Fame and Fortune Weekly
STORIES OF BOYS WHO MAKE MONEY

Issued Weekly—By Subscription $2.50 per year.   Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1905, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by Frank Tousey, Publisher, 24 Union Square, New York.

A Corner in Corn;
OR,
HOW A CHICAGO BOY DID THE TRICK.

By A SELF-MADE MAN.

CHAPTER I.

IN THE ROOKERY BUILDING.

“Has Vance returned yet?” asked Jared Whitemore, a stout, florid-complexioned man of sixty-five, opening the door of his private office and glancing into the outside room.

“No, sir,” replied Edgar Vyce, his bookkeeper and office manager—a tall, saturnine-looking man, who had been in his employ several years.

“Send him in as soon as he comes back.”

The bookkeeper nodded carelessly and resumed his writing.

“Miss Brown,” said Jared to his stenographer and typewriter, a very pretty brown-eyed girl of seventeen, the only other occupant of the room, whose desk stood close to one of the windows overlooking La Salle Street.

She immediately left her machine and followed her employer into the inner sanctum.

Mr. Whitemore was a well-known speculator, one of the shrewdest and most successful operators on the Chicago Board of Trade.

He owned some of the best business sites in the city, and his ground rents brought him in many thousands a year.

Accounted a millionaire many times over, no one could with any degree of certainty say exactly what he was worth.

His plainly furnished office was on an upper floor of the Rookery Building.

He did business for nobody but himself. Jarboe, Willicutt & Co., whose offices were on the ground floor of the Board of Trade Building, were his brokers.

The office clock chimed the hour of five as the bookkeeper, with a frown, laid down his pen, rested his elbow on the corner of his tall desk and glanced down into the busy thoroughfare.

At that moment the office door opened and a messenger boy entered.

Mr. Vyce came to the railing and received an envelope addressed to himself.

He signed for it, tore it open, read the contents, which were brief, with a corrugated brow, and then, with much deliberation, tore the paper into fine particles and tossed them into the waste-basket.

For a moment or two he paced up and down before his desk, with his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, and then resumed his work just as the door opened again and admitted a stalwart, good-looking lad, with a frank, alert countenance and a breezy manner, who entered briskly with a handful of pamphlets and papers.

“Mr. Whitemore wants you to report in his office at once, Thornton,” said the bookkeeper, in a surly kind of voice, accompanied with a look which plainly showed that he was not particularly well disposed toward the boy.

“All right,” answered Vance, cheerily, turning toward the private office, on the door of which he knocked, and then entered on being told to come in.

“I hate him!” muttered Mr. Vyce, following the boy’s retreating figure with a dark scowl. “He’s a thorn in my path. He’s altogether too thick with Whitemore. I can’t understand what the old man sees in him. For the last three months I’ve noticed that my hold here is slipping away, and just when I need it the most. Just when things were coming my way, too. Now, with a fortune in sight, this boy is crowding me to the wall. Curse him! I can’t understand what it means. Is it possible Whitemore suspects me? Pshaw! Am I not an old and trusted employee? I’ve always been in his confidence to a large extent, but of late he has been keeping things from me—matters I ought to know—especially in reference to this deal he has on. Those corn options are on the point of expiring, and I expected ere this to have been sent West to settle with the elevator people and get the receipts, for corn is on the rise and the old man is ahead at this stage of the game. I strongly suspect he means to corner the market this time. He’s got the dust to attempt it with, and already he holds options on nearly half of the visible supply in Kansas and Nebraska, besides what he has stored here. There is no telling what he has been doing during the last thirty days, as not a word about corn has passed between us during that time. It’s not like Whitemore to act this way with me. Something is up, and by George! I’ll find out what it is.”

Mr. Vyce drove his pen savagely into a little glass receptacle filled with small shot and turned to the window again, after glancing at the clock.

Bessie Brown came out of the inner office with her notebook in her hand and sat down at her machine to transcribe her notes.

In a few moments Mr. Vyce came over to her desk and, taking up his station where he could catch a glance of what she was writing, remarked:

“Are you working overtime to-night, Miss Brown?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Vyce,” she said, covering the paper with her hands, “this is strictly confidential.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, between his teeth, altering his position. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

“I expect to be busy until six,” she replied, without looking at him.

