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Authors: Allie Pleiter
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paper, he wished he had.
Chapter Twelve
T here it was in the newest episode of the hero’s adventures: the Black Bandit and his own battle-scarred Bible. It could only mean Stuart Waterhouse was writing the Bandit stories himself. Given what Matthew knew of him, it was easy to believe Waterhouse penned his paper’s greatest sensation. Georgia must have told him the story of the Bible, and he’d used it in the Bandit’s adventures. A foolish act, as it gave away his identity.
Or did it? Perhaps Stuart wasn’t as foolhardy as he seemed. Only three people in the world knew the source of the tale, and none of them had any interest in angering Stuart Waterhouse.
“Mr. Covington, sir?” A bright-faced clerk rapped on his office door. Matthew set down his pen and looked up from the ledgers. “There’s a Reverend Bauers here to see you.”
So someone else has been surprised by the morning paper, Matthew thought as he stood up and pulled off the black sleeves that protected his shirt from the ledger ink. He harbored a moment’s ingratitude toward the reverend as the sleeve bumped painfully over his wound. Crude as the stitches were, he found he couldn’t bring himself to have the wound redone by another surgeon. Not only would it be embarrassing to have to recount how one small street urchin had bested him in a fight and skewered his arm, but Matthew was certain the reverend would be coming to check on his “patient,” and would feel disappointed that he had chosen to seek care elsewhere. Matthew’s father was always boasting about the ghastly war scar on his left shoulder, and now Matthew had a ghastly scar of his own to boast about. As to its source, well, perhaps he’d omit some of the less heroic details when he told his father.
“Covington,” Bauers called as he bustled into the room. He carried, not surprisingly, a copy of the Herald, as well as a small bag Matthew was sure presaged further medical atrocities yet to be endured. “How are you, my son?” The reverend pointed to his arm. “Healing well?”
“I had all but put the incident behind me,” Matthew lied. “That is, until I read the morning paper. Seems we share a bit of the Black Bandit legend now, don’t we? Do sit down.” He came around his desk and motioned for the reverend to take one of the high-backed chairs that faced his desk.
“I suspected Mr. Waterhouse all along,” Reverend Bauers said in a hushed voice as he eased his considerable frame into the chair. “Now we can be certain, can’t we?” By his expression, Bauers enjoyed his newfound secret celebrity. “I must say I never thought I’d see the day when Stuart Waterhouse wrote about the Bible. God is full of splendid surprises.” He chuckled, patting the folded paper on his lap.
“Will you reveal him?” Matthew asked, welcoming any topic that kept Reverend Bauers from opening that bag. Diversionary, yes, but he was curious to know what the reverend planned to do regarding Stuart. Several of the “men of God” Matthew had encountered back in England wouldn’t hesitate to parlay such a secret into several sizable contributions if they found themselves in the clergyman’s position. Everyone knew George Towers didn’t really exist, but part of the Black Bandit story’s attraction was its mysterious author. Stuart knew the mystery helped line his pockets, and he probably would consent to a few “acts of charity” to preserve it. Still, Matthew doubted the reverend would be the kind of man to pursue extortion, even for the sake of his ragged little flock.
“Oh, I suppose there’s some that would try to use it for their own gain,” Bauers replied, echoing Matthew’s thoughts. “I’m sure if I went to see Mr. Waterhouse, I would come away with several tidy gifts. I confess I thought of it, for an instant, last night when yet another chair broke in the dining room. I find myself having great fun with the secret of it all, however. And if it means Stuart
Chapter Twelve
T here it was in the newest episode of the hero’s adventures: the Black Bandit and his own battle-scarred Bible. It could only mean Stuart Waterhouse was writing the Bandit stories himself. Given what Matthew knew of him, it was easy to believe Waterhouse penned his paper’s greatest sensation. Georgia must have told him the story of the Bible, and he’d used it in the Bandit’s adventures. A foolish act, as it gave away his identity.
Or did it? Perhaps Stuart wasn’t as foolhardy as he seemed. Only three people in the world knew the source of the tale, and none of them had any interest in angering Stuart Waterhouse.
“Mr. Covington, sir?” A bright-faced clerk rapped on his office door. Matthew set down his pen and looked up from the ledgers. “There’s a Reverend Bauers here to see you.”
So someone else has been surprised by the morning paper, Matthew thought as he stood up and pulled off the black sleeves that protected his shirt from the ledger ink. He harbored a moment’s ingratitude toward the reverend as the sleeve bumped painfully over his wound. Crude as the stitches were, he found he couldn’t bring himself to have the wound redone by another surgeon. Not only would it be embarrassing to have to recount how one small street urchin had bested him in a fight and skewered his arm, but Matthew was certain the reverend would be coming to check on his “patient,” and would feel disappointed that he had chosen to seek care elsewhere. Matthew’s father was always boasting about the ghastly war scar on his left shoulder, and now Matthew had a ghastly scar of his own to boast about. As to its source, well, perhaps he’d omit some of the less heroic details when he told his father.
“Covington,” Bauers called as he bustled into the room. He carried, not surprisingly, a copy of the Herald, as well as a small bag Matthew was sure presaged further medical atrocities yet to be endured. “How are you, my son?” The reverend pointed to his arm. “Healing well?”
“I had all but put the incident behind me,” Matthew lied. “That is, until I read the morning paper. Seems we share a bit of the Black Bandit legend now, don’t we? Do sit down.” He came around his desk and motioned for the reverend to take one of the high-backed chairs that faced his desk.
“I suspected Mr. Waterhouse all along,” Reverend Bauers said in a hushed voice as he eased his considerable frame into the chair. “Now we can be certain, can’t we?” By his expression, Bauers enjoyed his newfound secret celebrity. “I must say I never thought I’d see the day when Stuart Waterhouse wrote about the Bible. God is full of splendid surprises.” He chuckled, patting the folded paper on his lap.
“Will you reveal him?” Matthew asked, welcoming any topic that kept Reverend Bauers from opening that bag. Diversionary, yes, but he was curious to know what the reverend planned to do regarding Stuart. Several of the “men of God” Matthew had encountered back in England wouldn’t hesitate to parlay such a secret into several sizable contributions if they found themselves in the clergyman’s position. Everyone knew George Towers didn’t really exist, but part of the Black Bandit story’s attraction was its mysterious author. Stuart knew the mystery helped line his pockets, and he probably would consent to a few “acts of charity” to preserve it. Still, Matthew doubted the reverend would be the kind of man to pursue extortion, even for the sake of his ragged little flock.
“Oh, I suppose there’s some that would try to use it for their own gain,” Bauers replied, echoing Matthew’s thoughts. “I’m sure if I went to see Mr. Waterhouse, I would come away with several tidy gifts. I confess I thought of it, for an instant, last night when yet another chair broke in the dining room. I find myself having great fun with the secret of it all, however. And if it means Stuart
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