CHAPTER XVII
The Republicans of the county in convention a week later went through the formality of nominating a ticket, a heretofore useless procedure attended by vainglorious claims, bombastic oratory, unbridled denunciation and a grim sort of jauntiness that passed for confidence and died as soon as the meeting was over. Ever since the Civil War the party had stoutly and steadfastly put up a ticket and just as regularly had abandoned it to its fate. The candidates themselves, accepting defeat at the outset, took little or no interest in the campaign aside from the slight satisfaction they eked out of seeing their names on the printed ballot. It was, so to speak, like reading one’s own obituary notice—or, as one hardy, perennial office-seeker remarked—attending one’s own funeral and getting back home in time for supper.
But the campaign of 1920 in this hide-bound Democratic stronghold possessed strange, new elements; the under-dog bounced up with surprising animation and showed his teeth, prepared at last to fight for the bone that so long had been denied him. In the first place, the administration at Washington was standing with its back to the wall; it was almost certain to be swept out of power by the resistless force of public opinion. Faint-hearted Republican politicians lost in the depths of Democratic jungles saw light ahead and, rubbing their eyes, started toward it, realizing it was no longer Will-o’-the-wisp or Jack-o’-lantern that led them on. Their eyes glittered, their fingers itched, and they became very strong in the legs. If Harding and Coolidge were to be swept in by the avalanche, why shouldn’t they hang on behind and be sucked into office by the same gigantic wave? In the second place, the Democrats of Applegate County, fat and sluggish after years of plenty, had overslept a little in their security. Too late they awoke to the fact that they had four or five weak spots in their county ticket, and while there was small danger of the normal plurality being wiped out at the coming election they were in very grave danger of having it reduced to a humiliating extent.
Mr. Horace Gooch, of Hopkinsville, heretofore a miserly aspirant for legislative honors but persistently denied the distinction for which he was loath to pay, “came across” so handsomely—and so desperately—that the bosses foolishly permitted him to be nominated for the State Senate. The people did not want him; but that made little or no difference to the party leaders; the people had to take him whether they liked him or not. Mr. Gooch’s astonishing contribution to the campaign fund was not to be “passed up” merely because the people didn’t approve of him. It is not good politics to allow the people a voice in such matters. Old Gooch would run behind the rest of the ticket, to be sure, but he would “squeeze through” safely, and that was all that was necessary.
The report that young Oliver Baxter, of Rumley, was being urged to make the race against his uncle caused no uneasiness among the bosses. It was not until after the young man was nominated and actually in the field, that misgivings beset the bosses. Young Baxter was popular in the southern section of the county, he was a war hero, and he was an upstanding figure in a community where the voters were as likely as not to “jump the traces.” And when the emboldened Republican press of the county began to speak of their candidate as a “shark,” there was active and acute dismay. They sent for Mr. Gooch and suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to withdraw from the race—on account of his age, or his health.
“But I’m not an old man,” protested Mr. Gooch irascibly, “and I’ve never been sick a day in my life. I’m sixty-four. You wouldn’t call that old, would you?”
No, the chairman wouldn’t call that old, but from what he could gather this was destined to be “a young man’s year.” Young men were in the saddle; you couldn’t shake ’em out.
“Do you mean to tell me,” began Horace, genuinely amazed, “that you think this young whipper-snapper of a nephew of mine is liable to defeat me?”
“Oh, I guess perhaps we can pull you through,” said the chairman, rather unfeelingly.
