Sam—“One of those deadly reptiles got out of the Park Zoo.”Sam—“One of those deadly reptiles got out of the Park Zoo.”
Sam—“One of those deadly reptiles got out of the Park Zoo.”
The gate light threw a faint glimmer along the fence, and on the Barnes road in the gorge below. He peered down the steep hillside, and looked up and down the road. There being no one in sight, he let his legs slip quietly down the other side of the fence, and gradually lowered himself, without sustaining other injury than a few trivial scratches. As he brushed mechanically the debris which had clung to his clothes, he was surprised to see the figure of a man step out, seemingly from the fence itself, and slip down the hillside, and climbing the lower fence, cross the almost dry bed of the stream, close to the road, and proceed cityward.
Sam was sure the man, whoever he was, had not been on the corral side of the fence a moment before, and to give the mysterious appearance a deeper significance, the point of exit was about the location of the tangled vines. The appearance of the man differed from the one he had followed, inasmuch that one had on a long coat and bushy beard, the other wore a short pilot coat and mustache. For a moment Sam was puzzled, and he scratched his head. Suddenly he broke out in an unconscious whisper to himself, as though urged on by some supernatural agency, for afterward it surprised him when he thought of that moment: “Damned if I don’t think he’s the same party I’ve been after, disguised.”
And he made straight for the place, as near as he could estimate, where the man had emerged.
It was a few moments before he found it, but a close examination soon revealed two yielding pickets of the fence. True, just sufficient to admit a man’s body sideways, but there it was, as he afterwards discovered, and perfectly screened from observation by masses of slender leaf-laded branches and twigs. The inner, bushy part being skilfully cut away. The trick employed to evade him was now palpable. The hiss, the buzzing rattle, the glitter—“Ah; it was the glitter of a steel blade”—and at the thought he shivered, as with an icy chill, for he realized how dangerously near a death-trap he had ventured. As the reaction came, his face flamed with the hot blood of indignation and chagrin at the smart dodge by which he had been temporarily baffled.
In the distance, down near the park entrance, was still dimly visible the retreating form of a man. Sam determined to follow him.
He slid and partly tumbled down the steep hillside, sprang over the lower fence, and crossed the bed of the creek and on to the road—and was so intent on his mission that he did not hear or see, until it was almost upon him, a dark, noiseless machine, approaching from the rear. He moved hastily aside to let it pass, but to his intense astonishment, the automobile followed him with evident intention of running him down. Again he sprang aside, but too late. The front wheel grazed his left leg and swung him around on to the rear wheel, which hurled him violently to the ground.
Having accomplished his purpose, Rutley at once stopped the machine, alighted, and examined Sam.
He was soon joined by Jack, who asked, in a low voice: “Have you killed him?”
“I don’t think so. Bad gash on the side of his head, though.”
“Dangerous?”
“Impossible for me to say.”
“Just unconscious?” anxiously inquired Jack.
“Yes; but I don’t think he will interfere with us again for some time. What shall we do with him?”
“Take him home.”
“Good idea,” grunted Rutley. “It becomes you decidedly well, Jack, after being a villain, to play the good Samaritan. Well, take this handkerchief and bind his wound,” and he raised Sam’s head while Jack bound up the wound.
“It will make old Harris feel under an obligation to me.”
“And you can touch him for the loan of ten thousand, to square accounts,” added Jack. And again Rutley laughed.
“Come, let’s pack him on to the machine.”
Shortly after the insult forced upon him by John Thorpe at the Harris reception, and finding it impossible to enjoy the spirit of the gay throng, Mr. Corway took his departure.
Disappointed in his endeavor to communicate with Hazel, who deemed it discreet to avoid his presence until after the affair had been cleared up—and actuated by the purest motives, he could not but feel that he was the mistaken victim of some foul play with which fate had strangely connected him.
He recalled the profound respect he had always entertained for and on every occasion he had shown Mrs. Thorpe. And as his thoughts of the affair deepened, his natural fire of resentment softened and died out as effectually as though he had been summoned to stand beside the deathbed of some very dear friend. And the more he thought of it, the more disagreeable and repugnant a quarrel with John Thorpe appeared to him; yet his honor as a gentleman grossly insulted, forbade any other way out of it.
Finally he decided to consult Mr. Harris on the best course to pursue, and for that purpose determined to visit Rosemont the next day.
It was well on in the afternoon that he left his hotel for the Jefferson street depot, and while walking along First street he noticed a closed “hack,” drawn by a pair of black horses, rapidly proceeding in the same direction.
As it passed him, he felt sure that he had caught a glimpse of Lord Beauchamp’s profile, through the small, glazed lookout at the back of the vehicle.
It was late when Corway returned from Rosemont, and strangely coincident, as he stepped down off the car he saw that same “hack” move off, and that same face inside, made plain by a chance gleam of light from a street lamp, that quivered athwart the casement of the door. But except for a thought of “devilish queer, unless ‘me lord’ was expecting some one,” he attached no further importance to it, and dismissed it from his mind.
He proceeded up Jefferson street with head bent low, engrossed in deep meditation, for Mr. Harris was unable to give him any concrete advice on the matter, and he was recalling to memory every conceivable act he had committed, or words he had uttered that could have been possibly misconstrued by Mr. Thorpe to urge the latter to a frenzy and so violent an outburst, when he was abruptly halted by a peremptory order: “Hands up!”
Simultaneously two masked men stepped out from the shadow of a gloomy recess of a building between Second and Third streets, and one of them poked the muzzle of an ugly-looking revolver in his face.
At that moment Mr. Corway had his hands thrust deep in his light overcoat pockets, and the suddenness of the demand made at a time when his mind was in a perturbed, chaotic state, evidently was not clearly comprehended. At any rate, he failed to comply instantly, with the result that he received a heavy blow on the back of his head with some blunt instrument, which felled him like a log. His unquestioned personal courage, and his reputation of being a dead shot at twenty paces availed him nothing. He was not permitted time, short as was needed, to wrest his mind from its pre-occupied business to grasp a mode of defense, before he was struck down. He thought he had met with, what many others before him have met on the streets of Portland after dark, a “holdup.”
When he recovered consciousness the smell of tar and whiskey was strong about him. To his dazed senses, for his brain had not completely cleared of a stunned sensation in his head, this smell was incomprehensible, and suddenly becoming startled, he cried out, half aloud: “For the love of God, where am I?” And then a recollection of the apparent “holdup” dawned on his mind.