“I have tickets for McVickar’s,” he continued. “Would you honor me with your company there this evening? It is not necessary that you return home to dress. We can dine at Palmer’s.”

“You must excuse me,” she replied, with a heightened color, “but I never go anywhere without my mother’s knowledge and permission.”

“But you went to the Auditorium two weeks ago with Thornton,” he said, in a tone of chagrin.

“Mr. Thornton asked mamma if I could go, and she consented.”

“You never invited me to call at your home, so I could become acquainted with your mother,” persisted Mr. Vyce, who was evidently jealous of the intimacy which existed between Vance and the young lady.

Bessie said nothing to this, but applied herself more attentively to her work.

“Aren’t you going to extend that privilege to me, Miss Brown?” he continued, fondling his heavy black mustache.

“Mr. Vyce, I am very busy just now,” she replied, with some embarrassment.

The bookkeeper gave her a savage glance and then walked away without another word.

Much to her relief, he soon put on his hat and left the office abruptly, shutting the door with a slam.

At the same moment Vance came out of the private office and stepped up beside the pretty typewriter.

She looked up with a smile and did not offer to hide from his gaze the long typewritten letter on which she was engaged.

Evidently there was nothing there Vance ought not to know.

“Will you please turn on the light, Vance?” she asked, sweetly, her fingers never leaving the keys for a moment.

“Certainly, Bessie,” he replied, with alacrity, raising his hand to the shaded electric bulb above her machine and turning the key, whereupon the slender wires burst into a white glow. “How much more have you to do?”

“Another page, almost,” she answered, with another quick glance into his bright, eager young face.

“I won’t be able to see you to the car to-night,” he said, regretfully.

That was a pleasure the young man had for some time appropriated to himself and Bessie as willingly accorded.

“You are going to stay downtown, then, for a while?” she asked.

“Yes; I shall be here for an hour yet, perhaps. After supper I’ve got to meet Mr. Whitemore in his rooms at the Grand Pacific. I’ve got to notify mother of the fact by telephone.”

Vance went over to the booth in the corner of the office and rang up a drug store in the vicinity of his home, on the North Side.

Outside the shades of night were beginning to fall.

From the windows of the office one could see directly up La Salle Street.

The cars, as they made the turn into or out of the street at the corner of Monroe, flashed their momentary glares of red and green lights, and filled the air continually with the jangle of their bells.

The sidewalks were filled with a dense crowd that poured out continually from the street entrances of the office buildings.

They streamed out of the brokers’ offices and commission houses on either side of La Salle Street, and the tide set toward the upper end of the thoroughfare, where stood the girders and cables of the La Salle Street bridge.

Vance took all this in with a brief survey from the window, after he had sent his message across the river.

“What do you think?” said Bessie, as he paused once more beside her. “Mr. Vyce asked me to go to the theatre with him to-night. Hasn’t he a cheek?”

“Of course you accepted?” said Vance with a grin.

“Of course I did no such thing,” she answered, pausing for an instant in her work, as she looked up with an indignant flush on her creamy cheeks. “You know better than that, Vance. You just want to provoke me,” with a charming pout.

“That’s right,” he answered, with a quiet chuckle, “but you mustn’t mind me.”

She smiled her forgiveness and went on with her work.

“There, that’s done,” she said, in a few moments, pushing back her chair. “I hope I haven’t made any mistakes,” as she rose to take the sheets into the inner office.

“No fear of that, I guess,” said the boy, encouragingly. “You’re about as accurate as they come, Bessie.”

She paused on the threshold of the door to flash him back a look of appreciation for the compliment and then disappeared within.

Presently she returned and started to put on her things.

“It looks a little bit like rain, doesn’t it?” she asked, glancing at the darkened sky, where not a star was visible.

“You can have my umbrella, if you wish,” Vance offered, “but I guess it won’t rain yet awhile.”

“Never mind; I’ll chance it. Good night, Vance.”

“Good night, Bessie,” and the outside door closed behind her.

Vance returned to his desk and proceeded to make copious extracts from a pile of pamphlets and reports he had taken from a closet.

In half an hour Mr. Whitemore came out of his sanctum with his hat on.

