"She ought not to treat a stranger better than her own nephew."

"That means me, I judge," said Warner, smiling. "Well, there isn't anything we can do about it, is there?"

"No, I don't know as there is," replied Harold, slowly.

But he thought over what his uncle had told him, and it made him very bitter. He brooded over it till it seemed to him as if it were a great outrage. He felt that he was treated with the greatest injustice. He was incensed with his aunt, but still more so with Luke Walton, whom he looked upon as an artful adventurer.

It was while he was cherishing these feelings that a great temptation came to him. He found, one day in the street, a bunch of keys of various sizes attached to a small steel ring. He picked it up, and quick as a flash there came to him the thought of the drawer in his aunt's work table, from which he had seen her take out the morocco pocketbook. He had observed that the ten-dollar bill she gave him was only one out of a large roll, and his cupidity was aroused. He rapidly concocted a scheme by which he would be enabled to provide himself with money, and throw suspicion upon Luke.

CHAPTER XXIX

HAROLD'S THEFT

The next morning, Mrs. Merton, escorted by Luke, went to make some purchases in the city. Mrs. Tracy went out, also, having an engagement with one of her friends living on Cottage Grove Avenue. Harold went out directly after breakfast, but returned at half-past ten. He went upstairs and satisfied himself that except the servants, he was alone in the house.

"The coast is clear," he said, joyfully. "Now if the key only fits."

He went to his aunt's sitting room, and, not antic.i.p.ating any interruption, directed his steps a once to the small table, from a drawer in which he had seen Mrs. Merton take the morocco pocketbook.

He tried one key after another, and finally succeeded in opening the drawer. He drew it out with nervous anxiety, fearing that the pocket-book might have been removed, in which case all his work would have been thrown away.

But no! Fortune favored him this time, if it can be called a favor.

There, in plain sight, was the morocco pocketbook. Harold, pale with excitement, seized and opened it. His eyes glistened as he saw that it was well filled. He took out the roll of bills, and counted them.

There were five ten-dollar bills and three fives--sixty-five dollars in all. There would have been more, but Mrs. Merton, before going out, had taken four fives, which she intended to use.

It was Harold's first theft, and he trembled with agitation as he thrust the pocketbook into his pocket. He would have trembled still more if he had known that his mother's confidential maid and seamstress, Felicie Lacouvreur, had seen everything through the crevice formed by the half-open door.

Felicie smiled to herself as she moved noiselessly away from her post of concealment.

"Master Harold is trying a dangerous experiment," she said to herself.

"Now he is in my power. He has been insolent to me more than once, as if he were made of superior clay, but Felicie, though only a poor servant, is not, thank Heaven, a thief, as he is. It is a very interesting drama. I shall wait patiently till it is quite played out."

In his hurry, Harold came near leaving the room with the table drawer open. But he bethought himself in time, went back, and locked it securely. It was like shutting the stable door after the horse was stolen. Then, with the stolen money in his possession, he left the house. He did not wish to be found at home when his aunt returned.

Harold had sixty-five dollars in his pocket--an amount quite beyond what he had ever before had at his disposal--but it must be admitted that he did not feel as happy as he had expected. If he had come by it honestly--if, for instance, it had been given him--his heart would have beat high with exultation, but as it was, he walked along with clouded brow. Presently he ran across one of his friends, who noticed his discomposure.

"What's the matter, Harold?" he asked. "You are in the dumps."

"Oh, no," answered Harold, forcing himself to a.s.sume a more cheerful aspect. "I have no reason to feel blue."

"You are only acting, then? I must congratulate you on your success.

You look for all the world like the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance."

"Who is he?" asked Harold, who was not literary.

"Don Quixote. Did you never hear of him?"

"No."

"Then your education has been neglected. What are you going to do to-day?"

"I don't know."

"Suppose we visit a dime museum?"

"All right."

"That is, if you have any money. I am high and dry."

"Yes, I have some money."

They went to a dime museum on Clark Street.

Harold surprised his companion by paying for the two tickets out of a five-dollar bill.

"You're flush, Harold," said his friend. "Has anybody left you a fortune?"

"No," answered Harold, uneasily. "I've been saving up money lately."

"You have? Why, I've heard of your being at theaters, playing billiards, and so on."

"Look here, Robert Greve, I don't see why you need trouble yourself so much about where I get my money."

"Don't be cranky, Harold," said Robert, good-humoredly, "I won't say another word. Only I am glad to find my friends in a healthy financial condition. I only wish I could say the same of myself."

There happened to be a matinee at the Grand Opera House, and Harold proposed going. First, however, they took a nice lunch at Brockway & Milan's, a mammoth restaurant on Clark Street, Harold paying the bill.

As they came out of the theater, Luke Walton chanced to pa.s.s.

"Good-afternoon, Harold," he said.

Harold tossed his head, but did not reply.

"Who is that boy--one of your acquaintances?" asked Robert Greve.

"He works for my aunt," answered Harold. "It is like his impudence to speak to me."

"Why shouldn't he speak to you, if you know him?" said Robert Greve, who did not share Harold's foolish pride.

"He appears to think he is my equal," continued Harold.

"He seems a nice boy."

"You don't know him as I do. He is a common newsboy."

"Suppose he is; that doesn't hurt him, does it?"