He lay still for a moment trying to trace his actions following the blow he had received, but in vain; all was a blank. It was very dark where he was lying, and he fancied he heard the swish of waters. He put out his right hand and felt the wooden side of a berth. He put out his left hand and felt a wooden wall. Then he tried to sit up, but the pain in his head soon compelled him to desist.
He lay quiet again and distinctly heard a sound of straining, creaking timbers. He at once concluded he was on a ship. “Why! Wherefore! Good God, have I been shanghaied?” were the thoughts that leaped to his mind, and notwithstanding the pain in his head, he attempted to sit up, but his head bumped violently against some boards just above him, and he fell back again, stunned. He had struck the wooden part of the upper berth. He, however, soon recovered and commenced to think lucidly again. He knew how prevalent the practice of forcibly taking men to fill an ocean ship’s crew had become in Portland and other Coast cities by seamen’s boarding house hirelings, and he felt satisfied that he was one of their victims.
He put his hand in his pocket for a match; there was none; and his clothes felt damp, then a fresh whiskey odor entered his nostrils. “Have I been intoxicated?” The question startled him, but he could not remember taking any liquor. “No; I am sure of that, but why this odor; perhaps this berth has been occupied by some ‘drunk’.”
A feeling of disgust urged him to get out of it at once, and he threw his leg over the side of the berth and stood upright.
The pain in the back of his head throbbed so fiercely that he clapped his hand over it, which afforded only temporary relief. He then thought of his handkerchief, which he found in his pocket, and though smelling of whiskey, he bound it about his head.
Being now in full possession of his faculties, and feeling strong on his legs, he determined to investigate his quarters. “Oh, for a light!”
Again he felt in his pockets for a match and found none, but he discovered that his watch was gone, and a further search revealed that every cent of his money was gone.
At this time, in addition to occasional indistinct sounds of the swish of waters against the bow, he heard some tramping about overhead, as by barefooted men, acting seemingly under orders from a hoarse voice farther away.
His first impulse was to shout to apprise them of his presence, but on second thought decided to remain silent for a time, or until he could determine their character.
So he proceeded to grope around, first extending his foot in different directions, and then his hands. He found three berths, one above the other, and then, fearful of bumping his head against some projecting beam or other obstacle, put out his left hand as a feeler before him, and slowly worked along by the side of the berths.
Soon his foot struck something hard, unlike wood, for it appeared to give a little, and putting down his hand, felt it to be a coil of rope. It was in an open space at the end of the berths. A little further his foot struck some wood, and feeling about with his hand, found it was a partition wall. On rounding the partition a very thin ray of light issued from a crevice in front, and then he discovered steps.
He crawled up to a door, opened it, and peered out on a pile of lumber. Above it masts towered up into the darkness, with sails hoisted, but unset and flapping lazily to and fro in the wake of the breeze.
It was near the dawn, light clouds almost transparent and partly obscuring the moon, drifted along in the sky, while here and there, through openings of deepest blue, glittered countless stars.
The air was fresh, too, a little raw and chill, but good to inhale after the dead rank odor from which he had just escaped.
An open space in the lumber pile just in front of the forecastle door, and left to facilitate ingress and egress, gave him room to stretch. The light that glimmered faintly through a chink in the door was from a lantern that hung on the fore mast, a few feet above the deck-load of lumber.
By the aid of this light he looked over and along the surface of the lumber aft to where some men were dimly silhouetted against the aft sail, then swinging abeam, by a lantern on the poop.
Without hesitation he mounted the lumber and was immediately accosted by a gruff voice from behind: “Where away now shipmate?”
“That’s something I should like to know,” replied Corway, turning around and facing the questioner.
Then he saw that the ship was being towed down the Columbia River, of which he was certain by its width, by a steamer, and the man who had addressed him was leaning on the boom that swung over the forecastle.
“You’ll know soon enough when your ‘watch’ comes,” said the man with a grunt that may have been meant for a laugh.
“I say, friend,” went on Corway, pleadingly, “I am not a sailor, and as there must be some mistake about me being on this ship, may I ask what means were used to get me aboard?”
“Well, that’s a rummie,” said the fellow, leering at Corway, and after a moment of seeming reflection, he continued: “Well, I reckon it’s not a mate’s place to give out information, but bein’ you’ve a sore top an’ wearin’ city clothes, I will say this much: you had stowed away such a bally lot of booze that you come to the ship like a gentleman, sir. Yes, sir. And nothing short of a hack with a pair of blacks to draw it, would do for you, sir.”
“In a hack, you say!” exclaimed Corway, alertly.
“Yes, sir; in a hack, just as we cast off from the sawmill wharf at Portland.”
“Strange! The hack I saw yesterday afternoon, and again at the depot last night, was drawn by black horses,” muttered Corway to himself, and after a moment of deep reflection, went on: “Looks like a conspiracy to get me out of the way. I say, my good fellow, do you remember the time I was brought on board and how many were in the party?”
“That’s none o’ my business,” replied the mate, turning away.
“Oh, come now,” said Corway, pleadingly, for he believed this man could tell more about the affair than he cared to.
“Well, all I seen was three swabs that said they was from the Sailor boardin’ house, chuck you aboard about two bells,” replied the mate, indifferently, as he straightened himself up.
Corway then noted the huge proportions of the fellow and thought: “What a terrorizing bully he could be to the poor sailors that chanced to anger him at sea.”
“But I never was in a sailor boarding house in my life.”
“Oh, tryin’ to crawfish from your bargain, eh?” laughed the big fellow. “It won’t go; ship’s bally well short-handed, long vige, too, and the capt’n had to do it!”
“Do what?” Corway sharply snapped.
“Why, he pays over the money afore they’d h’ist ye over the rail. Better talk to the capt’n. He’s comin’ for’ard now,” and the mate stepped over and leaned on the bulwark.
Corway at once turned and moved toward the captain, who was approaching with his first officer, from amidships, smoking a cigar.
“Yes, I am the captain. What do you want?”
“To be put ashore!” Corway demanded. “I’ve been sandbagged and robbed, and evidently sold to you for a sailor, which I am not.”
“Not a sailor, eh,” the captain said, taking the cigar from his mouth and looking sharply at Corway. “What did you sign the articles for?”
