not to have anything to do with his scheme."
"He was very plausible."
"Yes, he made everything look right on paper. That is easy enough. But mining companies are risky things always. I once got taken in to the tune of five thousand dollars, but it taught me a lesson. So I was not particularly impressed with the brilliant prospectus of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, in spite of its high-sounding name, and its promised dividend of thirty per cent. Depend upon it, James Wall and his confederates will pocket all the dividends that are made."
"Very likely you are right. But it may be that Wall really believed there is a good chance of making money."
"Of course he did, but he was determined to make the money for himself, and not for the stockholders."
"I might have been tempted to invest, but all my money was locked up at the time, and I could not have done so without borrowing the money, and that I was resolved not to do."
"It was fortunate for you that you didn't, for the bubble has already burst."
"Is it possible? I was not aware of that."
"I thought you knew it. The news is in this morning's paper. There will be many losers. By the way, I hear that Mr. Conrad, of Willoughby, was largely interested."
"Then, of course, he is a heavy loser. Can he stand it?"
"I am in doubt on that point. He is a rich man, but for all that he may have gone in beyond his means."
"I am sorry for him, but that was reckless."
"Yes, he was completely taken in by Wall. He's a smooth fellow."
Walter had listened with languid attention; still, however, gathering the meaning of what was said until the mention of his father's name roused him, and then he listened eagerly, and with a sudden quickening of the pulse. He instantly connected the idea of what he had heard with his father's sudden illness, and naturally associated the two together.
"My father has heard of the failure of the company, and that has made him sick," he thought.
Though this implied a double misfortune, it relieved his anxiety a little. It supplied a cause for his father's illness. He had been afraid that his father had met with some accident, perhaps of a fatal nature. But if he had become ill in consequence of heavy losses, it was not likely that the illness was a very severe one.
He thought of speaking to the gentlemen, and making some further inquiries about the Mining Company and Mr. James Wall, but it occurred to him that his father might not like to have him pry into his affairs, and he therefore refrained.
When the gentlemen left the cars, he saw one of them had left a morning paper lying in the seat. He picked it up, and examined the columns until his eyes fell upon the following paragraph:—
"The failure of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company proves to be a disastrous one. The assets will not be sufficient to pay more than five per cent. of the amount of the sums invested by the stockholders, possibly not that. There must have been gross mismanagement somewhere, or such a result could hardly have been reached. We understand that the affairs of the company are in the hands of assignees who are empowered to wind them up. The stockholders in this vicinity will await the result with anxiety."
"That looks rather discouraging, to be sure," thought Walter. "I suppose father will lose a good deal. But I'll tell him he needn't worry about me. I shan't mind being poor, even if it comes to that. As long as he is left to me, I won't complain."
Walter became comparatively cheerful. He felt convinced that loss of property was all that was to be apprehended, and with the elastic spirits of youth he easily reconciled himself to that. He had never had occasion to think much about money. All his wants had been provided for with a lavish hand. He had, of course, seen poor people, but he did not realize what poverty meant. He had even thought at times that it must be rather a pleasant thing to earn one's own living. Still he did not apprehend that he would have to do this. His father might have lost heavily, but probably not to such an extent as to render this necessary.
So the time passed until, about half-past eleven o'clock, the cars stopped at Willoughby station.
The station was in rather a lonely spot,—that is, no houses were very near. Walter did not stop to speak to anybody, but, on leaving the cars, carpet-bag in hand, jumped over a fence, and took his way across the fields to his father's house. By the road it would have been a mile, but it was scarcely more than half a mile by the foot-path.
So it happened that he reached home without meeting a single person. He went up the door-way to the front door and rang the bell.
The door was opened by Nancy Forbes, the house-keeper, whose name was appended to the telegram.
"So it's you, Master Walter," she said. "I am glad you are home, but it's a sad home you're come to."
"Is father very sick, then?" asked Walter, turning pale.
"Didn't anybody tell you, then?"
"Tell me what?"
"My dear child, your father died at eight o'clock this morning."
CHAPTER III.
AT HOME
It was a terrible shock to Walter,—this sudden announcement of his father's death. When he had left home, Mr. Conrad seemed in his usual health, and he could not realize that he was dead. The news stunned him, and he stood, pale and motionless, looking into the house-keeper's face.
"Come in, Master Walter, come in, and have a cup of hot tea. It'll make you feel better."
A cup of hot tea was Nancy's invariable remedy for all troubles, physical or mental.
"Tell me about it, Nancy; I—I can't think it's true. It's so sudden."
"That's the way I feel too, Master Walter. And only yesterday morning, too, he looked just as usual. Little did I think what was to be."
"When was he first taken sick?"
Walter had seated himself on a chair in the hall, and waited anxiously for an answer.
"I didn't notice nothing till last night just after supper. Richard went to the post-office and got your father's letters. When they came he took 'em into the library, and began to read them. There was three, I remember. It was about an hour before I went into the room to tell him the carpenter had called about repairing the carriage-house. When I came in, there lay your poor father on the carpet, senseless. He held a letter tight in his hand. I screamed for help. Mr. Brier, the carpenter, and Richard came in and helped me to lift up your poor father, and we sent right off for the doctor."
"What did the doctor say?"
"He said it was a paralytic stroke,—a very bad one,—and ordered him to be put to bed directly. But it was of no use. He never recovered, but breathed his last this morning at eight o'clock. The doctor told me I must telegraph to your teacher; and so I did."
"Nancy, have you got that letter which my father was reading?"
"Yes, Master Walter, I put it in my pocket without reading. I think there must have been bad news in it."
She drew from her pocket a letter, which she placed in Walter's hands. He read it hastily, and it confirmed his
