Storyteller.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 30, 28 October 1893, Page 13

Storyteller.

OUT OF A PIONEER’S TRUNK.

(By Brtct Hakte.)

It was a slightly cynical, but fairly good humoured crowd that had gathered before a wai-ehouse on Long Wharf in Man Francisco, one afternoon in the summer of *sl. Although the occasion was an auction, the bidders’ chances more thau usually hazardous, and the season and locality famous for reckless speculation, there was scarcely any excitement among the bystanders, and a lazy, halfhumorous curiosity seemed to have taken the place of any zeal for gain. It was an auction of unclaimed trunks and boxes—the personal luggage of early emigrants—which had been left on storage in hulk or warehouse at Man Francisco, while the owner was seeking- his fortune in the mines. The difficulty and expense of transport, often obliging the goldseeker to make part of his journey on foot, restricted him to the smallest impedimenta , and that of a kind not often found in the luggage of ordinary'civilisation. As a consequence, during the emigration of ’49, he was apt on binding to avail himself of the invitation usually displayed on some of the doors of the rude hostelries on the shore : “ Kest for the Weary and Storage for Tranks.” In a majority of cases he never returned to claim his stored property. Enforced absence, protracted equally by good or evil fortune, accumulated the high storage charges until they > usually far exceeded the actual value of the goods ; sickness, further emigration, or death also reduced the number of possible claimants, and that more wonderful human f. aTty—absolute forgebfuLus of deposited possessions—combined together to leave the bulk of the property in the custodian’s hands. Under an understood agreement they were always sold at public auction after a given time. Although the contents of some of the trunks were exposed, it was found more in keeping with the public sentiment to sell the trunks unlocked and u7v>p&ned. The element of curiosity was kept up from time to time by the incautious disclosures of the lucky or unlucky purchaser, and genera 1 bidding- thus encouraged —except when the speculator, with true gambling instinct, gave no indication in his face of what was drawn in this lottery. Generally, however, some suggestionin the exterior of the trunk, a label or initials, ; some conjectural knowledg-e of its former owner, or the idea that he might he secretly present in the hope of getting his property hack for less than the accumulated dues, kept up the bidding and in-, tires' - . A modest-looking, well-worn portman 1 eau had been just put up at a small opening hid, when Tlarry Flint joined the crowd. The young man had arrived a week before at San Francisco, friendless and penniless, and had been forced to part with his own effects to procure necessary food and lodging while looking for an employment. In the irony of fate that morning the proprietors of a dry goods store, struck with his good looks hud manners, had offered him a situation, if he could make himself mme presentable to their fair clients. Harry Flint was gazing half abstractedly, half hopelessly, at the portmanteau without noticing the auctioneer’s persuasive challenge . In li's abstraction he was not aware that the auctioneer’s assistant was also looking at him curiously, and that possibly his dejected and half-clad appearance had excited the attention of one of the cynical bystanders, who was exchanging a few words with the assi. tant. He was, however, recalled to himself a moment later when the portmanteau was knocked down at fifteen dollars, and considerably startled when the assistant placed it at his feet wi th a grim simile. “ That’s your ■property, Fowler, and I reckon you look as if you wanted it back had.” But —there’s sdimemistake,” stammered Flint, " I didn’t bid.”