“I never signed any articles.” By this time Corway was fully alive to his position and spoke with rising heat and ill-suppressed indignation.
“Oh, yes you did!” sneered the first officer, “but you were too drunk to remember it.”
“Repeat that, and I’ll choke the words back down your throat,” and Corway stepped menacingly toward him.
The captain held up his hand warningly and looked at Corway as if he was daffy, then said slowly and meaningly: “Be careful, young man; that is insubordination; a repetition will land you in irons. The boarding-house master swore that he saw you sign the articles, and he had other witnesses to your signature to satisfy me before I paid him your wages for six months in advance on your order.”
“I signed no articles, and I know nothing about it,” fumed Corway. “And I again demand, as an American citizen, that you put me ashore, or I shall libel this ship for abduction.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” sneered the first officer, who was unable to conceal his ill-will to Corway since the latter’s threat to choke him. “Give the dandy a lady’s handkerchief, and he’ll believe the ship’s a jolly good wine cask.”
Corway struck him square on the mouth. “Take that for your insolence, you contemptible puppy,” and following him up with clenched fists, as the officer stumbled back, said wrathfully: “If you speak to me that way again, I’ll break in your anatomy.”
“Here, Judd,” called the captain to the mate on the forecastle. “Take this fellow to the strong room and keep him there on ‘hardtack’ for three days.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Judd.
Hearing the captain’s orders, and seeing the commotion he had created, Corway saw that his only chance for escape was to go overboard, and without further hesitation sprang toward the side of the ship for a plunge, but his toe caught on the edge of a warped board and down he went sprawling.
The big mate jumped on him, and though he fought desperately, he was overpowered, and the last he remembered was being dragged by the collar over the lumber toward the forecastle.
When he next got on deck the ship was far out to sea and bowling along in a stiff breeze.
It is said that it is an ill wind that doesn’t blow somebody good.
So with Mr. Corway, for though the boarding-house toughs had nearly given him his quietus and sent him on a long journey, they had conveniently done him the effective service of quashing an encounter with John Thorpe.
When Sam regained consciousness it was to find himself on a couch in his uncle’s home, with the odor of ammonia in his nostrils. For a couple of minutes he lay very still, collecting his scattered senses, and then, as the clouds that darkened his brain cleared away, the events of the night dawned upon his memory.
Two men were in the room conversing in low tones. They were standing near the dressing-case, back of the couch, which had been drawn out to the middle of the room to facilitate examination of his injuries. One of the speakers he recognized by the voice as his uncle. The other he soon made out to be the family doctor.
“Then you are quite satisfied he is not badly hurt?”
“So far as I have been able to examine him, yes. The concussion, when he struck the hard roadbed, produced insensibility. The cut of the cuticle covering the left parietal bone, just above the ear, is not dangerous, since there is no fracture. I do not anticipate any serious result, fortunately. It might have been worse—it might have been worse!”
“Quite true; still we should have more confidence in his recovery if we were certain the worst has passed.”
“All passed, Uncle—I guess so!” spoke up Sam, in cheery tones, and he sat up on the couch.
“Ha, ha, Sam, my boy; not so fast. Glad to hear your voice again, but you must rest; you must rest. You need it. The doctor insists,” and Mr. Harris hastened to his side to urge him again to lie down.
Nevertheless Sam arose to his feet and remarked: “All right, Uncle! A little sore up there,” and he motioned to the sore side of his head. “But that’s all—I guess.”
“You must avoid excitement,” cautioned the doctor. “And I advise you at once to take to your bed and remain there until I make a thorough diagnosis of your case, which I shall do in the morning.”
“Not if I know it. Not much—I guess not!” mentally noted Sam.
Turning to Mr. Harris, he asked: “How long have I been unconscious, Uncle, and who brought me home?”
The question was put by Sam with an eagerness bordering on excitement.
It was noticed by both the gentlemen.
“I insist that you go to bed, Sam,” pleaded Mr. Harris.
“The very best thing you can do, sir,” added the doctor.
“Of course, Uncle, I shall do so to please you; but the only soreness I feel is on the side of my head, and I’ve often felt worse. But you have not answered my questions.”
“You were unconscious for about two hours. My Lord Beauchamp brought you home in an automobile. It seems he was returning from a spin out on the Barnes road and accidentally ran his machine against you. He, like the perfect gentleman he is, immediately stopped and went to your aid. He recognized you and brought you home with all speed.”
“Ah! Very queer!” exclaimed Sam, significantly.
“What is queer, Sam?” Mr. Harris interrogated, with a keen, penetrating, yet puzzled look.
“Why, that fellow,” and Sam checked himself from making a grave charge, by indifferently remarking: “Oh, it seems queer to be run over,” and then he looked up and continued: “Doctor, I thank you for your attention; good night.
“Uncle, good night; I’m going to bed.”
“Very sensible, Sam; good night.”
“This powder is an opiate and will act to produce sound sleep, which is very essential to counter the shock your nervous system has received,” said the doctor, as he laid out the potion. “Take it, after getting into bed.”
“Thank you,” and Sam fingered the powder gingerly. “Good night, Doctor.”
“Good night, sir.”
As Mr. Harris and the doctor left the room Sam stood for a moment in deep thought, then muttered to himself: “That fellow out there near midnight. No lights or gong on his machine. Deliberately ran me down—and Virginia about! Did he know she was to be there?” He shook his head—“It looks queer.” And then he lifted his eyes in a quick, resolute way.
“I’ll be back in the park at dawn—I guess so!”
With that he flipped the opiate out of the window.
It was in the gray of the dawn when Sam alighted from the first outbound car at the junction of Twenty-third and Washington streets and immediately struck out for the City park.
He was desirous of being the first visitor there, and he was inordinately curious to examine by the light of day the ground he had traversed a few hours previous, and particularly the spot where Virginia had met the mysterious stranger, as also the tangle of vines in which he was satisfied had lurked most deadly danger.
He had been urged on by an indefinable something, a sort of presentiment that quickened to impatience, his desire for an early trip to the park, and pursuing his way steadily along, afraid of no ambush now, for he was armed, he at length arrived at the spot which he recognized by the clump of firs close to the row of the esplanade benches. He examined the ground as carefully as the uncertain light would permit. Discovering nothing unusual, he was about to abandon the search and make his way over to the tangle of vines, when on second thought he decided to wait awhile for stronger light. Producing a cigar, he contentedly sat on a bench—the very same Virginia had occupied—near a tree.
