper, and balls of twine. He had to dust off long rows of volumes, and when a clerk was trying to wait on two customers at once, Tom had to tie up books to be sent to various addresses given by the purchasers. The lad hoped he would be sent out to do some delivering, but he learned that the volumes went by a local express company, with which Mr. Townsend had a yearly contract.

Tom was in the back part of the store, arranging some pamphlets that had been scattered about, when he saw an elderly gentleman walk slowly along the aisle formed by the book tables, and pausing before some historic volumes, take one from the row on the shelves.

“Ha! Um! Here it is!” exclaimed the old gentleman, as he peered through his spectacles at the printed page. “I knew I was right. It isn’t there! Here, boy!” he called suddenly, glancing over the tops of his glasses at Tom. “Just you hold this book open a minute, right there, and keep your finger on this line,” and he held the volume out to the lad. Wonderingly, Tom complied.

The queer customer ran his finger along the row of books, took out another, leafed it over rapidly, and uttered an exclamation. Then, placing this book down on a table, and holding it open with one hand, he reached for a third volume, which he extended to Tom.

“Open that at page twenty-one,” he said.

“I can’t,” replied the boy, “unless I let go of this other book.”

“That’s so, I forgot. Well, give me the first book. I can keep two places at once.”

Tom passed it over, and the old gentleman now had two books open before him.

“Have you got page twenty-one?” he asked Tom, as he bent close over the opened books.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything on it about the ancient Hickhites having used belladonna in fevers?”

“No,” answered Tom slowly, as he read down the page. “This seems to be an account of how to make a fruit cake.”

“A fruit cake! What do you mean?”

“This is a cook book, sir,” replied Tom.

“A cook book! Goodness me! I must have picked up the wrong memoranda when I hurried from the house.”

He rapidly searched through his pockets, and produced a crumpled piece of paper.

“That’s what I did,” he announced. “I picked up a memoranda made out by my sister-in-law. It’s about buying a new cook book she saw advertised. My memoranda was on the use of belladonna among the ancient Hickhites. I differed from a certain historian, and I wanted to look it up. I have taken her memoranda, and left mine. Well, well, I must be losing my memory. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“It was no bother at all,” said Tom politely.

“I’m glad of it. I hate to bother any one. Now let me see. There was another book I wanted to get. What was it about? I thought I would remember it. I know I had it on my mind when I was looking at the first volume of the new edition of Motley’s Dutch Republic—um—er—well, I can’t think. I’ll have to go back home and get my list.”

He took the cook book from Tom, and placing it, with the two other volumes, under his arm, started to walk out of the store. At once there flashed through Tom’s mind the idea that this was a slick swindler, who had adopted this method of stealing books.

“Wait a minute!” he called. “Shan’t I wrap those books up for you?”

He thought this would be a polite way of calling the attention of Mr. Townsend or some clerk to the actions of the queer customer.

“What books?” asked the old gentleman innocently.

“Those under your arm.”

“Have I some books under my arm? Why, goodness gracious, so I have! I’m glad you called my attention to them, young man, or I might have walked off with them. My, my! but I am getting to have a poor memory! To think of carrying off books without paying for them!”

“It’s a good thing I caught him in time, or Mr. Townsend might have blamed me,” thought Tom.

Just then Mr. Townsend came to the rear of the store. He caught sight of the old gentleman.

“Why, Dr. Spidderkins! How do you do?” he exclaimed. “I am real glad to see you? What can I show you to-day? I didn’t know you were here, or I would have attended to you personally.”

“I guess I made a mistake,” said Tom to himself.

CHAPTER II
TOM IS SUSPICIOUS

Glad that he had not accused the old gentleman of trying to steal the books, Tom moved away, leaving his employer and Dr. Spidderkins in earnest conversation. Tom could hear them talking about rare editions, first folios, and books or pamphlets that were out of print, and very valuable.

“Here, boy, wrap up this bundle,” called a clerk.

“Sure,” replied Tom good-naturedly. “Shall I bring it back to you?”

“No, mark this address on it, and put it where the expressman will get it. It’s got to be delivered to-day.”

“The new boy is better than the other one we had,” observed a second clerk to the one from whom Tom had just taken an order.

“He certainly is. I only hope he keeps it up.”

