Porton,” said our hero.
“A good idea, Dave. But see here! How are they going to tell him from you?” and the senator’s son chuckled. “You may come along some day and they may hold you, thinking you are Porton.”
“I thought of that, Roger, and I’ll leave each of them my signature on a card. I know that Ward Porton doesn’t write as I do.”
This idea was followed out, the boys spending the best part of an hour in going around Coburntown. Then they drove back to Crumville, and there Dave visited some other establishments with which he was in the habit of doing business.
All the storekeepers were much interested in what he had to tell, and all readily agreed to have Ward Porton detained if he should show himself. At each place Dave left his signature, so that there might be no further mistake regarding his identity.
After that several days passed quietly. Both Dave and Roger were applying themselves to their studies, and as a consequence saw little of Ben except in the evenings, when all the young folks would get together for more or less of a good time.
“Any more news about that fortune in Chicago?” asked Dave, one evening of the Basswood lad.
“Not very much,” answered Ben. “Father telegraphed that he was hunting for some things that belonged to Mr. Enos. He said that as soon as he found them he would tell us all about it.”
“That certainly is a strange state of affairs.”
“Strange? I should say it was!” cried the other. “Mother and I are just dying to know what it all means. One thing is certain–Mr. Enos did not leave his fortune in stocks or bonds or real estate, or anything like that.”
On the following day came additional trouble for Dave in the shape of a communication from a hotel-keeper in Coburntown. He stated that he had heard through Asa Dickley that Dave was having trouble with a party who was impersonating him, and added that a person calling himself Dave Porter was owing him a bill of fifteen dollars for five days’ board.
“Isn’t this the limit?” cried Dave, as he showed the letter to his father and his Uncle Dunston.
“No use in talking, Dave, we’ll have to get after that rascal,” announced the father. “If we don’t, there is no telling how far he’ll carry this thing. I think I’ll put the authorities on his track.”
Two days after that, and while Dave was continuing his studies as diligently as ever, came word over the telephone from Clayton.
“Is this you, Dave Porter?” came over the wire.
“Yes,” answered our hero. “Who are you?”
“This is Nat Poole talking. I am up here in Clayton–in the First National Bank. You know my father got me a job here last week.”
“No, I didn’t know it, Nat. But I’m glad to hear you have something to do, and I hope you’ll make a success of it,” returned Dave promptly.
“I called you up to find out if you were in Clayton,” continued the son of the money lender. “I wanted to make sure of it.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m right here at home, Nat.”
“Then, in that case, I want to tell you that the fellow who looks like you is here.”
“Where do you mean–in the bank?”
“Well, he came in here to get a five-dollar bill changed. I happened to see him as he was going out and I called to him, thinking it was you. When I called he seemed to get scared, and he got out in a hurry. Then I happened to think about that fellow who looked like you, and I made up my mind I’d call you up.”
“How long ago since he was in the bank?” questioned Dave, eagerly.
“Not more than ten minutes ago. I tried to get you sooner but the wire was busy.”
“You haven’t any idea where he went?”
“No, except that he started down the side street next to the bank, which, as maybe you know, runs towards the river.”
“All right, Nat. Thank you very much for what you’ve told me. I want to locate that fellow if I possibly can. He is a swindler, and if you clap eyes on him again have him arrested,” added Dave; and this Nat Poole promised to do.
The news over the wire excited Dave not a little. Of the men of the household, only old Professor Potts was in, and he, of course, could not assist in the matter. Dave at once sought out Mrs. Wadsworth and told her of what he had heard.
“I think I’ll drive to Clayton and see if I can locate Porton,” he added. “Roger says he will go with me.”
“Do as you think best, Dave,” answered the lady of the house. “But do keep out of trouble! This Ward Porton may prove to be a dangerous character if you attempt to corner him.”
“I think Roger and I can manage him, if only we can find him,” returned the youth.
Once more the black horse and the cutter were brought into service, and the two youths made the best possible time on the snowy highway that led through Coburntown to Clayton. Arriving there, they called at the bank and interviewed Nat Poole.
“If what you say about Porton is true he certainly must be a bad one–almost as bad as Merwell and Jasniff,” was the comment of the money lender’s son. “I certainly hope you spot him and bring him to book. That’s the way he went the last I saw of him,” he added, pointing down the side street.
Dave and Roger drove down the street looking to the right and the left for a possible sight of Ward Porton. But their search was doomed to disappointment for the moving-picture actor was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s a good deal like looking for a needle in a haystack,” was the comment of the senator’s son, after a full hour had been spent in the hunt.
They had left the sleigh and had walked around a number of mills and tenement houses which were situated in that locality.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Dave, as several children approached them. “I’m going to ask the youngsters if they’ve seen a young man who looks like me.”
The first boys and girls to whom the subject was broached shook their heads and declared they had seen nobody that resembled Dave. Then our hero and his chum passed on to other children, and finally to some men working around a newly-constructed tenement.
“Why sure! I saw a young feller wot looked like you,” said a youth who was piling up some lumber. “He ast me fer a match. Say! he looked like he could have been your twin,” he added in wonder; and then continued suddenly: “Maybe youse is playin’ a trick on me, and it was youse got the match?”
“No, I never met you before,” answered Dave, quickly. “When did you meet the other fellow, and where? I am very anxious to locate him.”
“It was down on de bridge, about an hour ago. I was comin’ dis way, and he was goin’ de udder way.”
“Was he smoking a cigarette?” asked Roger.
“He had one o’ de coffin-nails in his hand and he lit up after I given him de match.”
“Did