Sam was not of a romantic turn of mind, yet his attention was arrested by the sublime grandeur of the scene confronting him. The morning was emerging from the deep darkness of night, mild, clean and fresh. The base of the distant eastern hills was yet shrouded in inky blackness—a blackness intensified by a vast superimposed floating mass of thin fog, seemingly motionless in the noticeably still air.
The billowy crest of this fleecy, semi-transparent mass of vapor reflected a mellow chastity, while the irregular points of the rugged mountain tops were sharply defined against the soft emerald, golden-pink light that streaked and massed the sky in the advance of a promising Autumn morn.
The huge, glistening white peaks of Hood and Adams and St. Helens, towered in lofty majesty, clear and individually distinct above the high altitudes of the range that encompassed them, and even as he looked, a soft, rose-red tinge tipped the apex of Mount Hood, which appeared unusually close, and crept softly down the glacis of its snow-covered, precipitous sides.
And nearer, at his feet, in a basin—the city spread out far and wide.
The silvery green waters of the Willamette River, cutting through the city’s center, silently glided along its sinuous course to the Columbia; while patches of thin mist flitted timidly about on its placid surface, to vanish like tardy spirits of a departing night.
The grand panorama gave his usually buoyant spirits pause.
Gradually the light of his eyes changed from absorbing admiration to a reflective mood, in which the strange behavior of Virginia Thorpe was the predominating subject.
That money, possibly blackmail, was the object of the stranger—scoundrel. Sam could think of him in no other light after the night’s experience. There was no doubt, for he had plainly heard her say in a loud, surprised tone, “Twenty thousand dollars.”
Suddenly the hoarse whistle of a far-off industrial establishment vibrated the air and aroused him from his deep reverie. The morning was well advanced.
As the light in his eyes quickened from a pensive stare at the ground a few paces from his feet, he perceived a shred of red peeping between the blades of short grass. He picked it up. It was a narrow piece of soiled and worn ribbon, but attached to it was an old oxidized bronze medal, about the size of a silver quarter-dollar. The inscription upon its rim was in Latin, but Sam clearly made out one word, “Garibaldi,” from which he concluded its late owner must be an Italian.
From the smooth condition of the medal, and unweathered appearance of the ribbon, he judged it must have been recently lost.
“What if it had been accidentally dropped by the man talking to Virginia last night?” The idea was fraught with great possibilities.
“A clue! A sure clue, as I live,” and Sam’s enthusiasm soared with the recollection of seeing the man thrust his hand into the inside breast of his coat to show the knife, when it was quite possible the medal either became unfastened from its clasp, or being loose in his pocket, had been drawn out with the knife and slipped noiselessly to the ground.
Somehow Sam’s thoughts flew back to the night of his uncle’s reception, and connected the old Italian beggar loitering about the grounds with the medal.
“Was he the owner of the medal? And, if so, was he the same party that met Virginia, and whom he had followed last night?”
“Heavens! Could he have kidnapped Dorothy?” A train of thought had been started and rushed through Sam’s brain with prodigious alacrity.
“Was the twenty thousand dollars he had heard Virginia mention with surprise, a ransom?”
“If Virginia knew that Dorothy was in the hands of the Dago, why did she keep it secret? And what business had Beauchamp out on the Barnes road last night?” Sam derided the idea of him being out there alone, for a spin.
With these thoughts, and others, pregnant with momentous possibilities, he continued the search. Finding nothing more, he sprang onto the path that led to the tangle of vines. There was the very spot. No mistaking it. Along that fence he had crept in the darkness of night. Those the leaves he had touched with his hands, and he thrust his stout cane among them, but no hiss, or rattle, or glitter of something sinister, greeted his probing now.
Into the gloomy recess of the jungle he made his way, derisively fearless of any possible lurking danger.
He parted the overhanging foliage to let in more light. Ah, it was all plain now.
There close to his elbow was the artfully concealed exit through the foliage, and the pickets loose at the bottom. There the man had stood—not more than a foot of space separating them when Sam’s hand touched the leaves, and the glitter—well, it was the vicious glint of an ugly knife. Of that Sam now felt perfectly satisfied.
Pushing the leaves further apart to enlarge the opening overhead, so as to admit more light, he discovered several strands of hair of a brownish color clinging to the end of a broken twig in the cavity of the tangle, which he at once conjectured had been torn from the man’s false beard. These strands of hair Sam carefully gathered and placed between the leaves of his notebook. “Maybe, maybe they’ll be useful some day. I guess so,” he muttered.
He resumed the search, but with the exception of a few indistinct shoeprints on the soft soil, found nothing more to interest him, and squeezing himself through the aperture in the fence, he quickly emerged on the Barnes road, well satisfied with his morning’s work.
One hour later, with his hat jauntily set on the side of his head, effectually concealing the wound, Sam was walking on Third street, in front of the “Plaza” blocks, where several vegetable vendors rendezvous preparatory for their morning’s work. Several bustling women, hotel stewards and others were out early, marketing. As he wended his way through the bargain-driving throng, the loud voice of an olive-skinned huckster standing on the rear footboard of his heavily-laden wagon, attracted his attention. It was a covered, one-horse express wagon, common on the city streets, and contained a motley assortment of oranges, bruised bananas, melons and the like.
He was putting in a paper bag some bananas he had sold to a woman, who stood by, at the same time talking volubly—evidently in an effort to fend off her too curiously searching eyes from the over-ripe fruit.
“Eesa good-a da lady. Nice-a da ripe-a.”
“Oh, they are too ripe! Put in those other ones, they don’t look so soft.”
“Eesa note-a da soft-a; only a da black-a da skin. Look-a,” and he peeled a diminutive banana.
“How nice and clean those are in that wagon over there. I think I’ll buy some of them. You needn’t mind putting those up for me.”
“Sacre, Tar-rah-rah! Eesa beg-a da pardon, good-a da lady. Take eem all for a ten-a da cent-a,” and he thrust the bag of fruit into her hands. “Eesa ‘chink’ wagon. Show all-a da good-a side, hide-a da rotten side. Da morrow, Eesa sell-a da turnoppsis, carrottsis, cababages, every kind-a da veg-a-ta-bles. Some-a time Eesa black-a da boots. Saw da ood. Do anyting gett-a da mon. Go back-a da sunny Italy.”
