Edward Stratemeyer - Dave Porter and His Double - or, The Disapperarance of the Basswood Fortune

The news over the wire excited Dave not a little. Of the men of the household, only old Professor Potts was in, and he, of course, could not assist in the matter. Dave at once sought out Mrs. Wadsworth and told her of what he had heard.

“I think I’ll drive to Clayton and see if I can locate Porton,” he added. “Roger says he will go with me.”

“Do as you think best, Dave,” answered the lady of the house. “But do keep out of trouble! This Ward Porton may prove to be a dangerous character if you attempt to corner him.”

“I think Roger and I can manage him, if only we can find him,” returned the youth.

Once more the black horse and the cutter were brought into service, and the two youths made the best possible time on the snowy highway that led through Coburntown to Clayton. Arriving there, they called at the bank and interviewed Nat Poole.

“If what you say about Porton is true he certainly must be a bad one–almost as bad as Merwell and Jasniff,” was the comment of the money lender’s son. “I certainly hope you spot him and bring him to book. That’s the way he went the last I saw of him,” he added, pointing down the side street.

Dave and Roger drove down the street looking to the right and the left for a possible sight of Ward Porton. But their search was doomed to disappointment for the moving-picture actor was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s a good deal like looking for a needle in a haystack,” was the comment of the senator’s son, after a full hour had been spent in the hunt.

They had left the sleigh and had walked around a number of mills and tenement houses which were situated in that locality.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Dave, as several children approached them. “I’m going to ask the youngsters if they’ve seen a young man who looks like me.”

The first boys and girls to whom the subject was broached shook their heads and declared they had seen nobody that resembled Dave. Then our hero and his chum passed on to other children, and finally to some men working around a newly-constructed tenement.

“Why sure! I saw a young feller wot looked like you,” said a youth who was piling up some lumber. “He ast me fer a match. Say! he looked like he could have been your twin,” he added in wonder; and then continued suddenly: “Maybe youse is playin’ a trick on me, and it was youse got the match?”

“No, I never met you before,” answered Dave, quickly. “When did you meet the other fellow, and where? I am very anxious to locate him.”

“It was down on de bridge, about an hour ago. I was comin’ dis way, and he was goin’ de udder way.”

“Was he smoking a cigarette?” asked Roger.

“He had one o’ de coffin-nails in his hand and he lit up after I given him de match.”

“Did he say anything?” questioned our hero.

The carpenter’s helper scratched his head for a moment. “Sure he did! He ast me if it was putty good walkin’ to Bixter. I told him ‘putty fair,’ and den he went on and I came here.”

“Then he must have gone on to Bixter!” cried Roger. “How far is that from here?”

“About two miles and a half,” answered Dave. He turned to the carpenter’s helper. “Much obliged to you.”

“Dat’s all right. Say! but dat guy certainly looks like you,” the carpenter’s helper added, with a grin.

“Come, we’ll follow him,” said Dave to his chum, and led the way on the run to where the horse was tied.

Soon they were in the cutter once more. Dave urged the black along at his best speed, and over the bridge they flew, and then along the road leading to the village of Bixter.

“If you catch Porton, Dave, what will you do–turn him over to the authorities?”

“Yes, Roger.”

“Is Bixter much of a place?”

“Oh, no. There are but two stores and two churches and not over thirty or forty houses.”

“Then you may have some trouble in finding an officer. Probably the village doesn’t boast of anything more than a constable and a Justice of the Peace.”

“I am not worrying about that yet, Roger,” returned our hero, grimly. “We have got to catch Porton first.”

“Oh, I know that. But if he started for Bixter on foot we ought to be able to locate him. A stranger can’t go through such a small place without somebody’s noticing it.”

On and on trotted the horse, past many well-kept farms, and then through a small patch of timber land. Beyond the woods they crossed a frozen creek, and then made a turn to the northward. A short distance beyond they came in sight of the first houses that went to make up the village of Bixter.

“Well, we’ve not seen anything of him yet,” remarked the senator’s son, as they slowed up and looked ahead and to both sides of the village street.

“No, and I don’t understand it,” returned Dave. “From what that carpenter’s helper said, I thought we should overtake him before we got to Bixter. Either he must have left this road, or else he must be some walker.”

“I don’t see where he could have gone if he left the road, Dave. All we passed were lanes leading to the farms, and a path through that wood. It isn’t likely he would take to the woods in this cold weather–not unless he was going hunting, and that chap back in Clayton didn’t say anything about his carrying a gun.”

With the horse in a walk, they passed down the village street and back again. As they did this they kept their eyes wide open, peering into the various yards and lanes that presented themselves.

“I’m afraid it’s no use unless he is in one of these houses or in one of the stores,” was Roger’s comment.

“I’ll ask at the stores,” returned Dave.

The inquiries he and his chum made were productive of no results so far as locating Ward Porton was concerned. No one had seen or heard of the former moving picture actor.

“All the strangers we’ve seen to-day was a cigar drummer,” said one of the shopkeepers. “And he was a fat man and about forty years old.” The other storekeeper had had no strangers in his place.

Hardly knowing what to do next, Dave and Roger returned to the cutter.

“Maybe he went farther than this,” suggested Roger. “We might go on a mile or two and take a look.”

Now that they had come so far, Dave thought this a good idea, and so they passed on for a distance of nearly two miles beyond Bixter. Here the sleighing became poor, there being but few farmhouses in that vicinity.

“It’s no use,” said Dave, finally. “We’ll go back to Bixter, take another look around, and then return to Clayton and home.”

When they arrived once more at the village Dave suggested that he and his chum separate.

“There are a number of these lanes that lead to some back roads,” said Dave. “Perhaps if we tramp around on foot and ask some of the country folks living around here we may get on the track of the fellow we are after.”

The senator’s son was willing, and he was soon walking down a lane leading to the right while Dave went off to the left. Presently Dave came to a barn where a farmer was mending some broken harness.

“Hello! Back again, are you?” cried the farmer, as he looked at Dave curiously. “What brought you? Why didn’t you stop when I called to you before?”

“I guess you’re just the man I want to see,” cried Dave, quickly. And then, as the farmer looked at him in increasing wonder, he added: “Did a young man who looks very much like me go past here to-day?”

“Look like you?” queried the farmer. “Why, it was you, wasn’t it?”

“No. It must have been a fellow who resembles me very closely. I am trying to catch him.”

“Well, I swan!” murmured the farmer, looking at Dave critically. “That other feller looked as much like you as could be. Wot is he–your twin brother?”