Fame and Fortune Weekly, No. 801, February 4, 1921 by Various
Fame and Fortune Weekly, No. 801, February 4, 1921 by Various
"Dick, come into my office," said Mr. Roger Bacon, a well-known wholesale dealer in watches, jewelry and silverware, on John street, New York City.
"Yes, sir," replied Dick Darling, his fifteen-year-old office boy-a bright, good-looking lad, who had not yet graduated out of knickerbockers, though most boys of his age would have dispensed with them for trousers. Somehow or another Dick looked to unusual advantage in knickerbockers, and he made a pretty figure in the store, which naturally made his employer partial to that kind of attire in him. That was one reason why he continued to wear them at his age.
Another reason was because being the youngest of a family of four, the older members being all girls, he was regarded by his mother and sisters as the baby of the family, and they wouldn't hear to his making any change in his attire. He was only a baby in name, however, for there wasn't a pluckier young chap of his years in his neighborhood, or in the city for that matter. The boys in his block, who knew him well, and those employed in the vicinity of Mr. Bacon's store, downtown, often made his knickerbockers the butt of their witticism, but Dick was a self-reliant, independent youth, and he didn't care a rap for the fun and criticism that was directed at his apparel. He surprised the downtown lads by polishing off a couple of them who got too gay on the subject, which made the rest rather shy about tackling him, since it was apparent that he knew how to use his fists if forced to call upon them. When Dick followed his employer into his private office the merchant pointed at the chair beside the desk, so the office boy sat down and awaited developments.
"Dick," said Mr. Bacon, "I'm going to send you on an unusual mission. I want you to take this package," laying his hand on a square one which stood on his desk, "to Springville, New Jersey. The village is about an hour's ride from Jersey City, on the line of the Central Railroad of New Jersey. A train that will stop there leaves Jersey City at four-thirty, and you have thirty minutes to catch it. You will deliver the package at the home of Mr. Goodrich-his name and address are written on the outside. As he is well known in the place, the station agent or anybody in the village will direct you to his house, which I believe is not over ten minutes' walk from the station. Under ordinary circumstances this package would be sent by express, but the order came only a short time ago, and the article must reach the gentleman early this evening. I may as well tell you that it is a wedding present, and is worth about $330. You ought to be able to deliver the package and get back to the station in time to take the train for Jersey City which stops at Springville at six-fifteen. That is all. Go to the cashier and he will hand you money enough to cover all your expenses."
Dick took the package and carried it with him into the counting room, where the cashier handed him a five-dollar bill and told him to turn in the change in the morning. Then he put on his hat and started for the Cortlandt street ferry. He landed in Jersey City in ample time to catch the accommodation train which stopped at all points north of its destination. Dick enjoyed the ride to Springville, where he arrived about half-past five.
He found no trouble in reaching the Goodrich house, where he asked for Mr. Goodrich and delivered the package to him. The gentleman presented him with a dollar, treated him to some cake and lemonade, after which Dick started back for the station. He arrived there five minutes before train time and went to the window to buy a return ticket. The agent was busy at the telegraph key and Dick had to wait for him to get through.
"I want a ticket for Jersey City," said the office boy.
"Sorry, but there's just been an accident down the road. The train you expect to take, due here in five minutes, ran into a number of freight cars on a siding, owing to a switch having been imperfectly locked, and it stuck there. It may be hours before the tangle is straightened out. You will have to wait for the nine-ten, which is the next train that stops here."
"Nine-ten!" exclaimed Dick. "That's three hours from now."
The agent nodded.
"This is only a small place, and but few of the trains stop here," he said.
"If I have to wait for that train I won't get home till after eleven o'clock, and my folks will be worried to death about me, for they don't know that I was sent down here."
The agent looked at the clock.
"Well, I'll tell you what you can do if you are a spry walker. The express which passes here at seven-thirty stops at Carlin, six miles north of this station. There's a good road running straight to that town. If you think you can cover the distance between now and seven-thirty-eight, why, you will be able to get that train, which will land you in Jersey City about eight-ten."
"I'll try it. Where's the road?"
The agent came out of his office, took Dick to the rear door of the station, and showed him the road.
"It goes right to Carlin, you say?" said Dick.
"Yes."
"Will it land me near the station?"
"Within a short distance of it. You ought to make the train, for you have an hour and twenty-five minutes to do it in. You ought to be able to walk five miles in an hour if you do your best. It's a good hard road on which a person can make good time."
Dick started at a brisk walk for Carlin. He came to a fork in the road after going about a mile. After due deliberation he took what he thought was the right road, but which turned out to be the wrong one. After he had walked what he thought at least six miles and no town in sight, he felt he had taken the wrong road. An old and apparently deserted house stood near where Dick halted and a storm coming up, he decided to seek shelter there. It was now nearly dark. Dick sought shelter in the old house. The door was nearly off its hinges. Soon the storm came on, and by a flash of lightning he saw a couple of men each with a bag over his shoulder, putting for the house. He drew back into what had apparently been a bedroom, as he did not wish to be seen by the strangers.