He was so insistent, with fear of being made a subject for coarse remonstrance, she paid him his price and departed. Whereupon he again began to bawl out in his peculiar Dago dialect: “Or-ran-ges! Ba-nans! Nice-a da ripe-a banans. Ten-a cents-a doz-z. Me-lo-nas! War-ter-me-lo-nas! Nice-a da ripe-a Musha Me-lonas!” and he suddenly lowered his voice on observing Sam halt in front of him.
“Eesa tenna cent-a da one. Nice-a da ripe-a, my friend. Take-a eem a da home, two for-a da fifteen-a da centa.” And he handled a couple of small melons.
“Sacre, da damn,” and his voice again rose to a high pitch, as he shouted: “Me-lo-nas! Ba-nans! Nice-a da ripe-a da Ba-nans. Tenn-a cents-a doz!”
The peculiar idioms of the fellow, and his manner of delivery seemed strangely familiar, and as Sam moved along slowly, a pace or two, rumaging his brain for identification, he suddenly remembered the old cripple at his uncle’s reception, and also, only last night, the mysterious stranger in the park.
It may be pertinent to remark that Jack Shore had obtained most of his dago dialect from a close study of this very man. The similarity of speech and voice, therefore, was accountable for Sam’s mistake of identification.
A moment later, among a passing throng, Sam stopped and pretended to pick up a small copper-colored medal appended to a bit of soiled ribbon. He halted and ostentatiously displayed it, turning it over and over in his hands while examining it. It attracted the attention of an Italian nearby, who at once claimed the medal.
“If it is yours, no doubt you can describe certain marks which appear on its surface?”
“I don-a have to. Eets a Garibaldi! Giv-a da me!”
“What else?” Sam pressed for more definite information, for he immediately became convinced that this claimant was not the real owner.
The word Garibaldi attracted a second Italian, a short, fat man, with huge, flat face, who was at once apprised of the find. He asked Sam to let him have it for examination.
Sam refused to let it pass from his hands, explaining that this man had claimed it, but seemingly was unable to identify it. “I will deliver it to the officer,” and he beckoned a policeman to approach.
There followed instantly a lively colloquy between the two Italians, the second one declaring it belonged to Giuseppe—for he had seen him with it, and he turned to Sam.
“That man,” indicating the fruit vendor, on express wagon license number 346, “is own it. I’m sure he will it tell-a you so,” and he shouted, “Giuseppe!”
Giuseppe heard and shouted back, “Ta-rah-rah!”
As they moved toward him the short man continued to address Sam. “His fadder was wit Garibaldi at Palestrino.”
“Giuseppe, have you lost your fadder’s medal?”
Giuseppe had stepped from his wagon to the curb. With a surprised look he instantly replied, “No! Eesa len eem to deeza fren.”
“When you len eem?” the short, fat man asked.
“Eesa bout five-six day. Why for youse-a ax deeze-a question?”
There was no mistaking the fact that Giuseppe’s frank response conveyed the truth.
Sam believed him.
The short man again spoke. “This man pick eem up there. It belong to you. Ask eem for it.”
“Geeve it-a da me, boss.”
“This man has claimed it as his. Yet he cannot identify it,” replied Sam. “Now, to prove it is yours, tell me its size, and the letters on its two sides.”
“Eesa bout as big as-a deeze.” And Giuseppe produced an American quarter dollar. “Look-a da close. Eesa one-a da side ‘Emanual Rex.’ Below eet a Garibaldi. In-a da middle eesa solidar holding a flag.”
“So far, good!” exclaimed Sam, eyeing the man searchingly and committing to memory his every lineament.
Giuseppe continued, “Eesa da odder side, ‘Palestrino, MDCCCXLIX.’ In a da middle, ‘Liber.’”
“Correct!” said Sam.
“What color is the bit of ribbon?” asked the policeman.
“Eesa be da red. A leetle-a da faded,” was the answer.
Sam was convinced that Giuseppe was the real owner of the medal. A possible important discovery. And he smiled as their eyes met full, face to face. And the Italian smiled at Sam’s open-faced frankness; but utterly unsuspecting the splendidly concealed satisfaction that prompted the smile from Sam.
“Where does the man live to whom you loaned this?” asked Sam.
Giuseppe appeared puzzled. He looked up the street, then down the street, but finally said, “I dunno, eesa move away las week.”
“Where did he live?”
“In-a da cabin—odder side Nort Pacific Mill, at-a da Giles lak.”
“What is his name?”
“George-a da Golda!”
Sam was careful to appear unconcerned, and, to avoid questions that might arouse suspicions of something “crooked”—“Well,” he continued, “I have no doubt the medal is yours, but it is a valuable souvenir, and as Mr. Golda may have something to say, I shall leave my address with this officer.” He thereupon handed the officer a card, remarking, “Please file it at your headquarters.”
Then again turning to Giuseppe, Sam continued, “You notify Mr. Golda to call at the police station and put in his claim and I will be on hand with the medal at any time the authorities apprise me of Mr. Golda’s arrival.”
The Italian’s disgust was plain and he ejaculated, “Sacre da-be damn! Eesa mak George-a Golda fetch eem back. Garibaldi geeve eet-a ma fadder.”
Without further question, Sam proceeded on his way to Simm’s office. That Giuseppe was not the man Sam was after, appeared certain, but that he was well acquainted with the fellow, there seemed no doubt.
Giuseppe must be watched, for he would find Golda to get the medal back, as it was evident Giuseppe treasured it as an heirloom.
While deeply engrossed on this line of thought, Sam was starting down Third street on his way to Detective Simms’ office, and had nearly reached Alder street when his reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice, exclaiming, “Good marnin’, sor!”
“How are you?” responded Sam, recognizing Smith.
“Sure, I’m failin’ foine, axcipt”—and a wistful look came into his eyes—“axcipt for a sore spot in me heart. God shield her!” and he bent his head reverently.
Sam knew full well the object of Smith’s allusion, and said sympathetically, “You share in the sorrow of your house?”