“You’d better go to supper now, Vance. Meet me promptly at eight o’clock at my rooms,” he said, “and bring everything with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Whitemore left, and the lad, making a bundle of his notes and such papers as he knew were wanted by his employer, turned out the electric lights and locked up the office.

He didn’t know it then, but this was the last time for many days he was to see the inside of the Rookery Building.

Nor did he dream of the tragedy that awaited his return to the office.

CHAPTER II.

BOUND WEST.

Vance went to a Clark Street restaurant and had supper.

It was all right, but the boy did not enjoy it as much as he would have done at home.

The Thorntons lived in a small house, one of a row, on the North Side, which Mrs. Thornton owned.

They had once been wealthy, for Mr. Thornton had at one time been a successful member of the Chicago Board of Trade.

But a few months before his death, which had occurred ten years previously, he had been caught in a short deal and squeezed.

He extricated himself at the cost of his entire fortune.

Everything was swept away except the one little house, the property of Mrs. Thornton, to which the family immediately moved, and a few thousand dollars banked in the wife’s name.

After Mr. Thornton’s death the widow devoted herself to her children, and when Vance graduated from the public school, she made application to Mr. Whitemore, with whom her husband had had business relations, for a position for her son in his office.

The application being made at a lucky moment, the lad was taken on, and had in every way proved himself worthy of Jared Whitemore’s confidence.

Promptly at eight o’clock Vance was shown up to Mr. Whitemore’s rooms in the Grand Pacific Hotel.

The corn operator was in his sitting-room before a table that was scattered over with papers and telegraph blanks.

It was a cool evening, but Jared Whitemore was in his shirt sleeves, and, although the windows were down at the top, his face was red and he was perspiring furiously.

A half-smoked cigar projected between his lips, and several discarded stumps lay on a lacquer tray that held one of the hotel pitchers of ice water.

“You have the government report on the visible supply in that bundle, have you?” asked Jared Whitemore, as soon as he became aware of the boy’s presence in the room.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me have it,” with an impatient gesture.

Vance had it before his employer in a twinkling.

“Your notes, please,” said the operator, after he had studied the report for several minutes.

The boy laid them before him.

“Put the pamphlets down there. Now, take the evening paper and go over there by the window and sit down.”

Vance did so, and there was perfect silence in the room for the next half hour, when it was broken by a knock on the door.

“See who that is,” almost snapped Whitemore, jerking his thumb in the direction of the entrance.

Vance found a telegraph boy outside, signed for the yellow envelope and brought it to his employer.

Two more dispatches arrived before the little marble clock on the mantel chimed the hour of nine.

Another half hour of almost perfect silence ensued, during which two more cigar stumps were added to the collection on the dish; and Vance was beginning to wonder why he was being held there by Mr. Whitemore, when the operator rose from his seat, mopped his forehead with his familiar bandana handkerchief and then sat down again.

“Vance.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the boy, springing up.

“Come here.”

The tones were short, sharp and incisive.

“Sit down here alongside of me.”

Vance obeyed this order with military promptness.

“When can you start for Omaha?”

“Sir!” said the boy, almost speechless from amazement.

“I asked you when you could leave for Omaha?” repeated the operator, brusquely.

“By the eight o’clock train in the morning, if you particularly wish it,” answered the astonished lad.

“Very well; make your arrangements to that effect. Now, Vance, I want to speak to you. Heretofore I have always closed my dealings with the elevator people through Mr. Vyce. For reasons which I need not discuss with you I am going to send you to do the business for me this time.”

The boy’s eyes expanded to the size of saucers at this information.

It simply meant a most remarkable expression of confidence on Mr. Whitemore’s part in his youthful office assistant.

Confidence not only in the boy’s business sagacity, but even more so in his integrity, for he would be obliged to handle checks signed in blank for a very large sum of money; just how large would, of course, depend on the amount of corn the options covered.

That it ran into several millions of bushels the lad already knew.

“I am taking this unusual course,” continued Mr. Whitemore, lighting a fresh cigar and regarding Vance keenly, “for several reasons. To begin with, since I started this deal I have in hand I have met with opposition from a most unexpected quarter. It could only have developed through information furnished by some one who had an insight to my plans. In order to test the accuracy of my suspicions in a certain direction I cut off all information from that quarter. The result has been confusion in the ranks of the opposition. I’m, therefore, convinced I can at any time put my finger on the traitor to my interests. To continue the further development of my scheme, I have decided to substitute you for Mr. Vyce, so far as the settlement of my Western corn options are concerned. During the last five or six weeks you have probably noticed that I have employed you on business of a confidential nature. This was to test you for the purpose I had in view. On one occasion I so arranged matters that you were forced to retain in your possession over Sunday a very large sum of money. I had no doubts as to your honesty, but I wished to see how you would proceed under the responsibility. The result was perfectly satisfactory to me. Vance, I knew your father well. We had many business dealings, and I found him a man on whom I could implicitly rely. I believe you are his duplicate.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Vance, gratefully, as Mr. Whitemore paused for a moment.

“Now to business. Here is a power of attorney, which will give you all the necessary authority to represent me on this Western trip. Here are your general instructions,” and he handed Vance the two typewritten pages Bessie Brown had executed just before she left the office for the night.

“You will go to Omaha first, thence to Kansas City, and so on. Here are letters of introduction addressed to the elevator firms. Some of them are personally acquainted with me. These are the vouchers for the options. You will insist on all settlements at the figures given in the options, which, as you will see, are below the market quotations. Now, as to the payments of the balances, here is a small check-book of the Chicago National Bank. I have made out and signed sixteen checks in blank, one of each payable to the order of the elevator firm; all you will have to do is to fill in the amount after the difference has been computed. Immediately after each settlement you will mail me by registered letter, care of the Chicago National Bank, the firm’s receipt for the amount of money represented by the check, together with the warehouse receipt. Now, read your instructions over carefully, and if there is anything you have to suggest, I will listen to you.”

Vance went over the two-page letter and found that it covered every emergency, so far as he could see.

The boy was especially directed to visit certain out-of-the-way places, where elevators, reported as disused or empty, were known to exist, and to ascertain by every artifice in his power whether any corn had been received there for storage during the past three months. This was one of the most important objects of his journey.

“Here are a couple of hundred dollars to cover incidental expenses,” said Mr. Whitemore, handing Vance a roll of bills. “I hardly need to tell you that I am reposing an almost unlimited confidence in your honor and business sagacity—a somewhat unusual thing to do with one so young as you. But I am rarely mistaken in my estimate of character, and I feel satisfied you will fill the bill to the letter. I may say right here that you have studied the corn market to advantage. Such details as I have asked you to look into for me you have gone over and reduced to practical results with astonishing clearness and dispatch for one of your years and limited experience with Board of Trade methods. You seem to be a born speculator, like your father. I have long wished to associate with me a young man of nerve and accurate foresight in whom I could thoroughly depend. You appear to combine all the qualities in question. On this trip you are bound to acquire knowledge of the most confidential nature—information that could not but seriously embarrass me if it became known to my business opponents. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Vance, with a serious face.

“You see how much I depend on your loyalty?”

“You need have no fear but I will fulfil your trust down to the smallest degree,” answered Vance, earnestly.

“I am sure of it, Vance. The proof of the pudding is that I am sending you West on this business. One thing your age, and, I hope, your wit and cautiousness, are particularly adapted to, and that is acquiring the information about the possible contents of those elevators reported to be empty. On the thoroughness of your report as regards these properties will depend one of my most important moves on the corn market.”

“I will find out the truth, if that be within the bounds of possibility.”

“Now, Vance, another thing. Your mother will naturally want to know where you are going, but it will be necessary for you to withhold that information, for I have an idea that as soon as your absence is noted at the office she will be approached on the subject by some one interested in tracing your movements. You will simply tell her you are going out of town on business for me and will be back in a few days. Do not write to any one in Chicago, not even your folks, while you are away. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Should you find it necessary to communicate with me at any time, call up Mr. Walcott, of the Chicago National Bank, on the long-distance telephone, and he will send for me.”

“Very well, sir.”

“I believe there is nothing further, so I will say good bye till I see you at the office after your return.”

“Good-bye, sir.”

Vance took up his hat, after carefully putting all the papers and the check-book of the Chicago National Bank in an inside pocket of his coat, and left the hotel.

When he reached home an hour later he duly astonished his mother and sister with the information that he was going out of town on business for his employer.

Of course the first thing they wanted to know was his destination.

