He stood over Boyne, arguing, promising, urging, and the young man,
at last, sweating, flushed, trembling, bent over his documents, sorted
them, and made up his records.
"We'll send on a copy to the office of the Vose line by registered
mail," commanded Fogg. "Attest it as a copy of the true record by
notary. When it drops in on 'em I will be there, with my directors and
my little story--and the face of Uncle Vose will be worth looking at,
though his language may not be elevating. You come out with me, Boyne.
I'm going to the telegraph office."
"But I must get in touch at once with Mr. Franklin's family--offer my
services," pleaded the clerk.
"There isn't a thing you can do right now," snapped the masterful
gentleman from New York. "I suggest that you close the office. Send the
girl home. You should do that much out of respect to your employer's
memory."
Ten minutes later the record had been mailed and the flustered Boyne
was trotting around town with Mr. Fogg. The latter seemed to have a
tremendous amount of business on his hands. He hired a cab and was
hustled yon and thither, leaving the young man in the vehicle, with
instructions to stay there, whenever a stop was made. But at last Mr.
Fogg returned from an errand with some very tangible results. He put a
packet of bank-notes into Boyne's shaking hands.
"Did you ever see as much real money before, my son?" asked Fogg,
genially. "That's your five thousand. And here's five hundred toward
that expense money we promised. I'm suggesting that you leave town
to-night. Tuck that cash away on yourself and duck out of sight."
Having secured the money and placed that powerful argument in the young
man's hands, Mr. Fogg's hurry and anxiety seemed to be over. When he had
seen the packet buttoned inside Boyne's coat he smiled.
"The trade is clinched and the job is done, son, and I feel sure that,
being a healthy young American citizen with plenty of cash to pay your
way, you're not going to let go that cash nor do any foolish squealing."
"I've gone too far to back out," admitted Boyne, patting the outside of
his coat. "But it seems like a dream."
"I've heard a little piece of good news while I've been running
around--forgot to tell you," said Fogg, in a matter-of-fact way.
"That fool attendant at the hospital must have misunderstood me, or I
misunderstood him. Franklin isn't dead."