“Indade: I do, sor! Tin years ave I known her swate disposition. Sure, didn’t I drive her coach to the church whin she married him? And she was kind to my poor wife, too, whin she suffered betimes wid brankites. God rest her soule! She’s wid the angels now! But I see yeese do be hurted!”
“A bruise! An accident last night, but it’s nothing, I guess! Are you out for a bracer this morning?”
“Just a little sthrole, wid me eye open for signs.”
“Signs of what?”
“Oh, the dinsity of the cratchur! Sure, I do be always lookin’ fer the little wan.”
“Why don’t you search the river?” suggested Sam significantly; “her mother says she is drowned.”
“Yis! Poor woman! And she belaives it, too, so she do. But says I to myself, says I, some blackguard thaif has sthole the little sunbeam of her heart, which do be nearly broken entirely, so it do!” and Smith turned his head away to hide the tears that came unbidden to his eyes.
“Do you think so?”
“I do.”
“Do you?”
“I do, by me faith, I do, and ave I could lay me hands on the wan who is raysponsible fer it, sure there’d be somethin’ doin’!”
Sam had slim faith in George Golda calling at the police station to claim the medal, but he believed it possible to locate him by diligent and discreet inquiry. With that idea he beckoned Smith into a lobby of an adjacent building, which at that early hour was untenanted, and produced the medal from his vest pocket. Handing it to Smith, he said guardedly, “I found it in the City Park this morning.”
“Sure I can’t rade Frinch at all, at all!” said Smith, examining the bronze.
“It’s a Garibaldi medal. I can trust you with it?”
“Phwat d’yees mane?” Smith responded with a snap.
“This,” and Sam added confidentially in a low voice, “circulate among the shanties and scow dwellers below the North Pacific mill. Show the medal, prudently, mind, but never let it pass out of your hands.”
“I want!” responded Smith, thrusting it in his inside coat pocket. “Be it raysponsible for yees hurt?”
“Of that—well, no matter—I fear where the fellow who lost the bronze lives—there will be found the little one.” Sam had spoken in a voice so soft and low and grave that it startled Smith.
During the pause that followed, he looked at Sam in steadfast amaze.
“Do yees belave it?” he finally asked.
“I do!”
“Sure, yees do be after me own hart. I tould thim some thaivin’ blackguard——”
“Hush!” Sam interrupted, “not so loud. If a fellow by the name of George Golda claims it”——
“George Golda!” repeated Smith.
“Yes; if George Golda claims it bring him to me. If he will not come, track him, and let me know where he lives as soon as possible. Do it quietly.”
“Sure, I will that. D’yees think he’s the wan?” whispered Smith, intensely interested.
“We shall see,” replied Sam. “But don’t part with the bronze. You will remember?”
“I will, be me soul, I will, and be the token ave it, I’ll”—and Smith spat on his hands and made other significant manifestations quite understandable to descendants of a fighting nation.
Immediately thereafter Sam continued on to Simms’ office, and there, closeted with the detective, related his experience.
Twenty minutes later, a quiet, unassuming, seedy-looking man carelessly lounged about in the vicinity of the Plaza fountain, and no matter what position he occupied, or where he loitered, express No. 346 and its driver never escaped from his sight.
The sun had traversed half the distance from the horizon to the zenith when Rutley called at Rosemont for information concerning the seriousness of Sam’s injuries, and incidentally to have a chat with Hazel, for he was very fond of the girl.
“We appreciate your lordship’s anxiety to learn of Sam’s condition, and I am sure Sam will express to you his gratefulness for promptly bringing him home,” added Mrs. Harris.
“I am glad he is able to be about,” continued Rutley, looking at the floor, “though I should imagine a few days of quiet rest after such a vigorous shake-up would be attended by beneficial results.”
“I am sure of it,” said Mr. Harris; “for immediately he regained consciousness there seemed to come over him a worry about something—”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, in surprise. “I cannot conceive Sam being worried about anything.”
“Nevertheless, my dear, the boy did appear worried last night, or rather early this morning, and though he spoke and acted quite rational, still it has given me much concern.” Again turning to Rutley, “And imagine my astonishment, too, when on going to his room early this morning I found he had gone.”
“He hadn’t even been in bed—had evidently not undressed—just flung himself down on the couch.”
“You don’t apprehend the wound exerts undue pressure on the brain?” queried Rutley, in the most carefully studied manner, as he looked meaningly at Mr. Harris.
“James, you should have insisted on the doctor remaining with the dear boy over night.”
“My dear, Sam would not listen to it. I think nervousness and a gloriously fresh morning urged him to an early walk, and his return has been delayed by meeting some friends.”
“Quite likely,” responded Rutley.
“If Sam continues to worry, I shall advise a trip to Texas. The bracing air of that latitude has heretofore proven very beneficial to his constitution.”
“A happy idea, Mr. Harris,” and the grave, concerned look that had settled on Rutley’s face relaxed and vanished in a smile of cunning satisfaction, as he thought how agreeable it would be to have that troublesome fellow out of the way. “I have crossed that country and can testify to the purity, dryness and health invigorating quality of its air. Indeed, I do not think you could suggest a more wholesome vacation than a month of rollicking, free life on the Texas plains.”
“A trip to Texas may all be very well in its way, but I know something of the dear boy’s malady and believe that no climatic change, temporary or prolonged, can be of the least benefit to him,” impressively broke in Mrs. Harris.
“Well, well! Now I do remember that when a boy Sam fell and severely hurt his left knee; and so the old complaint is asserting itself again, eh? You see, Your Lordship”——
“Dear me! How stupid men are!” interrupted Mrs. Harris, with much dignity.
“Ah! James, the dear boy’s affliction is of deeper moment. It lacerates the very source and fountain of life. It is, I may add, an affair of the heart.”
“Oh! You don’t tell Sam is—is—ahem, ahem!”—and to suppress a smile Mr. Harris coughed.
“It is possible you misconceive your most estimable lady’s meaning,” suggested Rutley, with a smile. “Perhaps it is a case of heart failure.”
“Nonsense!”
“James!” quickly retorted Mrs. Harris, with asperity.
Mr. Harris looked meaningly at her, then turned to Rutley. “I beg Your Lordship’s pardon. I did not mean to ridicule your suggestion. At the time I used the word ‘nonsense’ I was thinking of the fact, the one of love,” replied Mr. Harris.
“James! I never thought when I plighted my love to you it was nonsense!” and Mrs. Harris brushed a handkerchief across her eyes.