“I am sorry, mother, I can’t tell you. Where I am going, as well as the object of the trip, is a business secret.”

“But we ought to know, Vance,” expostulated his pretty sister Elsie. “Unless you tell us we shall be worried to death about you.”

“Sorry, sis,” he replied, taking her face in his two hands and kissing her cherry-red, pouting lips; “but I am under strict orders not to say a word about it.”

“It’s real mean of you. You know neither mamma nor I would say a word if you told us not to,” she persisted, throwing her arms about his neck coaxingly.

“Don’t blame me, Elsie—blame the boss. Let me tell you one thing, dear. I feel sure this trip is the chance of my life. Mr. Whitemore as good as said so.”

And with that the gentle mother and loving sister had to be content.

Next morning Vance boarded a Pullman drawing-room car and left Chicago over the C. B. & Q. railroad for Omaha.

CHAPTER III.

TAKING UP THE OPTIONS.

Vance arrived at Omaha on the following morning and registered at the Great Western Hotel, where he had breakfast.

Then he went to the reading-room and looked over the papers, particularly noting the corn situation.

It was now time for him to be about his business.

He procured a large, oblong manilla envelope, in which he enclosed his letter of instruction, all but one of his letters of introduction, option vouchers and his check-book, and after removing a single specific check marked by a perforated capital “A,” he sealed up the package, addressed it to himself and deposited it in the hotel safe.

Then he sallied forth on the streets of Omaha.

The hotel clerk had directed him where to find the elevator buildings, which were located at various points along the river front.

He took a car to the nearest point and then inquired his way to the office of Flint, Peabody & Co., who controlled three of the elevators.

Their counting-room was in Elevator A.

“I should like to see Mr. Peabody,” he said to a clerk who asked him his business.

“He is busy at present. Take a seat.”

After waiting half an hour he was shown into the private office.

“Mr. Peabody?” asked Vance of a little, white-haired old gentleman seated at a mahogany desk alongside a window overlooking the Missouri river.

“Yes; what can I do for you?”

Vance handed him his card, in one corner of which was printed Jared Whitemore in small type.

“Mr. Thornton, eh?” exclaimed the busy head of the establishment, regarding him with some surprise as he sized him up from head to foot.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been expecting a representative of Mr. Whitemore, as those corn options expire at noon to-day. I am bound to say I looked for an older person than you. I presume you have a power of attorney to act for him?” said Mr. Peabody, holding out his hand.

Vance produced the paper, which the gentleman very carefully examined.

“How am I to know that you are really the person set forth in this document—that you are actually Mr. Whitemore’s representative? It may be a forgery, and you may be acting for people opposed to that gentleman’s interests,” said Mr. Peabody sharply.

“I have a letter of introduction which ought to cover that point,” answered Vance, promptly producing an envelope addressed to the person he was talking to.

“Hum!” said Mr. Peabody, glancing it over. “Seems to be all right. However, as his option is a large one covering grain in our three elevators, I’ve got to be careful. Excuse me a moment.”

“Are you going to call up Mr. Whitemore?” asked Vance as the gentleman rose from his desk.

“Why do you ask?” asked Mr. Peabody abruptly, casting a suspicious look at the boy.

“Because, for business reasons he expressly desires that you should call up Mr. Walcott of the Chicago National Bank and ask for him. He does not want any communication at his office direct.”

“Very well,” replied the gentleman, who easily surmised Mr. Whitemore’s reasons.

The elevator magnate entered a telephone booth at the end of the room and sat there a matter of fifteen minutes.

“I am satisfied that you are Mr. Whitemore’s representative,” he said as he reseated himself at his desk. “Now, young man, we will talk business. Of course you don’t expect me to close with you except at the market price?”

“I expect to settle with you at the price named in the option, less the amount paid to secure it,” said Vance promptly.

“You ought to know that corn is several points above the figure stated in the option. We cannot close on those terms.”

“Do I understand that you refuse to make a settlement of this transaction according to the terms of the option?” asked Vance, rising to his feet.

“Sit down, young man,” said the elevator magnate. “You have the voucher for the option with you, I suppose?”

“Certainly.”

“I should like to see it.”

“You are prepared to redeem the option now, are you?” and Mr. Peabody glanced at the clock, which indicated close on to the noon hour.