As soon as the two men entered, they started to talk of dividing the contents of the bags as soon as they reached the house of one of the men, who was called Parker by the other, whose name was Bulger. Dick soon learned the bag contained the contents of a burglary which the two men had committed on a large house in the vicinity, and that they had had an exciting encounter with one of the servants. Dick felt that he was in bad company. In leaning a little too heavily on one foot a board creaked, which sound the two thieves heard, and they started to investigate. Dick retreated into a corner of the room. One of the thieves heard him and made a dive for the spot. As Dick could not see the crook any better than that individual could see him, he was taken by surprise when the muscular arms of the man suddenly encountered him and he was immediately seized and dragged out of the corner. The crook saw that it was a boy he had hold of.
"Now, you young imp, I've got you!" he cried triumphantly. "What are you hidin' up in this place for?"
"What's that to you?" replied Dick pluckily.
"Sassy, are you? I reckon I'll take some of the sass out'r you before I'm through with you. Come along."
He dragged the boy into the next room.
"Open the winder and let's take a squint at this chap," said Bulger.
Parker threw up the dirty window overlooking the road, but the amount of light that came in did not greatly help matters out.
"How came you in this house?" said Bulger.
"I came here to get out of the storm," replied Dick.
"Oh, you did; then why didn't you show yourself when we came in?"
"Why should I?"
"You heard us come in, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't let on you were here. You've been listenin' to our talk."
Dick made no reply.
"You heard all we said, didn't you?" said Bulger, giving the boy a rough shake.
"You say I did."
"I know you did."
"Then what's the use of asking me, if you know so much?"
"Because I want you to admit it."
"I'll admit nothing."
"I'll choke the life out of you if you don't!" said the crook savagely.
"I haven't done you any harm, what do you want to treat me this way for?"
"But you intend to squeal on us as soon as you get away."
"What will I squeal about?"
"About what you heard."
"I haven't said that I heard anything."
"Who are you, anyway?" said Bulger, suddenly changing his line of questioning.
"My name is Dick Darling."
"Where do you live around here?"
"I don't live around here at all."
"You don't? Know anybody named Darling about here, Parker?"
"No. He looks like a stranger to me as well as I can see him," said Parker.
"Where do you live, then?" demanded Bulger.
"In New York."
"New York!" roared the crook. "What are you givin' me?"
"That's the truth."
"What are you doin' 'way down here in Jersey, then? Who are you visitin'?"
"Nobody. I was sent to Springville on an errand by my boss."
"Where's Springville, Parker?"
"It's a village on the railroad about eight miles from here."
"If you were sent to Springville, how is it that you are over here?"
"An accident happened to the train I was going to take for Jersey City, and the agent told me that I could catch an express if I walked to Carlin. That's what brought me over here."
"Did you start to walk to Carlin from Springville?" asked Parker.
"Yes," replied Dick.
"And instead of keepin' to your left, you turned into the road to the right and came over here, eh?"
"Yes, I did that. And I walked away from the town instead of toward it?"
"That's what you've been doin'."
"That's tough. I'll have to go back to the Carlin road, then, before I'm on the right track again."
"I reckon you won't go nowheres at present," said Bulger. "You've heard too much for some people's good. We'll take him over to your place, Parker, and hold on to him till I'm ready to dig out, and then I'll take him with me."
Having decided that point, the crook took a firm hold of the boy by the arm, and led him outside, followed by his pal, who shouldered the two bags.
* * *
Le Tour du Monde; d'Alexandrette au coude de l'Euphrate by Various
It was a grand success. Every one said so; and moreover, every one who witnessed the experiment predicted that the Mermaid would revolutionize naval warfare as completely as did the world-famous Monitor. Professor Rivers, who had devoted the best years of his life to perfecting his wonderful invention, struggling bravely on through innumerable disappointments and failures, undaunted by the sneers of those who scoffed, or the significant pity of his friends, was so overcome by his signal triumph that he fled from the congratulations of those who sought to do him honour, leaving to his young assistants the responsibility of restoring the marvellous craft to her berth in the great ship-house that had witnessed her construction. These assistants were two lads, eighteen and nineteen years of age, who were not only the Professor's most promising pupils, but his firm friends and ardent admirers. The younger, Carlos West Moranza, was the only son of a Cuban sugar-planter, and an American mother who had died while he was still too young to remember her. From earliest childhood he had exhibited so great a taste for machinery that, when he was sixteen, his father had sent him to the United States to be educated as a mechanical engineer in one of the best technical schools of that country. There his dearest chum was his class-mate, Carl Baldwin, son of the famous American shipbuilder, John Baldwin, and heir to the latter's vast fortune. The elder Baldwin had founded the school in which his own son was now being educated, and placed at its head his life-long friend, Professor Alpheus Rivers, who, upon his patron's death, had also become Carl's sole guardian. In appearance and disposition young Baldwin was the exact opposite of Carlos Moranza, and it was this as well as the similarity of their names that had first attracted the lads to each other. While the young Cuban was a handsome fellow, slight of figure, with a clear olive complexion, impulsive and rash almost to recklessness, the other was a typical Anglo-Saxon American, big, fair, and blue-eyed, rugged in feature, and slow to act, but clinging with bulldog tenacity to any idea or plan that met with his favour. He invariably addressed his chum as "West," while the latter generally called him "Carol."