“There, there, dear heart!” and Mr. Harris stepped to her side, tenderly turned her face upward and kissed her lips. “That day was the happiest of my life, though I have been happy ever since.”
“Heart of gold!” exclaimed Mrs. Harris, smiling through her tears. “And I have never wished I had turned from that altar of our happy union.”
“I perceive the cause of Sam’s worry now, dear,” and the irrepressible Mr. Harris turned to Rutley, “You see, My Lord, it is this way, a lovely young lady guest—since Mr. Corway’s strange disappearance—is an inadvertent companion of our Sam, and his troubles were brought on by the sly darts of a little fellow with wings.”
“Wrong again!” asserted Mrs. Harris. “James, let me assure you in all candor that Hazel Brooke is not the lady our Sam is worrying about, as the fair democrat can testify.”
Just then Hazel entered the room, a poem of grace; a rose glow overspread her soft cheeks, while her eyes sparkled with health and vivacity.
Rutley’s eyes at once betrayed his admiration.
The girl was quick to notice it and immediately evinced her pleasure by advancing straight to his side.
“Good morning, My Lord. When I plucked this beauty,” displaying a slender stemmed white chrysanthemum which was held between her fingers, “I instinctively felt that it was to adorn the breast of a distinguished friend, and now see where it flies for rest,” and she smilingly fastened the flower to the lapel of his coat.
“I shall proudly treasure it, for without doubt its chrysalis chastity is jealous of its human rival, hence the parting of the two flowers. Is it not so?” questioned Rutley, with the most winsome, yet grave smile he could fashion.
“Hazel—the Lady Beauchamp, sounds quite recherche,” Mrs. Harris whispered to Mr. Harris.
“Looks as if it might be a go,” he responded in like tones.
“It is white and pretty,” Hazel murmured, casting a demure glance at her own faultlessly white dress and then naively remarked, while a serious question stole over her countenance:
“I have just come from the water front, where I have been watching the men drag for poor little Dorothy.”
“Poor child! So sad to be drowned!” said Mrs. Harris, in a reflective mood.
“Or stolen!” exclaimed Mr. Harris. “I shall not give up hope until that old cripple is located.”
Only Hazel noticed the swift glance Rutley shot at Mr. Harris, but she gave it no significance.
“Poor fellow, he feels the loss of his child very deeply,” continued Mr. Harris. “Yesterday Thorpe was in one of the boats for three hours. My Lord may see them dragging the river from the piazza.” Whereupon Mr. Harris and Rutley went out on the piazza, leaving Mrs. Harris and Hazel by themselves.
“Hazel, dear,” spoke Mrs. Harris softly and confidentially, “there is a lady’s tiara awaiting you, if my judgment is not faulty.”
“He seems to be a nice sort of man,” replied the girl.
“A nice sort of man!” remarked Mrs. Harris, astonished. “Why, Hazel! He is one of the nobility. Superior, distinguished! Do you note his condescending air? It is hereditary, my dear. Conscious of being above us, yet every look and move indicates a study to make a descent to our level.”
“Notwithstanding—I think—well—I prefer Joe!” demurely insisted the maid. “He is not quite so polished, but—I like him better, anyway.”
“What! A commoner to a lord? A straw hat to a lady’s tiara? Why, Hazel!”
“That is my choice,” replied the girl, quietly but firmly.
Hazel’s calm dignity irritated Mrs. Harris, and she remarked with a puzzled expression of countenance, “Dear me! I never could understand the fountain of your democratic ideas, Hazel; and the enigma is deeper to me now than ever.”
Hazel’s reply, muttered with the same quiet dignity, was as puzzling to Mrs. Harris as ever. “I am an American, and I love our country too well to leave it for some foreign land.”
Further conversation was cut short by Mr. Harris, who addressed Hazel.
“Did you notice John Thorpe in one of the boats, Hazel?”
“I think so; they were too far away to say positively,” replied the girl.
“Well, here comes Sam, and—and—yes, it’s Virginia Thorpe!” exclaimed Mr. Harris exultantly turning to Mrs. Harris.
“Did I not say it was possible he had met with a friend? Look how proud and joyous he seems walking by her side. No kink in his knee now. Sound as a bell.”
“James, I beg again to correct you. Sam is not lame. His malady has something to do with the charming lady by his side,” remarked Mrs. Harris.
“Oh, I see. She has a pull on him, eh?”
“Yes, a most strenuous one, I may add, as you mere merchants speak of it.”
When Sam entered the room, he was greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Harris with much fervor.
Sam had removed his hat in the vestibule and unconsciously displayed the evidence of his night’s encounter with the automobile. The sight of the plastered wound on his head caused Mrs. Harris to exclaim:
“Oh, my boy, my boy!” and she put her motherly arms about his neck.
“All right, aunty!” said Sam, as he lightly kissed her on the forehead. “Never felt better. Just a scratch. Might have been worse. Eh? I guess so!” and he held her at arms’ length and grinned at her affectionately.
“Where is Virginia? I am sure we saw her with you, Sam!” questioned Mr. Harris.
“She wouldn’t come in, uncle. Gone on down to the shore. She expressed a wish to find you there.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Harris, with alacrity. “I shan’t disappoint her. Splendid young lady. Brainy, good-looking, very fetching, eh, Sam?” and so saying, he turned, bowed to Rutley and left the room.
“I am thankful you were not killed, and think how much we owe his lordship for having so promptly brought you home,” continued Mrs. Harris.
Sam looked sharply at Rutley, not having noticed him in the room before.
Rutley met his stare with a most affable bow and remarked, “I am pleased to see that Mr. Samuel Harris is able to be about.”
There was a bit of keen cynicism, a sort of faltering regret in Rutley’s delivery, which did not escape detection by Sam.
It almost confirmed him in his suspicion that My Lord had run him down in a deliberate attempt to kill or disable him. The impression caused him momentarily to withhold speech, even in his aunt’s presence. The incident was noticed by Mrs. Harris, who at once concluded something was amiss with Sam, and visions of dementia occasioned by the wound flitted across her brain.
“Dear me! What is coming over him?” she remarked in an awed voice. “He never acted so queer before. Sam!” and she shook him and looked in his face as though she feared some distressing discovery.