The rest of that morning Tom found himself busily occupied. There came a little let-up in the rush, about noon, and the lad ventured to ask the senior clerk something about the queer old man who was still browsing away among the books.

“He is one of our best customers,” replied the clerk. “His name is Dr. Lemuel Spidderkins.”

“Does he practise medicine?”

“He used to, but he is retired now, and about all he does is to collect books. Hardly a day passes but what he buys two or three here, or in other book stores. He spends a lot of money that way. You see he’s so forgetful he dare not risk practising his profession.”

“He certainly is queer,” remarked Tom, and he told the clerk his experience with the doctor.

“That’s nothing,” was the answer. “He often comes in here, and walks off with three or four books without paying for them. If we see him we always politely call his attention to them. If we don’t, it doesn’t matter, for he generally recollects what he has done when he reaches home, and he sends the money for them. Yes, he is very eccentric.”

“Then I did the right thing,” said Tom, “when I offered to wrap them up for him.”

“Oh, yes. He and Mr. Townsend are great friends. He has bought books of us for years.”

“Here—er—new boy—what’s your name!” suddenly called the book store proprietor, from where he stood talking to Dr. Spidderkins. “Wrap these books up.”

Tom hurried to his employer, and took several large and heavy volumes which the old physician had evidently selected from the shelves.

“Ah, there is the young man who helped me look up some facts about—er—well now, isn’t that queer, I can’t remember what it was about,” said the doctor, as he caught sight of Tom. “Was it about how the Egyptians used to worship cats?”

“It was about belladonna and fruit cake,” answered Tom.

“Oh, yes, so it was. Yes, he was quite a help to me—I mean he showed me that I had the wrong memoranda,” went on the physician. “I must get a secretary if my memory keeps on failing me. But I must pay you for these books, Mr. Townsend. I’ll take them right along with me, or I’ll forget all about them.”

“Better let me send them,” suggested the proprietor of the Emporium. “They’ll make quite a heavy bundle.”

“Perhaps you had better. Here is the money,” and the doctor held out several bills.

“Do you want that book you have under your arm?” asked Mr. Townsend with a laugh, pointing to a small volume, almost hidden by the big sleeve of the doctor’s coat.

“Have I a book there? Why, bless my soul, so I have! I remember now, I took it down to look up a certain fact about how the Chinese use opium to deaden pain in sickness. It is just like a book I have, only mine is an earlier edition. I think I will take this. You may wrap it up with the others. Queer, how forgetful I am becoming. Now be sure those books are up to my house to-night.”

“They’ll be there,” Mr. Townsend assured the physician, as Tom went to the counter to wrap them up.

Dr. Spidderkins took his departure, and soon after this, Tom was told he could go out and get some lunch. He did not eat an elaborate meal and was soon back at his place.

During the afternoon he went on a number of errands, arranged several shelves of books, dusted off long rows of volumes, and waited on one or two customers.

“I’m beginning to learn the book business,” thought the lad proudly, after he had made his third sale without an error. True they were only small ones, involving the purchase of a pad, a pencil, and the last one being a small book, purchased by a girl. But they meant a lot to Tom.

“It will be closing time in half an hour,” remarked one of the younger clerks to Tom. “Do you live far from here?”

“Not very. About half an hour’s walk. But I thought you kept open late during the holidays?”

“We will, beginning next week. It will be ten o’clock every night then, but we get supper money.”

“That’s good,” remarked Tom.

“Here, what’s this!” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Townsend, as he saw the bundle of books which Tom had wrapped up for Dr. Spidderkins. “Haven’t these books been called for by the expressman?”

“No, sir,” replied the clerk, in charge of that part of the work.

“This will never do,” went on the proprietor. “The doctor wants the books to-night. Call up the express office and see if they are coming.”

The clerk put the telephone into operation, and presently reported to Mr. Townsend:

“He says the man forgot to call on his afternoon trip, and it’s too late now.”

“That’s too bad!” exclaimed Mr. Townsend. “Those books must go to Dr. Spidderkins to-night, or he’ll be very much disappointed, and he’s too good a customer to disappoint. Tom, you had better jump on a car and take them to him. Do you know your way around the Back Bay district?”

The Back Bay district is the section of Boston where are located the residences of the rich, and it is quite exclusive.

“I guess I can find the place, sir,” said Tom confidently, though he had only been in the locality a few times.

