Chapter XXIII: The Same Game

Miss Melba Gale, having occasion to consult her uncle about a household matter which required immediate attention, decided to visit him at his office.

As she neared the Chronicle Building, she encountered a fourteen-year-old boy who was sobbing as though his young heart were breaking.

Even if this boy had been a total stranger to Melba, the chances are that she would have stopped to inquire the cause of his unrestrained grief, for she was the most tender-hearted and sympathetic of girls. But the fact that she recognized him as Fred Carroll’s office boy, who had on several occasions been the bearer of missives from that young man to her, added greatly to her interest.

“Why, Miggsy,” she exclaimed, stepping up to the grief-stricken lad. “What is the matter?”

The weeping boy removed his knuckles from his eyes long enough to learn the identity of his fair interrogator.

“I want to die!” he wailed. “I’ve queered meself with the _Bulletin_, and I’ve been handed a lemon by the _Chronicle_. I want to die. It ain’t no use livin’ any more.”

Melba stared at him in astonishment, unable to make head or tail of this lament. Then she laid her small, gloved hand gently on his shoulder.

“Don’t be silly, Miggsy,” she said softly. “You mustn’t talk in that wild fashion. Come with me to the drug store across the street, and tell me all about it while we’re drinking an ice-cream soda.”

But Miggsy shook his head disconsolately. Ice-cream sodas, although he was exceedingly partial to them under other and happier circumstances, did not appeal to him in the slightest in his present state of mine.

“I tell you I don’t want to live no longer, Miss Gale,” he whined. “If it wasn’t that I’m such a good swimmer I’d go and throw myself into the river. Yes, indeed I would. I’ve lost me job on the _Bulletin_--maybe Carroll will send me to jail, too--and I’ve been double crossed by them welshers on the _Chronicle_. I don’t want no ice-cream soda, Miss Gale; but if you’ll do me a favor, and buy me a drink of carbolic acid, I’ll be much obliged.”

In spite of his evident distress, Melba could not help laughing at these desperate words.

Then, becoming serious again, she inquired, with an inflection of astonishment: “Do you really mean to say that Mr. Carroll has discharged you, Miggsy?”

“If he ain’t discharged me yet,” sobbed the boy, “he will when he finds out that them pictures have gone. I guess he’ll put the police on me tracks, too. I’m a fujertive from justice, that’s what I am, Miss Gale.”

By adroit questioning Melba managed to get his story. It was a great relief to him to confide his troubles to somebody, and he related the whole affair to the astonished and indignant girl.

When he had finished, Melba Gale’s pretty face was very grim. Her hands were clenched tightly and her eyes flashed.

“It’s an outrage!” she exclaimed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miggsy, for doing Mr. Carroll such a bad turn; but I realize that you were strongly tempted by those who have far more cause to feel ashamed of themselves; so I am going to ask Mr. Carroll to give you another chance.”

The boy shook his head despairingly. “He won’t do it. I double crossed the pape, and Carroll ain’t the sort to overlook a thing like that.”

“I’ll do my best to persuade him,” said Melba, with a confident smile. “If I fail--although I am quite sure I won’t--I’ll speak to my uncle, and insist upon his finding you a job on the _Chronicle_. So don’t worry, Miggsy. I’m sure that you’ll get employment in either one place or the other.”

Leaving Miggsy somewhat cheered by this assurance, she proceeded to the _Chronicle_ office, with the intention of telling her uncle and cousin in plain terms what she thought of their conduct.

She intended, too, to demand that they return the stolen negatives to the _Bulletin_; but she had no hope that her demand would be complied with.

However, she did not carry out these intentions; for, as she approached the door of her uncle’s private office, her ears caught a fragment of conversation which suggested to her a much better plan.

“I wonder who those fellows are?” the elder Gale was saying. “Their faces are not at all recognizable in the negatives. Just for curiosity’s sake, I think it would be worth while to have a print made of each of them.”

“Yes,” his son assented. “I must confess that I, too, am curious to see what they look like. Give me the films, governor, and I’ll go upstairs to the photo-engraving room, and have Michaels make some prints.”

It was these words, which came to her through the partially closed door, which gave Melba her daring idea.

Treading as noiselessly as possible, she hurriedly descended the short flight of stairs which led to the street, just in time to avoid being seen by her cousin, who came out of the private office, and went upstairs to the photo-engraving plant.

“Here, Michaels,” the latter said to the _Chronicle’s_ photo-engraver, “I want prints of these negatives just as quick as you can make them. They’re not to be made into cuts. We want merely the prints.”

The younger Gale did not wait upstairs in the photo-engraving room while the prints were being made. For failing to do so he afterward reproached himself bitterly. But not having the slightest suspicion of what was going to happen, he bade Michaels bring the pictures to him as soon as they were done, and went downstairs to rejoin his father.

It was more than an hour later that the latter remarked: “How about those prints, my son? It seems to me it is taking Michaels an awful time to get them out.”

“By Jove, that’s right!” exclaimed the other. “I had forgotten all about them. I’ll go upstairs and see how he’s getting along.”

Michaels looked at him in astonishment when he inquired about the prints. “How do you expect me to make them, Mr. Gale,” he said, “when you’ve got the negatives downstairs?”

“What’s that?” exclaimed Gale. “Got the negatives downstairs! What the dickens are you talking about, Michaels? I handed them to you over an hour ago.”

“Sure you did, Mr. Gale; but you took them back again five minutes afterward.”

Gale frowned. “You don’t look drunk, Michaels, but you certainly talk like it,” he said indignantly. “You know very well that I was only up here once. What do you mean by saying that I took these films back again?”

“Well, I don’t mean that you came yourself, but you sent for them, which is the same thing,” rejoined the photo-engraver. “You don’t mean to say that you didn’t send your cousin, Miss Gale, up here for them?”

Gale’s face turned pale. “I certainly did not!” he gasped. “Do you mean to tell me that she was up here?”

“She certain was, sir--five minutes after you went down.”

“And asked for the pictures?”

“Sure thing. Is anything wrong, Mr. Gale?”

“Anything wrong! I should say there was!” snapped Gale. “You careless fool! Don’t you know better than to hand out negatives to any Tom, Dick, or Harry that comes here and asks for them? What kind of a system have you got in this place, anyway?”

The photo-engraver’s face darkened. “See here, young feller, don’t you be calling names. I don’t hand out negatives to any Tom, Dick, or Harry; but if the boss’ niece comes up here, and says that she’s been sent for the pictures, you don’t suppose I’m going to put her through a cross-examination before I give ’em to her, do you? What’s this all mean, anyway? I don’t understand it at all.”

Gale didn’t stop to enlighten him. Muttering something under his breath, he turned on his heel and hurried downstairs to his father’s office.

“Seen anything of Melba, governor?” he demanded.

“Not since breakfast time. Why do you ask?”

“Simply to hear myself talk, I guess,” said Gale, with an angry laugh. “I might have known that you hadn’t seen her. She took jolly good care, of course, to avoid being seen by either one of us.”

“Why, my son, what on earth is the matter?” exclaimed the proprietor of the _Chronicle_ uneasily.

“The matter is that we’ve been stung--stung by that precious niece of yours. Those negatives are not upstairs.”

“Not upstairs?” echoed the elder Gale, with a look of blank bewilderment. “Then where are they?”

His son laughed grimly. “I guess they’re in the _Bulletin’s_ photo-engraving room at this moment, being made into cuts for to-morrow morning’s paper. Melba has worked the same game on us that that kid worked on Carroll.”