No, but Tom Flynn did for you. You see, I spotted you from the first, and told Fiynn I reckoned you-were one of those chaps who came-back from the mines dead broke. And he up and bought your things for you—like ft square man. That’s Flynn’s style, if he is a gambler.” “ But,” persisted Flint, “ this never was my property. My name isn't Fowler, and I never left anything here.” The assistant looked at him with a gri in, half-credulous, half-scornful smile. “ Have it your own way,” he said, “ but I oughtor tell ye, old man, that I’m the warehouse clerk, and I remember yon. I’m here for that purpose. But as that thar valise is bought and paid fur by somebody else and given to you, it’s nothing more to me. Take or leave it.” The ridiculousness of quarrellingover the mere form of his good fortune here struck Flint, and, as his abrupt benefactor had as abruptly disappeared, he hurried off with his prize. Beaching his cheap lodging house, he examined its contents. As he had surmised, it contained a full suit of clothing of the better sort, anti suitable to his urban needs. There wet-e a few articles of jewellery, which he pat religiously aside. There were some letters, which seemed to be of y purely business character. There were a few daguerreotypes of pretty faces, one of which was singularly fascinating to him. But there was another, of a young man, which startled him with its marvellous resemblance to himself ! In a flash of intelligence he understood it all now. It was the likeness of the former owner of the trunk, for whom the assistant had actually mistaken him! He glanced hurriedly at the envelopes of the letters. They were addressed to Shelby Fowler, the name by* which the assistant had just called him The mystery was plain now, and for the present he could fairly accept his good luck, and trust to later fortune to justify himself. Transformed in his new* garb, he left his lodgings ter present himself once more to his possible employer. His way led past one of the gambling saloons. It was yet too early to find the dry-goods trader; disengaged ; perhaps the consciousness of more decent civilised garb emboldened "him to mingle more freely with strangers, and he entered the saloon. He was scarcely abreast of one of the faro tables when a man suddenly leaped up with an oath and discharged a i-o----volver full in his face. The shot missed. Before his unknown assailant could fire again the astonished Flint had closed with him, and instinctively clutched the weapon. A brief hut violent struggle ensued. Flint felt his strength failing him, when suddenly a look of astonishment came into the furious eyes of his adversary, and the man’s grasp mechanically relaxed. The half-freed pistol, thrown upwards by this movement, was accidentally discharged point blank into his temples, and he fell dead. No one in the crowd had stirred or interfered. “You’ve done for French Pete this time, Mr Fowler,” said a voice at his elbow. He turned gaspingly, and recognised his strange benefactor, Flynn. “I call you all to witness, gentlemen,” continued the gambler, turning dictafcorially to the crowd, “ that this man was first attacked and was unarmed.” He lifted Flint’s limp and empty hands and then pointed to the dead man, who was still grasping the weapon. “ Come !” He caught the half paralysed arm of Flint and dragged him into the street. “ But,” stammered the horrified Flint, as he was borne along, “ what does it all mean? What made that man attack mo ? ” “ I i-eckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr Fowler ; bat he missed it by not waiting to see if yon were armed. It wasn’t the squai-e thing - , and you’re all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have had again you.” “ But,” protested the unhappy Flint, “ I never laid eyes on the man before, and my name isn’t Fowler.”