“Well, here is your car fare. Be careful of the books now, as some of them are quite expensive. Be on hand early in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, as he put on his overcoat, and with the bundle of books, which were quite heavy, he started off.

He was soon in the Back Bay district, and a little inquiry enabled him to find the doctor’s house.

“My, it’s a big place!” exclaimed Tom. “He must have money to live in a house like that.”

He went up the front steps and rang the bell. The door was presently opened by a woman, and, in the light that streamed out into the darkness from the hall, Tom saw that she was about middle age, and that her features were rather sharp and hard. Her face was not made more attractive by the way her hair was arranged, for it was drawn tightly back on both sides of her head.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked snappishly. “We don’t want to buy anything, and if you’re the boy from the grocery you’re too late with the stuff, and you must go round to the back door. I can’t have tradesmen coming to the front door.”

“These are some books Dr. Spidderkins purchased to-day,” replied Tom. “I brought them, because the expressman forgot to call.”

“What’s that? Books?” asked a voice from within, that the boy recognized as the doctor’s. “Who has books for me?”

Tom caught a glimpse of the elderly gentleman. He was in his slippers and a dressing gown, and his arms were so full of books that he could not have carried another one.

“They are books from Mr. Townsend,” said Tom.

“Oh, yes. Come right in,” invited the doctor. “I was wondering why they didn’t arrive. Come right in with them, my boy. I want to look up something about a certain rare plant——”

“He’ll do nothing of the kind!” interrupted the woman. “I guess I’m not going to have snow tracked into my house! Besides, you know you started to go to supper, and there you are puttering over those books. Oh, Lemuel, you’re so forgetful!”

“So I am! So I am,” admitted the doctor in a queer sort of voice. “I remember now, I did start to go to supper. I knew it was something I ought to do. I’m glad you reminded me. I’ll eat at once,” and, placing the books he was holding on a chair in the hall, the old gentleman turned back.

“Leave the books here,” said the woman to Tom. “Are there any charges?”

“No; everything is paid.”

“All right,” and she abruptly shut the door.

“Rather a cool reception,” murmured Tom. “My, but she’s cross! I shouldn’t like to live with her. I wonder how the doctor stands it, he’s so quiet and studious? I wonder if she’s his wife? No, she can’t be. The clerk said he wasn’t married. She must be a housekeeper, or some relation. My, but she seems to be able to make him do just as she likes! The idea of not letting him take his own books that he bought and paid for. I guess he’s so easy that she has him under her thumb.”

The time came when this was demonstrated to Tom, even more forcibly than it was on this occasion.

CHAPTER III
BUSY DAYS

Tom was on hand so early at the book store the next morning that he found the Emporium had not yet opened. He had to stand out in the street, until the porter came along to unlock the door.

“You’re early; ain’t you?” the man asked.

“Yes; I didn’t know exactly what time I had to begin, so I thought I’d get here as soon as I could. Where will I find a broom? I have to sweep out the place.”

“I’ll get you one. You want to sprinkle damp sawdust on the floor, and cover up all the books on the tables, so they won’t get dusty. Mr. Townsend is a very particular man.”

“I believe he is, but I like him—what little I have seen of him.”

“Oh, you’ll find he’s all right,” went on the porter, as he opened the door, and showed Tom where to find a broom. Then, while the man went to the cellar to open up some cases of books that had arrived late the previous afternoon, Tom began his sweeping. He had just finished, and taken the cloths off the books, when the junior clerk arrived. In a short time all the other employes were at their places, and presently Mr. Townsend came in.

“Ah, good-morning, Tom,” he said. “I see you have the place in good shape for us. Did you leave the books for Dr. Spidderkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, a very fine man he is, very fine indeed, if he is a trifle eccentric. Did he say anything to you?”

“Not very much. He said something about waiting for the books.”

“I hope they were not too late.”

“I went as quickly as I could with them.”

“I know you did, Tom. I mean I hope I sent you off with them in time. The doctor likes to have things the minute they are promised, though, often, after he has them, he forgets all about them. Was he much put out?”

“Not very. I didn’t have a chance to say much to him, as the lady who answered the door told the doctor it was time for his supper.”

“Ah, I dare say he had forgotten all about it. That’s his way. What did the woman say? She is his sister-in-law, I believe, though she has married a second time.”

Tom related as much of the conversation as he could remember.

“Hum,” mused the bookseller. “She’s a strange woman—very strange. Well, I guess the books got there in time. Now, Tom, I want you to go on an errand for me.”

When Tom got back from having taken some books to a customer who was stopping at the Parker House, he found the Emporium a busy place. There were a number of customers present, for the holiday rush was on, and all the clerks, and Mr. Townsend, were engaged in showing books, or wrapping up parcels.

Seeing that Mr. Townsend was busy, Tom decided to defer for the present reporting on the result of his errand. He hung up his coat and hat, and as there seemed to be nothing else for him to do, he proceeded to tidy up a table of small booklets, that was usually in disorder, as customers were continually looking over the stock.

While he was thus engaged he was approached by a young man, whose clothes were of expensive cut and material.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a peculiar drawling accent, “but would you kindly get me a volume of Browning! I can’t seem to locate it amid all the maze of books here, and all the clerks seem to be engaged. I presume I am right in assuming that you are employed here?”

“Browning, the ball player!” exclaimed the young man.
Page [25].

“Oh, yes, I work here,” answered Tom, who paid little attention to accent. “But I’ve only been here two days, and I don’t know much about the books yet.”

“Then perhaps you can’t find for me a volume of Browning?”

“I guess I can,” said Tom confidently. “I’ll look in my special catalogue,” and he produced the one Mr. Townsend had arranged for him. “Browning, the baseball player, you mean, don’t you?” he asked, for there was an athlete of that name, who had made quite a reputation for himself in the New England circuit that fall.

“Browning, the ball player!” exclaimed the young man, as if horrified.

“Yes, the one that played short. He’s got the highest batting average——”

“Don’t! Don’t, my dear young man; don’t I beg of you,” spoke the customer, waving his hands. “Baseball is such—such——”

“It’s a bully game!” exclaimed Tom, enthusiastically. “I used to be captain of a team, when I went to school. Tim Browning——”

“No, no! I mean Browning, the poet,” said the young man hastily. “I want a volume of his verses to send to a young lady. She is very fond of him. So am I.”

“Oh!” said Tom suddenly, much enlightened. “I thought you meant the other Browning. I was looking for the book among the sports. I’ll turn to poetry. Yes, here it is,” he added a moment later, as he found it in the catalogue. “I’ll get it for you.”

He got several different styles of the poet’s work and handed them to the young man.

“Ah, that is what I want!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you think his poetry is simply perfect?”

“I—I don’t care much for poetry,” replied Tom, who, since he worked in a book store, did not want to confess that he had never read a line of Browning.

“Not care for poetry! Not an admirer of Browning! You have missed much, my young friend,” murmured the customer. “I will take this copy,” he went on, selecting an expensive one and handing Tom the money.

“I don’t much care whether he buys poetry or books on sport as long as I sell ’em,” thought the lad as he wrapped up the book. “Five dollars for a book! Whew! I work a week for that. But I’m glad I sold it to him.”

The young man went out, fondly holding the volume of verse to his side. Tom went on arranging the booklets, but presently he had to stop to wait on a lady who wanted a fairy story for her little girl. Here Tom was more at home, and he found the lady quite ready to defer to his judgment as to what sort of a book was best.

Presently a young lady appealed to Tom to find for her a book on philosophy, and though the boy could hardly pronounce the title of it, he managed to locate it.

All that day Tom was kept busy, and he was acquiring more confidence in himself with every sale he made. At the close of the day, when Mr. Townsend looked over the slips made out by the different clerks, he congratulated Tom on the success he had had.

“I hope he keeps me after the holidays are over,” thought our hero. “That’s what I want, a good, steady job, so I can earn money, and then mother and Aunt Sallie won’t have to work so hard.”

Toward the end of that week Dr. Spidderkins paid another visit to the Emporium. He wandered in, and was soon examining volumes in that part of the shop given over to rare and costly books.

“Ah!” he exclaimed as Tom passed him on his way to get some wrapping-paper. “Here is just what I have been looking for. It is a rare old copy of Shakespeare. When did this come in? Why, bless my soul! If it isn’t the boy who prevented me from carrying off books without paying for them the other day,” he added as he recognized Tom. “How are you, young man?”

