Joe the Hotel Boy; Or, Winning out by Pluck. Alger Horatio Jr.

way, Joe, you once spoke to me about—well, about yourself,” went on Ned, after some hesitation. “Did you ever learn anything more? You need not tell me if you don’t care to.”

      At these words Joe’s face clouded for an instant.

      “No, I haven’t learned a thing more, Ned.”

      “Then you don’t really know if you are the hermit’s nephew or not?”

      “Oh, I think I am, but I don’t know whatever became of my father.”

      “Does the hermit think he is alive?”

      “He doesn’t know, and he hasn’t any means of finding out.”

      “Well, if I were you, I’d find out, some way or other.”

      “I’m going to find out—some day,” replied Joe. “But, to tell the truth, I don’t know how to go at it. Uncle Hiram doesn’t like to talk about it. He thinks my father did wrong to go away. I imagine they had a quarrel over it.”

      “Has he ever heard from your father since?”

      “Not a word.”

      “Did he write?”

      “He didn’t know where to write to.”

      “Humph! It is certainly a mystery, Joe.”

      “You are right, Ned; and as I said before, I am going to solve it some time, even if it takes years of work to do it,” replied the hermit’s boy.

      CHAPTER II

      A MYSTERIOUS CONVERSATION

      The old hunting lodge where the two boys had sought shelter was a rambling affair, consisting of a square building built of logs, and half a dozen wings, running to the rear and to one side. There were also two piazzas, and a shed, where wood had been kept for winter use.

      “In another year or two this old lodge will fall down,” remarked Ned, as he gazed around him.

      “It must have been a nice place in its day,” returned Joe. “What a pity to let it run down in this fashion.”

      “The rain is coming around on this side now, Joe; let us shift to the other.”

      The hermit’s boy was willing, and watching their chance, between the downpours, they ran around to another portion of the old lodge.

      “It certainly is a little better here,” observed Joe, as he dashed the water from his cap.

      A minute later the rumbling of the thunder ceased for the time being, and they heard a murmur of voices coming from one of the rooms of the lodge.

      “Why, somebody must be here!” ejaculated Ned. “Who can it be?”

      “Two men, by their voices,” answered the hermit’s boy. “Wait till I take a look at them?”

      “Why not go in?” questioned the rich youth, carelessly.

      “They may not be persons that we would care to meet, Ned. You know there are some undesirable characters about the lake.”

      “That’s true.”

      Not far off was a narrow window, the panes of glass of which had long since been broken out. Moving toward this, Joe peered into the apartment beyond.

      Close to an old fireplace, in which a few sticks of half-green timber were burning, sat two men. Both were well dressed, and Joe rightfully surmised that they were from the city. Each wore a hunting outfit and had a gun, but neither had any game.

      “We came on a wild-goose chase,” grumbled one, as he stirred the fire. “Got nothing but a soaking for our pains.”

      “Never mind, Malone,” returned the other, who was evidently the better educated of the two. “As we had to make ourselves scarce in the city this was as good a place to come to as any.”

      “Don’t you think they’ll look for us here?”

      “Why should they? We were sharp enough not to leave any trail behind—at least, I was.”

      “Reckon I was just as sharp, Caven.”

      “You had to be—otherwise you would have been nabbed.” Gaff Caven chuckled to himself. “We outwitted them nicely, I must say. We deserve credit.”

      “I’ve spent more than half of what I got out of the deal,” went on Pat Malone, for such was the full name of one of the speakers.

      “I’ve spent more than that. But never mind, my boy, fortune will favor us again in the near future.”

      A crash of thunder drowned out the conversation following, and Joe hurried back to where he had left Ned.

      “Well, have you found out who they are?” demanded the rich youth, impatiently.

      “No, Ned, but I am sure of one thing.”

      “What is that?”

      “They are two bad men.”

      “What makes you think that?”

      “They said something about having to get out of the city, and one spoke about being nabbed. Evidently they went away to avoid arrest.”

      At this announcement Ned Talmadge whistled softly to himself.

      “Phew! What shall we do about it?” he asked, with a look of concern on his usually passive face.

      Joe shrugged his shoulders.

      “I don’t know what to do.”

      “Let us listen to what they have to say. Maybe we’ll strike some clew to what they have been doing.”

      “Would that be fair—to play the eaves-dropper?”

      “Certainly—if they are evildoers. Anybody who has done wrong ought to be locked up for it,” went on Ned boldly.

      With caution the two boys made their way to the narrow window, and Ned looked in as Joe had done. The backs of the two men were still towards the opening, so the lads were not discovered.

      “What is this new game?” they heard the man called Malone ask, after a peal of thunder had rolled away among the mountains.

      “It’s the old game of a sick miner with some valuable stocks to sell,” answered Gaff Caven.

      “Have you got the stocks?”

      “To be sure—one thousand shares of the Blue Bell Mine, of Montana, said to be worth exactly fifty thousand dollars.”

      “Phew! You’re flying high, Gaff!” laughed Pat Malone.

      “And why not, so long as I sell the stocks?”

      “What did they cost you?”

      “Well, they didn’t cost me fifty thousand dollars,” and Gaff Caven closed one eye suggestively.

      “You bet they didn’t! More than likely they didn’t cost you fifty dollars.”

      “What, such elegantly engraved stocks as those?”

      “Pooh! I can buy a bushel-basket full of worthless stocks for a dollar,” came from Pat Malone. “But that isn’t here nor there. I go into the deal if you give me my fair share of the earnings.”

      “I’ll give you one-third, Pat, and that’s a fair share, I think.”

      “Why not make it half?”

      “Because I’ll do the most of the work. It’s no easy matter to find a victim.” And Gaff Caven laughed broadly. He had a good-appearing face, but his eyes were small and not to be trusted.

      “All right, I’ll go in for a third then. But how soon is the excitement to begin?”

      “Oh, in a week or so. I’ve got the advertisements in the papers already.”

      “Not in New York?”

      “No, it’s Philadelphia this time. Perhaps I’ll land one of our Quaker friends.”

      “Don’t