Rutley was perceptibly uneasy under Sam’s steady stare and suddenly assumed a pose of freezing haughtiness, deliberately and with studied ceremony adjusted the monocle to his eye and fixed a stony stare at Sam.
Then he turned to Hazel, the very apotheosis of stilted grace and, offering her his arm, said in his most suave and gracious manner:
“I shall be deeply sensible of the honor of your company for a stroll on the lawn.”
For a moment the girl hesitated, as though undecided between courtesy due her hostess and friendliness to My Lord.
Observing the embarrassed expression of Mrs. Harris caused by Sam’s rudeness, she chose to accept Rutley’s arm, remarking, “It is so very beautiful this morning that I love to be out in the soft sunshine.”
Then through the room they passed—passed Mrs. Harris, to whom Rutley bent his head, passed Sam, who might as well have been in the Antipodes, for all Rutley seemed to see of him, though he looked directly at him, through him, and beyond him, out into the sunshine, with a triumphant smile playing about the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, Sam! you have humiliated me beyond anything I could ever dream of,” said Mrs. Harris, whose pain and bewilderment was plainly evident.
“Aunty!” and Sam stooped and gently kissed her forehead.
“I’m sorry my rudeness got the best of me. I did not mean to offend or pain you; but I shall never apologize to that fellow. Never! Never!”
His earnestness was so intense, so unlike his usual self, that his aunt abruptly arose from the chair and in a startled voice said, “Dear me! Why, what do you know, Sam?”
“Why!”—and Sam’s face broke into a broad smile, his usual buoyant spirit asserting itself—“why, bless your dear soul, aunty, he’s a villain!”
“Lord Beauchamp a villain!” she exclaimed, horrified, and she straightened up in offended dignity.
“Sam, permit me to declare you shock me with your irreverence.”
“Well, he gave me the jolt”——
“Not another word!” and she held up her warning finger. “I perceive it my duty, a duty unhappily too long deferred, to instruct you in the art of proper form, especially when in the presence of the nobility,” and so saying, she swept down the room with all the stately majesty of a grand dame.
At the mantle she turned and continued, “The case being important, I shall read you a lesson on deportment by—by, dear me! I have forgotten the author’s name. But that is immaterial. I shall get the book from the library. Don’t leave the room,” and so saying she entered the library, to his great relief.
Sam was in a very serious frame of mind. The night’s work had developed tragic possibilities, and anything of a lugubrious nature interposing in his trend of thought was dismissed at once.
It was, therefore, no easy task for him to assume readily an air of nonchalance, even in the presence of his aunt, who had schooled him in the art. So the moment he was alone his thoughts plunged again into the absorbing events of the night, and presently he found himself considering the policy of making his aunt a confidant.
“Had I better tell her my suspicions?” he thought; “she will ask awkward questions. No, it will not do! Not yet!”
He was aroused from his reverie by a low, deep whispered “Sst!” Looking up, he saw Smith peeping from behind the half open vestibule door.
Smith dared not enter the room for fear of disturbing Mrs. Harris and exciting her curiosity. He saw her enter the library and then he signaled to Sam. Having caught his attention, he held up a warning finger and again repeated “Sst!” adding in a whisper, “Ave some impartant news to tell yees.”
It was well that Smith enjoined caution, for his eyes were expanded and aglow with excitement, and the muscles of his face, tense with serious import, twitched nervously.
Sam’s exclamation of concern died on his lips, and he at once stepped into the vestibule, alert with expectation. Softly closing the door, he said, “What is it, Smith? Speak low and be quick. Aunty is in there”—and he indicated with his thumb the library.
“Sure, she’s in good company, God presarve them. Will yees listen, plaise?”
“Yes, hurry!”
“Whill. I flim-flammed around the scow dwellin’s an’ shanties on the neck ave lant betwix Giles Lak an’ the river—just beyant the Narth Pacific Mills, but divil a wan be the name ave Garge Golda cud I foind at all. Sure, I was nearly dishartened entirely, so I wus, whin who shud bump forninst me but me frint Kelly.”
“Well?” grunted Sam.
“Kelly is a longshoreman, and he understands his business, too, so he do; but he says he’s too big and fat to wurruk much, an’ I belaive him, too, so I do.”
“Well, go on!” again grunted Sam, impatiently.
“Sure, I showed him the Garibaldi you gave me this marnin. ‘Where did yees foind that?’ says he, careless like.
“‘I didn’t foind it at all,’ says I; ‘my frint found it.’
“‘Where at?’ says he.
“‘In the City Park,’ says I. ‘Some fellow lost it last night.’
“‘Sure?’ says he, an’ he looked at me hard.
“‘Sure!’ says I. ‘Phwat wud I be lyin’ to yees fer?’
“‘An’ phwat was the owner doin’ out in the City Park last night?’ says he.
“‘Divil a bit do I know,’ says I.
“‘D’yees know him?’ says he.
“‘Faith, an’ I do not; d’yees?’ says I.
“‘Indade I do,’ says he.
“‘Yees do?’ says I.
“‘I do,’ says he, ‘fer a black-browed, black-moustached, divil-skinned dago.’
“‘Where may be his risidence?’ says I, not wan bit anxious, but with me best efforts to kape me heart from jumpin’ up in me mout’.
“‘He lives in a scow cabin up beyant there, at Ross Island,’ says he.
“‘He do, do he?’ says I.
“‘He do!’ says he. ‘Sure, ave I not talked wit him over that same bit ave bronze but yisterday?’”
“‘Will yees show me the scow cabin?’ says I.
“‘Indade I’ll do that same,’ says he, ‘and wan thing more,’ says he.
“Hist!” and Smith spoke very low and cautiously. “He heard a child cry—or maybe it was a cat. Kelly didn’t know which, not bein’ interested.”
The two stared at each other for a moment in silence, then Sam said: “How long has your friend Kelly known him?”
“I don’t knaw—sure, I didn’t ax him, but I thought it was impartant to tell yees at once. Kelly is waitin’ down be the shipyard. Will yees come?”
“I’ll meet both of you there in an hour. Sh! Aunty is coming. Mum is the word, Smith!”
“Sure, the ould divil himself cudn’t make me tell it to yees aunt.” As he was leaving, Smith said in a whisper, “We’ll wait for yees.”
“I’ll be along soon,” replied Sam, and he muttered thoughtfully, “May be something in it.”