“Yes, sir.”

The gentleman considered the matter for several minutes, during which he cast penetrating looks at Vance’s clear-cut, determined face.

“Does Mr. Whitemore propose to hold this corn in storage here?”

“I have no instructions as to its immediate removal,” replied Vance; “that is all I can say.”

“Very well. Have you Mr. Whitemore’s check for the difference?”

“I have Mr. Whitemore’s signed check, made out to your order, which I will hand you as soon as the amount has been computed.”

“It is possible there will be a difference in our figures,” said Mr. Peabody, with a grim smile.

“That’s all right,” replied Vance, briskly. “The amount has been left to me to fill in.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Mr. Peabody, in a tone of surprise.

Vance repeated his remark.

“By George, young man, he seems to place implicit confidence in you!” and the head of the elevator firm once more looked Vance over, and with some curiosity.

Mr. Peabody, having decided to close up the transaction on the terms of the option, which he was legally bound to do, since Vance could not be bluffed into accepting less favorable ones, the differences were calculated, and the boy filled in the check designated as “A,” requesting a receipt for the amount, which was immediately made out and handed to him.

Mr. Whitemore thus became the owner of something over a million bushels of corn stored in elevators A, B, and C.

This completed Vance’s business in Omaha.

On his way back to the hotel he stopped at the postoffice, and forwarded to his employer, in care of the Chicago National Bank, the receipt for the money covered by the check.

Then he went to dinner, after which he spent an hour viewing some of the sights of the western city.

At four o’clock he took a cab for the Union Depot, bought a ticket for Kansas City, and took his seat in a Pullman sleeper.

He arrived at his destination about midnight, drove to one of the principal hotels and went to bed, after taking the precaution to deposit his valuable papers in the office safe.

There were three different elevator firms he had to visit in this city.

He presented himself at the first at ten o’clock.

Here his youth was also unfavorably commented on in a transaction which involved 600,000 bushels of grain, and the head of the firm was inclined to hold off, until Vance insisted that he should communicate with his employer in Chicago.

Not being able to get Mr. Walcott on the long-distance ’phone, Vance suggested that he call up Flint, Peabody & Co., of Omaha.

The gentleman, after some demur, consented to do this, being personally acquainted with Mr. Peabody, and the result of the confab was so satisfactory that Vance completed his business with him, getting a call on the corn, as the option did not expire until the next day.

At the offices of the other two elevators Vance had very little trouble, his power of attorney and letters of introduction being accepted without question, and no attempt being made to evade the terms of the option.

“That winds up this town,” he said in a tone of satisfaction as he left the last place. “It is easier than I expected. Now for the postoffice.”

He inquired the way there, purchased a stamped envelope, and sent off the three receipts by registered mail, according to his instructions.

“I’ve got lots of time now, as the next option at Grainville does not expire until Friday,” he reflected as he took a car for his hotel. “Guess I’ll take in a show to-night.”

He reached the hotel in time for lunch.

While he was in the dining-room a smart, dapper-looking young man entered the hotel rotunda and walked briskly up to the office counter.

Taking possession of the registry book, he glanced rapidly over the day’s arrivals.

His nervous finger-tips paused for an instant at Vance Thornton’s name, which, in clear handwriting, stood almost at the top of the first page.

The young man noted the number of the room to which the boy had been assigned, and then glanced sharply at the numbered pigeon-holes where the room keys were deposited.

“He’s here, all right,” he muttered, as he turned away with a singular smile, “and is not in his room. He reached here early this morning, as his name is right under the date. He ought to be an easy proposition for Sadie to work. I must have those corn options and whatever warehouse receipts he has secured. Old Whitemore was pretty slick to send this young chap instead of Vyce, whom we depended on. But the old fox is up against a crowd as slick as himself this time, and he’s going to be squeezed good and hard.”

Thus speaking to himself, the dapper young man pulled a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lit it.

Then he walked over and seated himself in a chair that commanded a view of the office.

CHAPTER IV.

MR. GUY DUDLEY.

The dapper young man had almost finished his cigar when Vance came into the rotunda from the dining-room.

The stranger recognized the boy at once, which was not at all surprising, since he had met Vance probably fifty times in Chicago in the course of business.