“Very well, sir.”

“I must have this book,” went on the old doctor. “Let’s see—it will just match that volume of Milton I bought the same day I got the copy of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. No, it wasn’t, either. It was the day I bought Darwin’s volume on evolution, or the day after. I declare, I can’t remember which. But I must take this book along with me. What’s the price?”

“Ten dollars,” answered Tom, after a look at the mystic letters on the fly-leaf.

“Ah, very reasonable—very reasonable, indeed.”

Tom thought it very unreasonable, for the book was an old one, and he knew of whole shelvesful of brand-new books at much lower prices than that. Dr. Spidderkins, however, seemed to think he had a bargain.

“I’ll take it,” he said, putting his hand in his pocket. Then a blank look came over his face. “Bless my soul, I’ve lost my pocketbook!” he exclaimed.

“Lost it?” repeated Tom. “Do you think you dropped it here?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. Maybe I left it at home. I’m so forgetful.”

“We have a telephone here—you could call up your house and ask if it’s there,” suggested Tom.

“So I could. I never thought of that. But I can’t talk very well over the wire, and my sister-in-law can’t hear me as well as she can some persons. Suppose you call up for me? I’ll give you the number. It’s 2256 Back Bay.”

“I’ll call up for you,” said Tom. “Shall I wrap up this book?”

“Yes. I’ll take it, anyhow, and send Mr. Townsend the money. Queer I can’t remember when I last had my pocketbook.”

CHAPTER IV
STRANGE ACTIONS

The experience Tom had once had, as a clerk in a grocery store, where he took orders over the telephone, had made him fairly expert in the use of the instrument. He soon got the aged doctor’s house on the wire, and was inquiring of Mrs. Barton Sandow (which the physician gave as his sister-in-law’s name) whether the pocketbook had been left there.

“Yes, it’s here,” answered Mrs. Sandow shortly. “He forgot it, as usual. Tell him he left it on the breakfast-table. Why, is he in trouble?”

“No; only he wants to buy some books, and he hasn’t the money with him,” answered Tom politely.

“Well, tell him to be sure and not forget to come home to dinner,” said Mrs. Sandow, as she hung up the receiver with a click that snapped in Tom’s ear.

“What does she say?” asked the old doctor.

“It’s there,” answered the boy. “And she wants you to be sure not to forget to come home to dinner.”

“I’ll not. I’ll start right away, and then I can’t forget. But I must tell Mr. Townsend about this book. I remember once I took a volume without paying for it—let me see, it was the same day I picked up a rare copy of Bacon’s works—and I forgot to send the money for a week, I got so interested reading it. I want him to send after the money for this, in case I don’t forward it right away.”

Tom found the book-store proprietor and told him of Dr. Spidderkins’ desires.

“Tell him to take the book, and welcome,” was the reply Mr. Townsend sent back. “He can take all the books he wants. He is good for them.”

The doctor left, after insisting that a messenger must be sent to his house that evening for the ten dollars, in case he did not send it sooner.

“I guess you’d better stop up and see the doctor, Tom,” said Mr. Townsend, when it came closing time. “He hasn’t sent the money, and, while I know he’ll pay it, he always likes to have things done just as he requests. I don’t want to offend him. So just take a run up there. You know where the place is now.”

“Yes, sir. Shall I bring back the money to-night?”

“No; fetch it with you in the morning. I suppose you know that, beginning next week, we shall keep open quite late, on account of the Christmas trade?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t mind.”

“I’m glad you don’t. The boy who had the place you now have left on account of that.”

Tom made up his mind it would take a good deal more than that to make him give up his job.

He took a car for the Back Bay district, and arrived at the Spidderkins mansion about seven o’clock. His knock was answered by the woman he now knew to be Mrs. Sandow.

“Well?” she asked ungraciously.

“I called to see Dr. Spidderkins.”

“What about?”

“I was told to collect ten dollars for some books.”

“Oh! Those everlasting books!” exclaimed Mrs. Sandow. “My brother-in-law spends more money on them than he does on the house. It’s all foolishness!”

She opened the door a little wider, and Tom took this for an invitation to enter.

“Are your feet clean?” she asked suspiciously.

“I wiped them carefully on the mat.”

“I don’t believe you half did. I never saw a boy yet with clean feet. Wait here, and I’ll tell the doctor.”

