“Oh, my God, they never shall! Polly,
you’ve saved me from a crime, and I’ll
bless you for it always. Now we know what to
do. We’ll place them reverently away,
and he shall never know.”
The young Lord Berkeley, with the fresh air of freedom
in his nostrils, was feeling invincibly strong for
his new career; and yet—and yet—if
the fight should prove a very hard one at first, very
discouraging, very taxing on untoughened moral sinews,
he might in some weak moment want to retreat.
Not likely, of course, but possibly that might happen.
And so on the whole it might be pardonable caution
to burn his bridges behind him. Oh, without
doubt. He must not stop with advertising for
the owner of that money, but must put it where he
could not borrow from it himself, meantime, under
stress of circumstances. So he went down town,
and put in his advertisement, then went to a bank
and handed in the $500 for deposit.
“What name?”
He hesitated and colored a little; he had forgotten
to make a selection. He now brought out the first
one that suggested itself:
“Howard Tracy.”
When he was gone the clerks, marveling, said:
“The cowboy blushed.”
The first step was accomplished. The money was
still under his command and at his disposal, but the
next step would dispose of that difficulty. He
went to another bank and drew upon the first bank for
the 500 by check. The money was collected and
deposited a second time to the credit of Howard Tracy.
He was asked to leave a few samples of his signature,
which he did. Then he went away, once more proud
and of perfect courage, saying:
“No help for me now, for henceforth I couldn’t
draw that money without identification, and that is
become legally impossible. No resources to fall
back on. It is work or starve from now to the
end. I am ready—and not afraid!”
Then he sent this cablegram to his father:
“Escaped unhurt from burning hotel. Have
taken fictitious name. Goodbye.”
During the, evening while he was wandering about in
one of the outlying districts of the city, he came
across a small brick church, with a bill posted there
with these words printed on it: “Mechanics’
club debate. All invited.”
He saw people, apparently mainly of the working class,
entering the place, and he followed and took his seat.
It was a humble little church, quite bare as to ornamentation.
It had painted pews without cushions, and no pulpit,
properly speaking, but it had a platform. On
the platform sat the chairman, and by his side sat
a man who held a manuscript in his hand and had the
waiting look of one who is going to perform the principal
part. The church was soon filled with a quiet
and orderly congregation of decently dressed and modest
people. This is what the chairman said:
