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

The storekeeper gazed at Dave for a moment in silence, and then pursed up his lips and shook his head decidedly.

“That is too much of a fish story for me to swallow,” he said harshly. “You’ll either have to bring that young man here and prove that he got the goods, or else you’ll have to pay for them yourself.”

Dave and Roger spent the best part of half an hour in Asa Dickley’s store, and during that time our hero and his chum gave the particulars of how they had become acquainted with Ward Porton, and how the young moving-picture actor had tried to pass himself off as the real Dave Porter, and how he had been exposed and had disappeared.

“Well, if what you say is true I’ve been swindled,” declared the storekeeper finally. “I’d like to get my hands on that young man.”

“You wouldn’t like it any better than I would,” returned Dave, grimly. “You see, I don’t know how far this thing extends. Mr. Wecks has been after me to pay for some shoes that I never got.”

“Say, that moving-picture actor must be a lulu!” declared the storekeeper’s clerk, slangily. “If you don’t watch out, Porter, he’ll get you into all kinds of hot water.”

“I think the best you can do, Dave, is to notify the storekeepers you do business with to be on the lookout for Porton,” suggested Roger. “Then, if he shows up again, they can have him held until you arrive.”

“I’ll certainly have to do something,” answered Dave.

“Then I suppose you don’t want to settle that bill?” came from Asa Dickley, wistfully.

“No, sir. And I don’t think you ought to expect it.”

“Well, I don’t know. The fellow who got those goods said he was Dave Porter,” vouchsafed the storekeeper doggedly.

From Asa Dickley’s establishment Dave, accompanied by his chum, drove around to the store kept by Mr. Wecks. He found the curtains still down, but the shoe-dealer had just come in, and was at his desk writing letters.

“And you mean to say you didn’t get those shoes?” questioned Mr. Wecks with interest, after Dave had explained the situation. “That’s mighty curious. I never had a thing like that happen before.” He knew our hero well, and trusted Dave implicitly. “I shouldn’t have sent that letter only I had a chance to sell a pair of shoes that size, and I thought if you had made your selection I could sell the pair you didn’t want to the other fellow.”

Once again the two boys had to tell all about Ward Porton and what that young rascal was supposed to be doing. As they proceeded Mr. Wecks’s face took on a look of added intelligence.

“Exactly! Exactly! That fits in with what I thought when that fellow went off with the shoes,” he declared finally. “I said to myself, ‘Somehow Dave Porter looks different to-day. He must have had a spell of sickness or something.’ That other chap was a bit thinner and paler than you are.”

“He’s a regular cigarette fiend, and that is, I think, what makes him look pale,” put in Roger. And then he added quickly: “Do you remember–was he smoking?”

“Yes, he was. He threw a cigarette stub away while he was trying on the shoes, and then lit another cigarette when he was going out. I thought at the time that he was probably smoking more than was good for him.”

“I don’t smoke at all, and never have done so,” said Dave. He turned to his chum. “I think the fact that the fellow who got the shoes was smoking is additional proof that it was Porton.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea that it was anybody else,” answered the senator’s son.

Mr. Wecks promised to keep on the lookout for Ward Porton, in case that individual showed himself again, and then Dave and Roger left.

“I’m going into all the stores where I do business and tell the folks to be on the watch for Ward Porton,” said our hero.

“A good idea, Dave. But see here! How are they going to tell him from you?” and the senator’s son chuckled. “You may come along some day and they may hold you, thinking you are Porton.”

“I thought of that, Roger, and I’ll leave each of them my signature on a card. I know that Ward Porton doesn’t write as I do.”

This idea was followed out, the boys spending the best part of an hour in going around Coburntown. Then they drove back to Crumville, and there Dave visited some other establishments with which he was in the habit of doing business.

All the storekeepers were much interested in what he had to tell, and all readily agreed to have Ward Porton detained if he should show himself. At each place Dave left his signature, so that there might be no further mistake regarding his identity.

After that several days passed quietly. Both Dave and Roger were applying themselves to their studies, and as a consequence saw little of Ben except in the evenings, when all the young folks would get together for more or less of a good time.

“Any more news about that fortune in Chicago?” asked Dave, one evening of the Basswood lad.

“Not very much,” answered Ben. “Father telegraphed that he was hunting for some things that belonged to Mr. Enos. He said that as soon as he found them he would tell us all about it.”

“That certainly is a strange state of affairs.”

“Strange? I should say it was!” cried the other. “Mother and I are just dying to know what it all means. One thing is certain–Mr. Enos did not leave his fortune in stocks or bonds or real estate, or anything like that.”

On the following day came additional trouble for Dave in the shape of a communication from a hotel-keeper in Coburntown. He stated that he had heard through Asa Dickley that Dave was having trouble with a party who was impersonating him, and added that a person calling himself Dave Porter was owing him a bill of fifteen dollars for five days’ board.

“Isn’t this the limit?” cried Dave, as he showed the letter to his father and his Uncle Dunston.

“No use in talking, Dave, we’ll have to get after that rascal,” announced the father. “If we don’t, there is no telling how far he’ll carry this thing. I think I’ll put the authorities on his track.”

Two days after that, and while Dave was continuing his studies as diligently as ever, came word over the telephone from Clayton.

“Is this you, Dave Porter?” came over the wire.

“Yes,” answered our hero. “Who are you?”

“This is Nat Poole talking. I am up here in Clayton–in the First National Bank. You know my father got me a job here last week.”

“No, I didn’t know it, Nat. But I’m glad to hear you have something to do, and I hope you’ll make a success of it,” returned Dave promptly.

“I called you up to find out if you were in Clayton,” continued the son of the money lender. “I wanted to make sure of it.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m right here at home, Nat.”

“Then, in that case, I want to tell you that the fellow who looks like you is here.”

“Where do you mean–in the bank?”

“Well, he came in here to get a five-dollar bill changed. I happened to see him as he was going out and I called to him, thinking it was you. When I called he seemed to get scared, and he got out in a hurry. Then I happened to think about that fellow who looked like you, and I made up my mind I’d call you up.”

“How long ago since he was in the bank?” questioned Dave, eagerly.

“Not more than ten minutes ago. I tried to get you sooner but the wire was busy.”

“You haven’t any idea where he went?”

“No, except that he started down the side street next to the bank, which, as maybe you know, runs towards the river.”

“All right, Nat. Thank you very much for what you’ve told me. I want to locate that fellow if I possibly can. He is a swindler, and if you clap eyes on him again have him arrested,” added Dave; and this Nat Poole promised to do.