Trent's Trust Page #4

"Trent's Trust" is a short story by Bret Harte that explores themes of honor, loyalty, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in the rugged backdrop of the American West, the narrative follows the character of a man named Trent, who is faced with a moral dilemma involving a trust left to him. The story delves into his internal conflict as he navigates the expectations of society, personal integrity, and the bonds of friendship. Harte's rich storytelling and keen observations of character reveal the nuances of trust and the weight of choices in a rapidly changing world.

• Short story

								

he now knew to be Montgomery Street. It was more thronged than then,
but he failed to be impressed, as then, with the selfish activity of
the crowd. Yet he was half conscious that his own brighter fortune,
more decent attire, and satisfied hunger had something to do with this
change, and he glanced hurriedly at the druggist's broad plate-glass
windows, with a faint hope that the young girl whose amused pity he had
awakened might be there again. He found California Street quickly, and
in a few moments he stood before No. 85. He was a little disturbed
to find it a rather large building, and that it bore the inscription
"Bank." Then came the usual shock to his mercurial temperament, and for
the first time he began to consider the absurd hopelessness of his clue.

He, however, entered desperately, and approaching the window of the
receiving teller, put the question he had formulated in his mind: Could
they give him any information concerning a customer or correspondent
who had just arrived in San Francisco and was putting up at the Niantic
Hotel, room 74? He felt his face flushing, but, to his astonishment, the
clerk manifested no surprise. "And you don't know his name?" said the
clerk quietly. "Wait a moment." He moved away, and Randolph saw him
speaking to one of the other clerks, who consulted a large register.
In a few minutes he returned. "We don't have many customers," he began
politely, "who leave only their hotel-room addresses," when he was
interrupted by a mumbling protest from one of the other clerks. "That's
very different," he replied to his fellow clerk, and then turned to
Randolph. "I'm afraid we cannot help you; but I'll make other inquiries
if you'll come back in ten minutes." Satisfied to be relieved from the
present perils of his questioning, and doubtful of returning, Randolph
turned away. But as he left the building he saw a written notice on
the swinging door, "Wanted: a Night Porter;" and this one chance of
employment determined his return.

When he again presented himself at the window the clerk motioned him to
step inside through a lifted rail. Here he found himself confronted by
the clerk and another man, distinguished by a certain air of authority,
a keen gray eye, and singularly compressed lips set in a closely clipped
beard. The clerk indicated him deferentially but briefly--everybody
was astonishingly brief and businesslike there--as the president. The
president absorbed and possessed Randolph with eyes that never seemed
to leave him. Then leaning back against the counter, which he lightly
grasped with both hands, he said: "We've sent to the Niantic Hotel to
inquire about your man. He ordered his room by letter, giving no name.
He arrived there on time last night, slept there, and has occupied the
room No. 74 ever since. WE don't know him from Adam, but"--his eyes
never left Randolph's--"from the description the landlord gave our
clerk, you're the man himself."

For an instant Randolph flushed crimson. The natural mistake of
the landlord flashed upon him, his own stupidity in seeking this
information, the suspicious predicament in which he was now placed, and
the necessity of telling the whole truth. But the president's eye was at
once a threat and an invitation. He felt himself becoming suddenly cool,
and, with a business brevity equal to their own, said:--

"I was looking for work last night on the wharf. He employed me to carry
his bag to the hotel, saying I was to wait for him. I have waited since
nine o'clock last night in his room, and he has not come."

"What are you in such a d----d hurry for? He's trusted you; can't you
trust him? You've got his bag?" returned the president.

Randolph was silent for a moment. "I want to know what to do with it,"
he said.

"Hang on to it. What's in it?"

"Some clothes and a purse containing about seventy dollars."

"That ought to pay you for carrying it and storage afterward," said the
president decisively. "What made you come here?"

"I found this address in the purse," said Randolph, producing it.

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"And that's the only reason you came here, to find an owner for that
bag?"

"Yes."

The president disengaged himself from the counter.

"I'm sorry to have given you so much trouble," said Randolph
concludingly. "Thank you and good-morning."

"Good-morning."

As Randolph turned away he remembered the advertisement for the night
watchman. He hesitated and turned back. He was a little surprised to
find that the president had not gone away, but was looking after him.

"I beg your pardon, but I see you want a night watchman. Could I do?"
said Randolph resolutely.

"No. You're a stranger here, and we want some one who knows the
city,--Dewslake," he returned to the receiving teller, "who's taken
Larkin's place?"

"No one yet," returned the teller, "but," he added parenthetically,
"Judge Boompointer, you know, was speaking to you about his son."

"Yes, I know that." To Randolph: "Go round to my private room and wait
for me. I won't be as long as your friend last night." Then he added to
a negro porter, "Show him round there."

He moved away, stopping at one or two desks to give an order to the
clerks, and once before the railing to speak to a depositor. Randolph
followed the negro into the hall, through a "board room," and into a
handsomely furnished office. He had not to wait long. In a few moments
the president appeared with an older man whose gray side whiskers, cut
with a certain precision, and whose black and white checked neckerchief,
tied in a formal bow, proclaimed the English respectability of the
period. At the president's dictation he took down Randolph's name,
nativity, length of residence, and occupation in California. This
concluded, the president, glancing at his companion, said briefly,--

"Well?"

"He had better come to-morrow morning at nine," was the answer.

"And ask for Mr. Dingwall, the deputy manager," added the president,
with a gesture that was at once an introduction and a dismissal to both.

Randolph had heard before of this startling brevity of San Francisco
business detail, yet he lingered until the door closed on Mr. Dingwall.
His heart was honestly full.

"You have been very kind, sir," he stammered.

"I haven't run half the risks of that chap last night," said the
president grimly, the least tremor of a smile on his set mouth.

"If you would only let me know what I can do to thank you," persisted
Randolph.

"Trust the man that trusts you, and hang on to your trust," returned the
president curtly, with a parting nod.

Elated and filled with high hopes as Randolph was, he felt some
trepidation in returning to his hotel. He had to face his landlord with
some explanation of the bank's inquiry. The landlord might consider him
an impostor, and request him to leave, or, more dreadful still, insist

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes