“I will ask the questions,” Achilles had said, in his quiet voice, and it had been arranged that he should come to Idlewood when the surgeon gave the word.
He arrived the next night, stepping from the car as it drew up before the door, and Alcibiades, standing among the flowers talking with Miss Stone, saw him and started and came forward swiftly. He had not known that his father was coming—he ran a little as he came nearer and threw himself in his arms, laughing out.
Achilles smiled—a dark, wistful smile. “You are grown strong,” he said. He held him off to look at him.
The boy’s teeth gleamed—a white line. “To-morrow we go home?” he replied. “I am all well—father—well now!”
But Achilles shook his head. “To-morrow we stay,” he replied. “I stay one day—two days—three—” He looked at the boy narrowly. “Then we go home.”
The boy smiled contentedly and they moved away. Early the next morning he was up before Achilles, calling to him from the garden to hurry and see the flowers before the mist was off them, and showing him, with eager teeth, his own radishes—ready to pull—and little lines of green lettuce that sprang above the earth. “I plant,” said the boy proudly. “I make grow.” He swung his arm over the whole garden.
Achilles watched him with gentle face, following him from bed to bed and stooping to the plants with courteous gesture. It was all like home. They had never been in a garden before—in this new land... the melons and berries and plums and peaches and pears that came crated into the little fruit-shop had grown in unknown fields—but here they stretched in the sun; and the two Greeks moved toward them with laughing, gentle words and quick gestures that flitted and stopped, and went on, and gathered in the day. The new world was gathering its sky about them; and their faces turned to meet it. And with every gesture of the boy, Achilles’s eyes were on him, studying his face, its quick colour running beneath the tan, and the clear light of his eyes. Indoors or out, he was testing him; and with every gesture his heart sang. His boy was well... and he held a key that should open the dark door that baffled them all. When he spoke, that door would open for them—a little way, perhaps—only a little way—but the rest would be clear. And soon the boy would speak.
In the house Philip Harris waited; and with him the chief of police, detectives and plain-clothes men—summoned hastily—waited what should develop. They watched the boy and his father, from a distance, and speculated and made guesses on what he would know; for weeks they had been waiting on a sick boy’s whim—held back by the doctor’s orders. They watched him moving across the garden—his quick, supple gestures, his live face—the boy was well enough! They smoked innumerable cigars and strolled out through the grounds and sat by the river, and threw stones into its sluggish current, waiting while hours went by. Since the ultimatum—a hundred thousand for three months—not a line had reached them, no message over the whispering wires—the child might be in the city, hidden in some safe corner; she might be in Europe, or in Timbuctoo. There had been time enough to smuggle her away. Every port had been watched, but there was the Canadian line stretching to the north, and the men who were “on the deal” would stop at nothing. They had been approached, tentatively, in the beginning, for a share of profits; but they had scorned the overture. “Catch me—if you can!” the voice laughed and rang off. The police were hot against them. Just one clue—the merest clue—and they would run it to earth—like bloodhounds. They chewed the ends of their cigars and waited... and in the garden the boy and his father watched the clouds go by and talked of Athens and gods and temples and sunny streets. Back through the past, carefree they went—and at every turn the boy’s memory rang true. “Do you remember, Alcie—the little house below the Temple of the Winds—” Achilles’s eyes were on his face—and the boy’s face laughed—“Yes—father. That house—” quick running words that tripped themselves—“where I stole—figs—three little figs. You whipped me then!” The boy laughed and turned on his side and watched the clouds and the talk ran on... coming closer at last, across the great Sea, through New York and the long hurrying train, into the grimy city—on the shore of the lake—the boy’s eyes grew wistful. “I go home—with you—father—?” he said. It was a quick question and his eyes flashed from the garden to his father’s face.
“Do you what to go home, Alcie?” The face smiled at him. “Don’t you like it here?” A gesture touched the garden.
“I like—yes. I go home—with you,” he said simply.
“You must stay till you are strong,” said the father, watching him. “You were hurt, you know. It takes time to get strong.... You remember that you were hurt?”
The words dropped slowly, one by one, and the day drowsed. The sun—warm as Athens—shone down, waiting, while the boy turned slowly on his side... his eyes had grown dark. “I try—remember” His voice was half a whisper, “—but it runs—away!” The eyes seemed to be straining to see something beyond them—through a veil.
Achilles’s hand passed before them and shut them off. “Don’t try, Alcie. Never mind—it’s all right. Don’t mind!”
But the boy had thrown himself forward with a long cry, sobbing. “I—want—to—see,” he said, “it—hurts—here.” His fingers touched the faint line along his forehead. And Achilles bent and kissed it, and soothed him, talking low words—till the boy sat up, a little laugh on his lips—his grief forgotten.
So the detectives went back to the city—each with his expensive cigar—cursing luck. And Achilles, after a day or two, followed them. “He will be better without you,” said the surgeon. “You disturb his mind. Let him have time to get quiet again. Give nature her chance.”
So Achilles returned to the city, unlocking the boy’s fingers from his. “You must wait a little while,” he said gently. “Then I come for you.” And he left the boy in the garden, looking after the great machine that bore him away—an unfathomable look in his dark, following eyes.
The next day it rained. All day the rain dripped on the roof and ran down the waterspouts, hurrying to the ground. In her own room the mistress of the house sat watching the rain and the heavy sky and drenched earth. The child was never for a minute out of her thoughts. Her fancy pictured gruesome places, foul dens where the child sat—pale and worn and listless. Did they tie her hands? Would they let her run about a little—and play? But she could not play—a child could not play in all the strangeness and sordidness. The mother had watched the dripping rain too long. It seemed to be falling on coffins. She crept back to the fire and held out her hands to a feeble blaze that flickered up, and died out. Why did not Marie come back? It was three o’clock—where was Marie? She looked about her and held out her hands to the blaze and shivered—there was fire in her veins, and beside her on the hearth the child seemed to crouch and shiver and reach out thin hands to the warmth. Phil had said they would not hurt her! But what could a man know? He did not know the sensitive child-nature that trembled at a word. And she was with rough men—hideous women—longing to come home—wondering why they did not come for her and take her away... dear child! How cruel Phil was! She crouched nearer the fire, her eyes devouring it—her thoughts crowding on the darkness. Those terrible men had been silent seven weeks—more than seven—desperate weeks... not a word out of the darkness—and she could not cry out to them—perhaps they would not tap the wires again! The thought confronted her and she sprang up and walked wildly, her pulses beating in her temples.... She stopped by a table and looked down. A little vial lay there, and the medicine dropper and wine glass—waiting. She turned her head uneasily and moved away. She must save it for the night—for the dark hours that never passed. But she must think of something! She glanced about her, and rang the bell sharply, and waited.
“I want the Greek boy,” she said, “send him to me!”
“Yes, madame.” Marie’s voice hurried itself away... and Alcibiades stood in the doorway, looking in.
The woman turned to him—a little comfort shining in the sleepless eyes. “Come in,” she said, “I want to talk to you—tell me about Athens—the sun shines there!” She glanced again at the hearth and shivered.
The boy came in, flashing a gleam through the dark day. The little sadness of the night before had gone. He was alive and lithe and happy. He came over to her, smiling... and she looked at him curiously. “What have you been doing all day?” she asked.
“I play,” said Alcibiades, “I play—on flute—” His fingers made little music gestures at his lips, and fell away. “And I—run—” he said, “I go in rain—and run—and come in.” He shook his dark head. Little gleams of moisture shone from it. The earth seemed to breathe about him.
She drew a quick breath. “You shall tell me,” she said, “but not here.” She glanced about the room filled with sickness and wild thoughts—not even the boy’s presence dispelled them. “We will go away somewhere—to the gallery,” she said quickly, “it is lighter there and I have not been there—for weeks.” Her voice dropped a little.
The boy followed her through the hall, across a covered way, to the gallery that held the gems—and the refuse—that Philip Harris had gathered up from the world. She looked about her with a proud, imperious gesture. She knew—better now than when the pictures were purchased—which ones were good, and which were very bad; but she could not interfere with the gallery. It was Philip’s own place in the house. It had been his fancy—to buy pictures—when the money came pouring in faster than they could spend it—and the gallery was his own private venture—his gymnasium in culture! She smiled a little. Over there, a great canvas had been taken down and carted off to make room for the little Monticelli in its place. He was learning—yes! But she could not bring guests to the gallery when they came to Idlewood for the day. If he would only let a connoisseur go through the place and pick out the best ones—the gallery was not so bad! She looked about her with curious, tolerant smile.
The boy’s gaze followed hers. He had not been in this big room, with the high-reaching skylight, and the vari-coloured pictures and grey walls. His dark eyes went everywhere—and flashed smiles and brought a touch-stone to the place. Eyes trained to the Acropolis were on the pictures; and the temples of the gods spoke in swift words or laughed out in quick surprise.
The mistress of the house followed him, with amused step. If Phil could only hear it! She must manage somehow—Phil was too shrewd and practical not to see how true the boy was—and how keen! That great Thing—over the fireplace—Chicago on her throne, with the nations prostrate before her—how the boy wondered and chuckled—and questioned her—and brought the colour to her face!... Philip had stood before the picture by the hour—entranced; the man who painted it had made a key to go with it, and Philip Harris knew the meaning of every line and figure—and he gloried and wallowed in it. “That is a picture with some sense in it!” was his proudest word, standing before it and waving his hand at the vision on her throne. She was a lovely lady—a little like his wife, Philip Harris thought. Perhaps the artist had not been unaware of this. Certainly Mrs. Philip Harris knew it, and loathed the Thing. The boy’s words were like music to her soul, under the skylight with the rain dripping softly down. She had thought of covering the Thing up—a velvet curtain, perhaps. But she had not quite dared yet.... Across the room another picture was covered by a curtain—the velvet folds sweeping straight in front of it, and covering it from top to bottom. Only the rim of the gilt frame that reached to the ceiling, glimmered about the blue folds of the curtain. The boy’s eyes had rested on the curtained picture as they passed before it, but Mrs. Philip Harris had not turned her head. She felt the boy’s eyes now—they had wandered to it again, and he stood with half-parted lips, as if something behind the curtain called to him. She touched him subtly and drew his attention—and he followed her a minute... then his attention wandered and he gazed at the deep folds in the curtain with troubled eyes. She hesitated a moment—and her hand trembled. It was as if the curtain were calling her, too, and she moved toward it, the boy beside her.... They did not speak—they moved blindly and paused a breath... the rain falling on the skylight. The boy flashed a smile to her. “I have not see it,” he said.
She reached out her hand then and drew back the curtain. “It is Betty—my little girl—” she said, “she has gone away—” She was talking aimlessly—to steady her hands. But the boy did not hear her—he had stumbled a little—and his eyes were on the picture—searching the roguish smile, the wide eyes, the straight, true little figure that seemed stepping toward them—out from behind the curtain.... The mother’s eyes feasted on it a moment hungrily and she turned to the boy. But he did not see—his gaze was on the picture—and he took a step—and looked—and drew his hand across his eyes with a little breath. Then he reached out his hands, “—I—see—her,” he said swiftly. “She look at me—on ground—she cry—” His face worked a minute—then it grew quiet and he turned it toward her. “I see—her,” he repeated slowly.
She had seized his shoulder and was questioning him, forcing him toward the picture, calling the words into his ear as if he were deaf, or far away—and the boy responded slowly—truly, each word lighting up the scene for her—the great car crashing upon him, the overthrow of his cart, the scattered fruit on the ground, and the Greek boy crawling toward it—thrust forward as the car pushed by—and his swift, upward glance of the girl’s face as it flashed past, and of the men holding her between them—“She cry,” he said—as if he saw the vision again before him. “She cry—and they stop—hands.” He placed both hands across his mouth, shutting out words and cry.
And the mother fondled him and cried to him and questioned him again.Shehad no fear—no knowledge of what might hang in the balance—of the delicate grey matter that trembled at her strokes... no surgeon would have dared question so sternly, so unsparingly. But the delicate brain held itself steady and the boy’s eyes were turned to her—piecing her broken words, answering them before they came—as if she drew them forth at will—
The door opened and she looked up and sprang forward. “Listen, Phil. He saw Betty!” Her hand trembled to the boy. “Hesawher—that last day—it must be—tell him, Alcie—”
The boy was looking at him smiling quietly, and nodding to him.
Philip Harris closed the door with set face.
“What did you see—boy?” Philip Harris stood with his legs well apart, looking at him.
The boy answered quickly, his quick gesture running to the picture above them, and filling out his words. He had gathered the story of the child as the mother had gathered his—and his voice trembled a little, but it did not falter in the broken words.
Philip Harris glanced up. The rain on the skylight had ceased, but the room was full of dusk. “There is not time,” he said, “to-night—You must rest now, and have your dinner and go to bed. To-morrow there will be men to question you. You must tell them what you have told us.”
“I tell them,” said the boy simply, “—what I see.”
So the boy slept quietly... and through the night, messages ran beneath the ground, they leaped out and struck wires—and laughed. Men bent their heads to listen... and spoke softly and hurried. Cars thrust themselves forth, striking at the miles—their great bulk sliding on. The world was awake—gathering itself... toward the boy.
In the morning they questioned him—they set down his answers with quick, sharp jerks that asked for more. And the boy repeated faithfully all that he had told; and the surgeon sitting beside him watched with keen eyes—and smiled.... The boy would hold. He was sound. But they must be careful... and after a little he sent him into the garden to work—while the men compared notes and sent despatches and the story travelled into the world, tallying itself against the face of every rogue. But there were no faces that matched it—no faces such as the boy had cherished with minute care... as if the features had been stamped—one flashing stroke—upon his brain, and disappeared. There could be no doubt of them—the description of the child was perfect—red cherries, grey coat—and floating curls. He seemed to see the face before him as he talked—and the face of the big man at her left, with red moustache and sharp chin—and the smaller man beside her, who had clapped his hand across her mouth and glared at the boy on the ground—his eyes were black—yes, and he wore a cap—pulled down, and collar up—you only saw the eyes—black as—The boy had looked about him a minute, and pointed to the shoes of the chief of police gleaming in the sunlight—patent leathers, and dress suit, hurried away from a political banquet the night before. The men smiled and the pencils raced.... There had been another man who drove the machine, but the boy had not noticed him—his swift glance had taken in only the child, it seemed, and the faces that framed her.
A little later they drove into the city—the boy accompanying them, and the surgeon and Achilles, who had hurried out with the first news and had listened to his son’s story with dark, silent eyes. He sat in the car close to Alcibiades, one hand on the back of the seat, the other on the boy’s hand. Through the long miles they did not speak. The boy seemed resting in his father’s strength. It was only when they reached the scene of his disaster that he roused himself and pointed with quick finger—to the place where he had fallen.... He was pushing his cart—so—and he looked up—quick—and his cart went—so!—and all his fruit, and he was down—looking up—and the car went by, close.... Which way?—He could not tell that—no.... He shut his eyes—his face grew pale. He could not tell.
The street forked here—it might have been either way—by swerving a little. And the police looked wise and took notes and reporters photographed the spot and before night a crowd had gathered about it, peering hopefully at the pavement where Alcibiades had lain, and pointing with eager fingers to bits of peel—orange and banana—scattered by the last passer-by, and gazing at dark stains on the pavement—something that might be marks of blood—after ten weeks of rain and mud and dust!
Achilles and the boy returned to the shop. “I want to go home,” the boy had said, as the car turned away, “I—go—home—with you, father.” So they had drawn up at the little fruit shop; and Yaxis in the door, his teeth gleaming, had darted out to meet them, hovering about them and helping his brother up the stairs and out to the verandah that ran across the windows at the rear. Down below, in tin-can backyards of the neighbours, old bottles and piles of broken lumber filled the place; but along the edge of the verandah, boxes of earth had been set, and the vines ran to the top, shutting out the glare of the brick walls opposite and making a cool spot in the blank heat.
Alcibiades looked at the vines with happy eyes. “They grow,” he said softly.
Yaxis nodded and produced a pot of forget-me-nots. He had been tending them for three weeks—for Alcie. They bent over the pot, blue with blossoms, talking eager words and little gestures and quick laughs. And Achilles, coming out, smiled at the two heads bending above the plant. Yaxis had been lonely—but now the little laughs seemed to stir softly in the close rooms and wake something happy there.
The next day, life in the little shop went on as if there had been no break. With the early light, Yaxis was off, to the south, pushing his tip-cart before him and calling aloud—bananas and fruit and the joy of Alcibiades’s return, in his clear, high voice.... In the shop, Achilles arranged the fruit—great piles of oranges, and grape fruit and figs—and swung the heavy bunches of bananas to their hooks outside, and opened crates and boxes and made ready for the day. By and by, when trade slackened a little, he would slip away and leave Alcibiades in charge of the shop. His mind was busy as he worked. He had something to do that would take him away from the shop—every day for a while, it might be—but the shop would not suffer. Alcibiades was strong—not well enough, perhaps, to go out with the new push-cart that had replaced the old one, and waited outside, but strong enough to make change and fill up the holes in the piles of oranges as they diminished under the swift rush of trade.
Achilles’s eyes rested on him fondly. It had been lonely in the shop—but now the long days of waiting were repaid... they had their clue. Even now the detectives might have followed it up. The little lady would be found. He hurried over the last things—his heart singing—and called the boy to him.
“I go away,” he said, looking at him kindly. “You stay in shop—till I come.”
“Yes, father.” The boy’s eyes were happy. It was good to be in the close, dark, home place with its fruity smell and the striped awning outside. “I do all right!” he said gaily.
The father nodded. “To-morrow you go with push-cart—little way—every day little way—” He waited a moment while the boy’s face took in the words—he spoke with slow significance—“Some day you see—those men—then you run—like devil!” he said quickly, “you tell me!”
The boy’s teeth made a quick line of light and his face flashed. “I tell—quick!” he said, “I know those men!”
He left the shop and was lost in the crowd. He was going first to the city hall for news—then he would seek Philip Harris. The plan that he was shaping in his mind needed help.
But at the city hall there was no news. The chief of police seemed even a little irritated at the sight of the dark face and the slim, straight figure that stood before him. He eyed it a moment, almost hostilely; then he remembered Philip Harris’s command and told the man what steps had been taken and the reports that had come in thus far through the day. The Greek listened without comment, his dark face smouldering a little over its quick fire. “You find nothing?” he said quietly.
“Not a damn thing!” answered the chief.
“I go try,” said Achilles.
The man looked at him. Then he laughed out. The door opened. It was the detective in charge of the case. He glanced at Achilles and went over to the chief and said something. But the chief shook his head and they looked carelessly at Achilles, while the chief drummed on the desk. Achilles waited with slow, respectful gaze.
The detective came across to him. “No news,” he said.
Achilles’s face held its steady light. “I think we find her,” he said.
The inspector did not laugh. He studied the man’s face slowly, whistling a little between his teeth. “What’s your plan?” he said.
Achilles shook his head. “When I see those men—I go follow.”
The detective smiled—a little line of smile... that did not scorn him. “When you see them—yes!” he said softly.
The chief of police, listening with half an ear, laughed out. “Catch your hare, Alexander!” He said it with superior ease.
Achilles looked at him. “I catch hair?” he asked with polite interest.
The chief nodded. “You catch your hare before you cook it, you know.”
Achilles ran a slim, thoughtful hand along his dark locks and shook them slowly. The conversation had passed beyond him.
The detective smiled a little. “Never mind him, Alexander. Anything that you find—you bring to me—right off.” He clinked a little money in his pocket and looked at him.
But Achilles’s gaze had no returning gleam. “When I find her,” he said, “I tell you—I tell everybody.” His face had lightened now.
The detective laughed. “All right, Alexander! You’re game, all right!”
Achilles looked at him with puzzled eyes. “I go now,” he said. He moved away with the smooth, unhurried rhythm that bore him swiftly along.
The eyes of the two men followed him. “You’re welcome to him!” said the chief carelessly.
“I don’t feel so sure,” said the other—“He may do it yet—right under our noses. I’ve done it myself—you know.”
The chief looked at him curiously.
“Iused to do it—time and again,” said the man, thoughtfully. “Icouldn’t ’a’ told you—how. I’d study on a case—and study—and give it up—and then, all of a sudden—pop!—and there it was—in my head. I couldn’t have told how it got there, but it worked all right!” He lighted a cigar and threw the match from him, puffing slowly. “I’d do it now—if I could.” He was lost in thought. “There’s something in his eyes—that Greek. I’d like to be inside that black skull of his a minute.” He sauntered across the room and went out.
The eyes of the chief of police looked after him vaguely. He drew a column of figures toward him and began to add it—starting at the bottom and travelling slowly up. He was computing his revenues for the coming year.
Achilles found Philip Harris at luncheon, and waited for him to come back, and laid his plan before him.
The millionaire listened, and nodded once or twice, and took up the receiver and gave an order. “He’ll be at your place every day,” he said to Achilles as he hung it up. “You tell him what you want—and let me know if there’s anything else—money—?” He looked at him.
But Achilles shook his head. “I got money,” he said quickly. “I get money—six—seven dollar—every day. I do good business!”
The millionaire smiled, a little bitterly. “I do good business, too; but it doesn’t seem to count much. Well—let me know—” He held out his hand and Achilles took it and hesitated and looked at the seamed red face that waited for him to go—then he went quietly out.
He would have liked to speak swift words of hope—they rode high in his heart—but something in the face put him off and he went out into the sunshine and walked fast. He looked far ahead as he went, smiling softly at his dream. And now and then a man passed him—and looked back and smiled too—a shrew, tolerant, grown-up smile.
At ten o’clock the next morning Philip Harris’s big touring car drew up in front of the striped awning; it gave a little plaintive honk—and stood still. Achilles came to the door with swift look. He turned back to the shop. “I go,” he said to Alcibiades, and stepped across the pavement, and was off.
At two o’clock he returned to the shop, his face covered with big beads of perspiration, his hat gone and his eyes shining—and, without a word, he went about the shop with his wonted air of swift-moving silence. But the next day he was off again, and the next; and Alcibiades grew accustomed to the long car slipping up and the straight, slim figure sliding into it and taking its place and disappearing down the street.
Where Achilles went on these excursions, or what he did, no one knew. Promptly at two each day he returned—always dishevelled and alert, but wearing a look of triumph that sat strangely on the quiet Greek reserve. It could not be said that Achilles strutted as he walked, but he had an air of confidence, as if he were seeing things—things far ahead—that were coming to him on the long road.
The boys could not make him out... and their loyalty would not let them question him. But one day Yaxis, resting on the parapet that overlooked the lake, his cart drawn a little to one side, his hat off and his face taking in the breeze, saw a strange sight. It was a wide roadway, and free of traffic, and Yaxis had turned his head and looked up and down its length. In the distance a car was coming—it was not speeding. It seemed coming on with little foolish movements—halting jerks and impatient honks.... Yaxis’s eye rested on it bewildered—then it broke to a smile. Father was driving! The chauffeur, beside him, with folded arms and set face had washed his hands of all responsibility—and the face of the Greek was shining. The great machine swerved and balked and ran a little way and stopped—Yaxis laughed softly. The chauffeur bent over with a word, and the thing shot off, Achilles with intent back, holding fast by both hands his face set and shining ahead. Up and down the roadway, the thing zigzagged—back and forth—spitting a little and fizzing behind. Like a great beast it snarled and snorted and stood out and waited the lash—and came to terms, gliding at last, by a touch along the smooth road—the face of Achilles transfigured in a dream.... The Acropolis floated behind him in the haze. The wings of the morning waited his coming and his hands gripped hard on the wheel of the world. Yaxis watched the car as it flashed and floated in the sun and was gone—down the roadway—around the distant corner—out of sight, with its faint triumphant “honk-honk-honk!” trailing behind.
With a deep smile on his face Yaxis wheeled his cart into the roadway and pushed briskly toward home, his mind filled with the vision of his father and the flying car.
The next day coming down the steps of a house and counting slow change, he looked up with a swift glance—something had passed him; for a moment he had only a glimpse—something familiar—a kind of home sense—then the figure of Achilles flashed out—the car shot round a corner. He sped to the corner and looked down the long road—no one—only two rows of poplars with their silvery, stirring leaves, and not a soul in sight—and respectable houses on either side watching, as if nothing had happened, or ever would. Yaxis returned to his cart, wiping the fine moisture from his forehead. Every day now, his glance travelled about him as he pushed his cart along the quieter streets where his route lay. And often at the end of long vistas, or down a side street, he caught a glimpse of the shooting car and the dark, erect figure poised forward on its seat, looking far ahead.
At home, in the dusky interior, Achilles moved with sedate step, his hair combed, his slim hands busy with the smooth fruit. Yaxis, in the doorway, looked at him with curious, wistful eyes.
Achilles glanced up and nodded, and the little smile on his dark face grew. He came forward. “You had good day?” he said.
“Yes, father....” The boy hesitated a moment, and dug his toes—and flung out his hands in quick gesture. “I see you!” he said. “You go in massheen!”
Achilles’s glance flashed and grew to a deep, still smile. “You see that machine? You see me drive him?Imake that machine go!” His chest expanded and he moved a few free steps and paused.
The boy’s eyes rested on him proudly. Around them—out in the grimy street—the world hurried and scuffled and honked; and in the little back shop the father and the boy faced each other, a strange, new, proud joy around them. “I drive that machine,” said Achilles softly.
Achilles came to the door of the shop and looked out. A car had driven up to the sidewalk—a rough, racing machine with open sides and big wheels—and the driver, a big man in a white cap and rough linen suit, was beckoning to him with his hand. Achilles stepped across the walk, and stood by the machine with quiet, waiting face.
The man looked him over, a little as if he owned him—“I want some fruit,” he said quickly, “—oranges—grapes—anything—?” His glance ran to the fruit on the stall. “Get me something quick—and don’t be all day—” His hand was fumbling for change.
“I get you best oranges,” said Achilles. He snapped open a paper bag and turned to the heaped-up fruit. Then his eye paused—a boy was breaking through the crowd—hatless, breathless—and calling him with swift gesture.
Achilles sprang forward. “What is it, Alcie?” His eye was searching the crowd, and his hand dropped to the boy’s shoulder.
“There they are!” gasped the boy. “There!”
Achilles’s eye gleamed—down the street, a little way off, a car was wheeling out from the curb—gathering speed.
Achilles’s eyes flashed on it... and swept the crowd—and came back.
The man in the white cap by the curb was swearing softly. He leaped with two steps, from the panting car to the stall and began gathering up oranges. “Here—” he said. Then he wheeled—and saw the Greek fruit-dealer flashing off in a car—hiscar. “Here—you!” he shouted.
But Achilles gave no heed—and the boy, urging him on from behind, turned with swift smile—“He take your car—” he said, “he need that car!”
But the white-capped man pounced upon him and shook him by the shoulder—watching his car that was threading fast in the crowded traffic. He dropped the boy, and his hand reached up, signalling wildly for police—a city service car sprang from the ground, it seemed. The white-capped man leaped in and they were off—honking the crowd... heavy drays moved from before them with slow, eternal wheel—the white cap swore softly and leaned forward and urged... and the dark, Greek head bobbed far ahead—along in the crowd—the big, grey racer gathering speed beneath. Achilles was not thinking of the pursuit, yelling behind him—he had no thoughts—only two eyes that held a car far in the distance, and two hands that gripped the wheel and drove hard, and prayed grimly. If his eye lost that car! It was turning now—far ahead and his eye marked the place and held it—fixed. His car jolted and bumped. Men swore and made way before him, and noted the hatless head, and looked behind—and saw the police car—and yelled aloud. But no one saw him in time, and he was not stopped. He had reached the corner where the car disappeared from sight, and he leaned forward, with careful turn, peering around the corner. They were there—yes! He drove faster—and the great, ugly car lifted itself and flung forward and settled to long sliding gait. The car ahead turned again in the whirling traffic—and turned again. But Achilles’s eye did not lose its track... and they were out in the open at last—the plain stretching before them—no turn to left or right—and the machine Achilles drove had no equal in the country. But Achilles did not know his machine. Good or bad, it must serve him and keep his men in sight—but not too near—not to frighten them! They had turned now and were glancing back and they spoke quickly. Then they looked again—at the flying and hatless head—and saw suddenly, on behind it, the service car leap softly around the corner into the white road. They looked again—and laughed. They turned and dropped the matter. “Some damn fool with a stolen car.”
Under the great bowl of sky, in the midst of the plain, the three cars held their level way—three little racing dots in the big, clear place. They kept an even course, swaying to the race on level wings that swept the ground and rose to the low swale and passed beyond. Only the long free line of dust marked their flight under the sun.
The men at the front, in the car ahead, did not look back again. They had lost interest in the race pressing behind—most anxiously, they had lost interest in it. They wished, with a fervent wish, that the two cars driving behind them should pass them in a swirl of dust—and pass on out of sight—toward the far horizon line that stretched the west. They were only two market gardeners returning from business in the city. If they drove a good car, it was to save time going and coming—not to race with escaping fugitives and excited police. They had no wish to race with excited police—fervently they had no wish for it—and they slackened speed a little, drawing freer breath. Let the fellow pass them—and his police with him—before they reached a little, white, peaceful house that stood ahead on the plain. They did not look behind at justice pursuing its prey... they had lost all interest in justice and in the race. Presently, when justice should pass them, on full-spreading wing, they would look up with casual glance, and note its flight over the far line—out of sight in the distant west. But now they did not know of its existence.
And Achilles, pressing fast, had a quick, clear sense of mystery—something that brooded ahead—on the shining plain and the little, white house and the car before him slackening speed.Whyshould it slow down?—what was up? Cautiously he held his car, slowing its waving gleam to the pace ahead and darting a swift glance behind, over his shoulder, at the great service car that leaped and gained on him lap by lap. It would overtake him soon—and hemustnot pass the car ahead—not till he saw what they were up to. Would they pass that little white house—on the plain—or would they turn in there? The wind hummed in his ears—his hair flew—and his hand held tense to the wheel—slowing it cautiously, inch by inch—slackening a little—slackening again with quick-flung, flashing glance behind—and a watchful eye on the road ahead... and on the little white house drawing near on the plain. It was a race now between his quick mind and that car ahead and the little white house. He must not overtake them till the little house was reached. The car behind must not touch him—not till the house came up. There was a wood ahead, in the distance—his mind flew and circled the wood—and came back. They had reached the little house asleep in the sun. They were passing it, neck and neck, and the car beside him swerved a little and slackened speed—and dived in at the white gate. Achilles shot past—the free road ahead. The machine under him gathered speed and opened out and laughed and leaped to the road and lay down in the thick dust, spreading itself ahead. He could gain the wood. He should escape—and the clue was fast.
Behind him, the service car thundered by the little house asleep. But the police did not glance that way—nor did the big, white-capped man glance that way.Hiseyes were fixed on the racer ahead—dwindling to a speck in its cloud of dust. He pushed up his visor and laughed aloud. “Give it up!” he said genially, “give it up!—you can’t catchthatcar!—I know my own car, I guess!” He laughed again. “We shall find it somewhere along the road—when he is through with it!”
But the face beside him, turning in the clouding dust, had a keen look and the car kept its unbroken speed, and the plain flashed by. “He’s in too big a hurry—” said the driver sternly. “I want a look at that man! He knows too much.”
Too much! The heart of Achilles sang again—all the heart of him woke up and laughed to the miles. He had found his clue—he had passed the little hundred-thousand-dollar house, and the police in their big, bungling dust had passed it, too. Nobody knew—but him... and he should escape—over the long road... with the big machine, under him, pounding away.