Young Folks Treasury, Volume 2 (of 12) by Various
Embracing a Flash-Light Sketch of the Holocaust, Detailed Narratives by Participants in the Horror, Heroic Work of Rescuers, Reports of the Building Experts as to the Responsibility for the Wholesale Slaughter of Women and Children, Memorable Fires of the Past, etc., etc.
Young Folks Treasury, Volume 3 (of 12) by Various
Chelsey loved Brett for seven years and tried everything for a baby-doctors, IVF, surgeries. Then she found out he'd been dosing her food with contraceptives. She woke back at the fire years earlier and watched Brett carry another woman out, leaving Chelsey to choke in smoke. She realized he'd been reborn too-and picked his "true love." Chelsey walked away and married Julian, her friend's cousin and the hot firefighter who saved her; he gave her all his money the day they married. Brett scoffed... until Chelsey shone at an AI summit and Julian's real identity shocked him. Seeing her with twins and another baby coming, Brett begged, "Come back to me! Please!"
The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.
My husband, Ethan Vance, made me his trophy wife. My best friend, Susanna Thorne, helped me pick out my wedding dress. Together, they made me a fool. For three years, I was Mrs. Ethan Vance, a decorative silence in his billion-dollar world, living a quiet routine until a forgotten phone charger led me to his office. The low, feminine laugh from behind his door was a gut-punch; inside, I found Ethan and Susanna, my "best friend" and his CMO, tangled on his sofa, his only reaction irritation. My divorce declaration brought immediate scorn and threats. I was fired, my accounts frozen, and publicly smeared as an unstable gold-digger. Even my own family disowned me for my last cent, only for me to be framed for assault and served a restraining order. Broke, injured, and utterly demonized, they believed I was broken, too ashamed to fight. But their audacious betrayal and relentless cruelty only forged a cold, unyielding resolve. Slumped alone, a restraining order in hand, I remembered my hidden journal: a log of Ethan's insider trading secrets. They wanted a monster? I would show them one.
"I will marry you. Wait for me!" Mabel woke up. She had that dream again. In her dream, a man said he would marry her. Just a dream. Five years ago, she was set up by her stepsister and became pregnant out of wedlock. She lost everything, including her baby. Five years later, she was forced to marry her stepsister's fiance, Jayden, who was sick and going to pass away. Having no choice, Mabel decided to marry Jayden, not expecting that Jayden was the man...
I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.
I was sitting in the Presidential Suite of The Pierre, wearing a Vera Wang gown worth more than most people earn in a decade. It was supposed to be the wedding of the century, the final move to merge two of Manhattan's most powerful empires. Then my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram Story from my fiancé, Jameson. He was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a caption that read: "Fuck the chains. Chasing freedom." He hadn't just gotten cold feet; he had abandoned me at the altar to run across the world. My father didn't come in to comfort me. He burst through the door roaring about a lost acquisition deal, telling me the Holland Group would strip our family for parts if the ceremony didn't happen by noon. My stepmother wailed about us becoming the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. The Holland PR director even suggested I fake a "panic attack" to make myself look weak and sympathetic to save their stock price. Then Jameson’s sleazy cousin, Pierce, walked in with a lopsided grin, offering to "step in" and marry me just to get his hands on my assets. I looked at them and realized I wasn't a daughter or a bride to anyone in that room. I was a failed asset, a bouncing check, a girl whose own father told her to go to Paris and "beg" the man who had just publicly humiliated her. The girl who wanted to be loved died in that mirror. I realized that if I was going to be sold to save a merger, I was going to sell myself to the one who actually controlled the money. I marched past my parents and walked straight into the VIP holding room. I looked the most powerful man in the room—Jameson’s cold, ruthless uncle, Fletcher Holland—dead in the eye and threw the iPad on the table. "Jameson is gone," I said, my voice as hard as stone. "Marry me instead."
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