“Why, hello, Thornton!” he exclaimed, walking briskly up to the lad and extending his hand in a cordial manner; “this is a surprise. What brings you out west, eh?”

“Mr. Dudley!” ejaculated Vance, somewhat taken back by the encounter.

The circumstance annoyed him greatly.

“Pshaw!” said the dapper gentleman, whose age might have been twenty-three. “Why the handle? I’m Guy to my friends, don’t you know! Aren’t you going to shake?”

Common politeness compelled Vance to accept the young man’s hand, though it was with some reluctance.

“You’re about the last chap I’d have thought of meeting out here in Kansas, ‘pon my word,” continued Dudley, volubly. “But I’m deuced glad to see you, all the same.”

The reverse was the case with Vance, though of course he did not so express himself.

He was inclined to regard the meeting as unfortunate.

“I had no idea of seeing you here, either,” said Vance, with no great enthusiasm.

“I s’pose not,” said Dudley, showing his fine set of teeth with a sort of feline smile. “It’s always the unexpected what happens, don’t you know. Have a smoke?” and he offered Vance a cigar.

“Thank you, I don’t smoke.”

“Come over to the Criterion, then, and I’ll blow you off,” and Dudley grabbed him by the arm in a friendly way.

“You’ll have to excuse me. I do not drink,” replied Vance firmly.

“You don’t mean it, do you?” said Dudley, clearly disappointed. “A fellow can’t drink alone, don’t you know? Take a soda or a sarsaparilla—anything, just to seem social.”

The dapper young man did not appear inclined to be easily shaken off.

Vance hesitated, and Dudley, taking advantage of his momentary indecision, pressed him so strongly that the boy, not wishing to appear rude, agreed to accompany his undesirable acquaintance across the street to the swell establishment known as the Criterion.

“I’ve only just come to town,” said Guy Dudley as they ranged up alongside the mahogany bar, rather an unusual experience for Vance, who never frequented such places in Chicago. “You see, the governor, my father, you know, has a big interest in one of the flour mills out here, and as he couldn’t come himself, he sent me to look after a matter of importance which affects his control of the business.”

Vance nodded politely.

“I s’pose you’re here on business connected with your boss, Whitemore, eh?”

The speaker’s sharp eyes glinted curiously.

“What makes you think so?” asked Vance cautiously.

“Why, what else should bring you to Kansas City?”

“There might be several reasons other than what you suggested,” said Vance, sparring for a valid excuse to throw Guy Dudley off the track. “My father had business interests here before he died which were never settled.”

This was strictly a fact; though Vance knew very well that the matter at which he hinted was not in the slightest danger of ever being settled in his mother’s favor at that late day.

“You don’t say,” replied Dudley, an incredulous smile curling his lips.

“As to Mr. Whitemore,” added Vance, “my experience in his employ is that he is not accustomed to send a boy like me to execute important business.”

“That’s true,” winked Dudley, putting down the glass he had just drained; “but then one can never tell just what Whitemore may do. He’s as shrewd as they make them nowadays.”

To this remark Vance made no answer.

“How long are you going to stay in town?” said Guy Dudley, changing the subject.

“I may leave to-morrow and I may not,” replied his companion evasively.

“A short stay, eh? Well, you ought to make it a merry one. What are you going to do with yourself to-night?”

“I think I shall go to the theater,” said Vance carelessly.

“Just what I was going to propose,” said Dudley, with suppressed eagerness. “You must come with me. There is a good show at Hyde & Beaman’s. S’pose we go there?”

Vance was rather taken aback at this proposition.

He was not a bit anxious to go with Guy Dudley under the circumstances.

But to refuse his invitation without some good reason was sure to give offence, and Vance always considered it a wise policy not to make an enemy if he could avoid doing so.

So he accepted Dudley’s offer, much to the young man’s inward satisfaction, and then pleaded a business engagement to get rid of him.

The dapper young man, having accomplished all that he wanted for the present, made no further effort to press his society on Vance, hinting that he also had business to attend to; as indeed he had, but not of the nature he would have his boy acquaintance believe.

So they parted at the entrance to the Criterion, Dudley promising to call for him at his hotel at about half-past seven that evening.

Kansas City, Kansas, is a wideawake, lively town, and Vance Thornton spent several hours that afternoon wandering about the principal streets, an interested observer of western progress.