“Ah, good evening, my lad,” exclaimed the aged physician, as, with his spectacles half-way down on his nose, and holding a book in each hand, he came out to greet Tom. “You are from the printer’s, aren’t you? Have you the proofs of my new book on ‘The Influence of Environment in Nervous Diseases’?”

“No, sir. I’m not from the printer’s,” said Tom. “I came about the ten dollars, for Mr. Townsend.”

“Oh, yes, to be sure. How stupid of me. I wonder where my pocketbook is?”

“Didn’t you find it?”

“Find it? Did I lose it?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember me telephoning about it for you, when you were in the store?”

“Oh, yes, to be sure. Now I know who you are. Dear, dear, I am getting to have a bad memory, I’m afraid!”

He already had it, Tom thought, but the old gentleman was such a delightful character, that the boy could not help liking him.

“Come right into the sitting-room,” went on the doctor. “Let me see, your name is Theopholus, isn’t it?”

“No, sir, it’s Tom Baldwin.”

“Oh, yes, I recollect now. Well, Tom, just sit down a minute, and I’ll get the money. Please don’t disturb any of the books or papers. I’m writing another book on how to avoid taking colds, and I’m looking up all the authorities about that form of disease.”

The table was covered with books and papers, and Tom took a seat far enough away so that there would be no danger of disturbing them.

“Eliza, have you seen my pocketbook?” Dr. Spidderkins called, as he left the room.

“I put it right on top of your desk, where you couldn’t help but see it,” answered Mrs. Sandow.

“Oh, yes, of course; I remember now. I have it in my pocket.”

The doctor came back into the sitting-room. He was followed a moment later by a tall, dark complexioned man, whose eyes, as Tom noticed at a glance, seemed to be continually shifting about.

“Ah, Barton, are you going to sit here and read?” asked the doctor pleasantly.

“I was going to, but you’ve got your confounded papers all over the table, so I don’t see how I can very well,” answered the man, in surly tones.

“I’ll make a place for you at once,” said the doctor hastily, sweeping the papers to one side.

“You needn’t bother,” was the man’s ungracious remark. “I can go somewhere else. I wish you, wouldn’t make such a muss.”

“But this is about my new book.”

“I don’t care what it is.”

The doctor seemed to shrink away from Mr. Barton Sandow, and Tom felt a natural resentment against a man who would speak so ungraciously to an aged person.

“Allow me to present a friend of mine to you,” went on the physician courteously. “This is Tom Baldwin, Mr. Sandow. Tom, or I suppose I should say Thomas, this is my brother-in-law. That is he is a sort of brother-in-law. His wife was my brother’s wife, but my brother has been dead several years, and his wife married again.”

“You needn’t go into the whole family history,” said Barton Sandow surlily. “How are you?” he added to Tom, but his tone of voice was such that he might as well have told the boy he did not care whether he was well or ill.

“I—I wasn’t going to,” said the doctor gently. “I only thought—I—er—and—er—” he seemed to forget what he was going to say.

“Did you call on business?” asked Mr. Sandow suddenly, looking at Tom. “Dr. Spidderkins evidently has forgotten what it is about,” he added with a sneer.

“I’m from Mr. Townsend’s book store,” was the boy’s reply.

“That’s it. I knew it was something about books,” said the doctor with an uneasy laugh. “Thank you for reminding me. I had forgotten. I must pay you that ten dollars.”

He drew out his pocketbook, and began fumbling with it, for his eyesight was clearly not of the best.

“Ah, I thought I had a ten-dollar bill somewhere in it,” he said, as he handed Tom an envelope. “I sealed it up in this, and meant to send it, but I forgot it. But there ought to be more money in my wallet. I left fifty dollars in it this morning, and now there are only fifteen. I wonder what has become of the rest?”

“Do you think I took it?” asked Mr. Sandow, almost savagely.

“Why—er—no—of course not,” answered the old doctor, looking over the tops of his spectacles. “I only thought——”

“You don’t know what you thought!” exclaimed the other quite fiercely. “First thing you know you’ll be accusing me or my wife of stealing money from you. ’Liza, come here!” he called.

His wife stood in the door.

“What is it, Barton?” she asked.

“The doctor has missed some money from his pocketbook, and he accuses us of taking it.”