Flynn halted, and dragged him in a doorway. “ Who the devil are you F ’ he asked roughly. Briefly, passionately, alraos t hysterically Flint told him his scant story. An odd expression came over the gambler's face. “ Look here,” lie said abruptly, “ I ha ve passed my word to the crowd 3'onder that you are a dead-broke miner called Fowler. I allowed that you might have had some row with that Sydney Duck, Australian Pete, in the mines. That satisfied them. If Igo back now, and say it’s a lie, that your name ain’t Fowler, and you never knew who Pete was, they’ll jest pass you over to the police to deal with you, and wash their hands of it altogether. You may prove to the police who you ax-e, and how that d clerk mistook you, but it will give you trouble. And who. is there here who really knows you F ” “ No one,” said Flint, with sudden hopelessness. “ And yon say you’re an orphan, u.nd ain't got any relations livin’ that you’re beholden to F ” “ No one.” “Then, take my advice and be B’owler, and stick to it! Be Fowler until Fowler turns up, and thanks you for it; for you’ve saved Fowler'* life, as Pete would never have funked find lost his grit over Fowler as he did with you; and you’ve a right to his name.” He stoppe d and the same odd superstitious look came into his dark eyms. “ Don’t you see what all that means F Well I’ll tell you. You’re in the biggest streak of luck a man ever had. You've got the cards in your own hands ! They spell " Fowler.’ Play Fowler first, last, and all the time. (xood-iiight, and good luck, Mr Fowler.” The next morning’s journal contained an account of the justifiable killing of the notorious desperado and ex-convict, Australian Pete, by a courageous young miner by the name of Fowler. “An act of firmness and •daring,” said The Pioneer, “ which will go far to counteract the terrorism produced by those lawless ruffians.” In his new suit of clothes, and with this paper in his hand. Flint sought the dry-goods proprietor—the latter was satisfied and convinced. That morning Harry Flint begun his career as salesman and as “ Shelby Fowler.” From that day Shelby Fowler’s career was one of uninterrupted prosperity. Within the year he became a partner. The same miraculous fortune followed other ventures later. He was mill owner, mine owner, bank director a millionaire ! He was popular, the reputation of his brief achievement over the desperado kept him secure from the attack of envy or rivalry. He never was confronted by the real Fowler. There was no danger of exposure by others —the one custodian of his secret, Tom Flynn, died in Nevada, the year following.. He had quite forgotten his youthful past, and even the more recent lucky pox-tmanteaxi; remembered nothing, perhaps, but the pretty face of the daguerreotype that had fascinated him. There seemed to be no reason why he should not live and die as Shelby Fowler. His business a year later took him to Eni’ope. He was entering a train at one of the great railway stations of London, when the porter, who had just deposited his portmanteau in a compartment, reappeared at the window followed by a young- lady in mourning-, “ Beg- pardon, six', but I handed yon the wrong portmanteau. That belongs to this young lady. This is yoni-s.” Flint glanced at the portmanteau on the seat before him. It certainly was not his, although it bore the initials “ S.F.” He was mechanically • handing it back to the porter, w hen his eye’s fell on the young lady’s face. For an instant ho stood petrified. It was the face of the daguerreotype. “ I beg pardon,” be stammered, “ but tire these your initials?” Who hesitated, perhaps it was the abruptness of the question, but he saw she looked confused. “ No, a friend’s.” She dis-

appeared into another but from that moment Harry Flint knew that he had no other aim in life but follow this cine and the beautiful girl who had dropped it. He bribed the guard at the next station and discovered that she was going to York. On their airival, he was ready on the platform to respectfully assist her. A few words disclpsed the fact that she was a fel 1 o w-cou n try -woman, although residing in England, and at present on her way to join some friends at Harrogate. Her name was West. At the mention of his, he again fancied she looked disturbed. °They met again and again ; the informality of his introduction was overlooked by her friends, as his assumed name was already respectably and responsibly known beyond California. He thought no more of his future. He was in love. He even dared to think it might be returned; but he felt he had no right to seek that knowledge until he had told her his real name and how he came to assume another’s. He did so alone —scarcely a month after their first meeting. To his alarm she burst into a flood of tears, and showed an agitation that seemed far beyond any apparent ause. When she had partly recovered, she said in a low, frightened voice: “You are bearing my brother’s name. Bat it was a name the unhappy boy had so shamefully disgraced in Australia that he abandoned it, and, as he lay upon his death-bed, the last act of his wasted life was to write an imploring letter begging me to cl inge mine too. For the infamous companion of his crime who had first tempted, then betrayed him, had possession of all his papers and letters, many of them from me, and was threatening to bring them to our Virginia home and expose him to our neighbours. Maddened by desperation, the miserable hoy twice attempted the life of the scoundrel, and might have added that, blood guiltiness to his other sins, had he lived. I did change my name to my mother’s maiden one. left the country, and have lived here to escape the revelations of that desperado, should he fulfil his threat.” In a flash of recollection Flint remembered the startled look that had come into his assailant’s eye after they had clinched. It was the same man -who had too late realised that his antagonist was not Fowler. “ Thank God ! you are for ever safe from any exposure from that man,” he said, gravely, “ and the name of Fowler has never been known in Ban Francisco save in all respect and honour. It is for you to take back —fearlessly and alone ! ” She did —but not alone, for she shared it with her husband.