Promptly at seven-thirty Guy Dudley presented himself at the hotel office and inquired for Vance Thornton.

“Are you Mr. Dudley?” asked the clerk.

“That’s my name,” said the dapper young man airily.

“You will find Mr. Thornton in the reading-room.”

“Well, old man,” said Dudley, tapping Vance on the shoulder, where he sat looking over the copy of a current magazine, “I see you’re all ready and waiting. Just put on your coat and we’ll trot along.”

Vance donned his light overcoat and the pair left the hotel together.

“I s’pose you won’t indulge even to the extent of a cigarette?” said Dudley, pulling out a silver case and tendering it to the lad. “No? All right; bad practice, I know, but it’s one of my follies,” he said lightly as he lit a match and applied a light to a gold-rimmed cylinder of Turkish tobacco. “When one has a quantity of wild oats to sow the quicker he puts ’em under the ground the better,” he added with a laugh.

“You appear to be one of the boys,” said Vance, for want of something better to say.

“Yes, I make it a point to see my share of life occasionally,” the dapper young man admitted with a grin. “You don’t go around much, do you?” with a slight sneer.

“No,” said Vance with a shake of his head. “One needs to keep his wits clear in our line, and I don’t see how that can be done if you stay up three-quarters of the night chasing the elephant.”

“Pshaw! When a fellow wakes up in the morning feeling a bit rocky a dose of bromo-seltzer will fetch him around all right. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. If I didn’t take a run out of a night with the boys once in awhile I wouldn’t be worth shucks. You don’t know what you lose, old chap. Still, you’re young yet.”

“I believe in enjoying myself in a rational manner, Mr. Dudley,” said Vance. “Drinking and smoking and billiards and card-playing don’t quite fall in with my idea of a good time.”

“All right,” remarked Dudley carelessly; “every one to his taste. Well, here we are,” and he turned in at the entrance to Hyde & Beaman’s theater, followed by Vance.

Dudley had secured good seats in the orchestra, and as the performance was above the average Vance thoroughly enjoyed it.

“You don’t object to having a bite, do you?” asked Guy Dudley after the show.

“I don’t usually eat late at night,” replied Vance, “but I have no objection to joining you. Where will we go?”

“There’s a famous English chop-house on Blank street,” said the dapper young man, with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes; “we’ll take a cab and go there.”

“Why wouldn’t the place over the way do as well?” asked the boy. “It looks to be a first-class restaurant.”

“So it is, but it isn’t on a par with Bagley’s. They have a fine grill-room there, and though the bill of fare is limited, it’s English from A to Z. I guess you’ve never been in one of those establishments.”

“I don’t think I have,” admitted the boy.

“Then it will be my pleasure to introduce you to something worth while. Hi, there!” beckoning to a cab driver who sat muffled up on his box.

“Get in,” to Vance as the jehu sprang down and opened the cab door, and the boy allowed the accomplished Mr. Dudley to push him into the vehicle. “Bagley’s on Blank street,” said the dapper young man to the driver, and a moment later they were on their way to that notorious Kansas City resort.

Fifteen minutes later the cab drew up before the entrance to Bagley’s, a dingy looking building situated in a narrow alley off one of the business thoroughfares.

Vance had expected to see a brilliantly lighted establishment, with big plate glass windows and every sign of a high-toned restaurant.

The contrary was the case.

Not even a sign distinguished Bagley’s place from that of the other buildings in the vicinity, though a red light suspended over the door served to indicate that it had other uses than those of an ordinary dwelling.

A light rain was now falling, and before the boy had time to ask his companion if some mistake had not been made in the place Dudley opened the door and pushed him inside.

CHAPTER V.

THE PLOT THAT FAILED.

Vance found himself in a narrow, dimly-lighted hallway.

But before the sense of disappointment, not unmixed, perhaps, with a feeling of uneasiness, had time to assert itself, Dudley brushed by him and opened a door which admitted them to a long, low-ceiled room, painted a dull, smoky color, but brilliantly illuminated with many gas jets enclosed in colored globes, which threw a subdued and fantastic glow about the room.

There was a kitchen in the rear and a bar along one side near the door.

The rest of the room was taken up with round, well-polished mahogany tables of different sizes, for large or small parties.