“My dear sir, we have a safe majority of four thousand votes in this county. Why do you say you ‘guess perhaps’ you can pull me through? If you are joking, I wish to state to you right here and now that I do not approve of jokes. If you are in earnest, all I can say is that you must be crazy. The people of this county want a sound, solid, able business man to represent them in the legislature. They don’t want a young, inexperienced, untried whipper-snapper—”
“Nobody knows what the people want,” said the chairman sententiously. “Now, this young Baxter. He’s a fine feller. He’s got lots of friends. Everybody likes him. He has a clear record. There isn’t a thing we can say against him. On the other hand, he can say a lot of nasty things about you, Mr. Gooch. We can’t come back at him when he begins stumping the county and talking about tax-sales, foreclosures, ten per cent interest, people having to go to the poorhouse, and all that kind of stuff. What kind of a comeback have we? What are we to—”
“No man can accuse me of being dishonest; no man can question my integrity—”
“Lord bless you, Mr. Gooch, nobody’s going to accuse you of being dishonest. All they’re going to say about you is that you’re a rich man, a skinflint, a tax shark, a gouger, a hypocrite, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a snake in the grass, a Shylock, and a good many other things,” said the county chairman, with brutal frankness.
Mr. Gooch was not greatly disturbed by the prospect. He had heard all these terms of opprobrium before; he was used to them. He said something about “water off of a duck’s back,” and fell to twisting his wiry gray beard with steady, claw-like fingers.
“We can’t afford to lose a single seat in the legislature,” went on the chairman. “That’s why we thought best to put it up to you straight, Mr. Gooch. I’m not saying you’ll be licked next November, but you stand a blamed good chance of it, let me tell you, if this young Baxter goes after you without gloves.”
“I’ve just been thinking,” said Mr. Gooch, leaning forward in his chair, “suppose I go down to Rumley and have a talk with Oliver.”
“What about?” demanded the other, sharply.
“I may be able to reason with him. I understand he has not definitely decided to make the race. I have an idea I can persuade him to decline.”
“No chance,” said the other, shaking his head. “He’s got it in for you, I hear.”
Mr. Gooch got up and began pacing the floor. His lean, mean face was set in even harder lines than usual; his mouth was drawn down at the corners, the lower lip protruding like a thin liver-colored cushion into which his shaved upper lip seemed to sink rigidly.
“See here, Smith,” he began, halting in front of the “boss,” “I may as well come out flat-footed and tell you I’ve never been satisfied with all these stories and speculations concerning the disappearance of my brother-in-law a year ago.”
“You mean this young feller’s father?”
“Yes. I married his sister. I don’t know as you’ve heard that young Oliver Baxter and his father were not on very good terms. They quarreled a great deal. This nephew of mine has got murderous instincts. He threw rocks at me once. He’s got an ungovernable temper. He—”
“I’ve heard all that bunk about a gypsy or somebody like that prophesying he’d be hung. It’s bunk.”
“I agree with you. I took no stock in that gypsy’s prophecy at the time, and I never have. But, as I say, I’m not satisfied with things. It’s mighty queer that a man like Oliver Baxter could disappear off of the face of the earth and never be heard of again. Most people believe he’s alive—hiding somewhere—but I don’t believe it for a minute. He’s dead. He died that night a year ago when he had his last row with his son. And, what’s more to the point, I am here to say I don’t believe his son has told all he knows about the—er—the matter.”
He waited to see what effect this statement would have on the chairman. Mr. Smith’s eyes narrowed.
“Say, what are you trying to get at, Mr. Gooch? Are you thinking of charging that boy with—with having had a hand in—”
“I’m not charging anything,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “I’m only saying what I believe, and that is that Oliver is holding something back. If my poor brother-in-law is dead, I want to know it. I’m not saying there was foul play, mind you. But I do say it’s possible he might have made way with himself that night, and that Oliver may know when and how he did it.”
“Well,” said Smith slowly, “that comes pretty near to being a charge, doesn’t it, Mr. Gooch?”
“You can call it what you please. All I’ve got to say is that I’m not satisfied, and I’m going to the bottom of this business if it’s possible to do so.” He sat down again.
“So that’s what you’re going to see young Baxter about, is it? You’re going to threaten him with an investigation if he doesn’t withdraw from the race, eh? Well, what are you going to do if he up and tells you to go to hell?”
Mr. Gooch winced.
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been told to go to hell,” he said, with a wintry smile. “However, it is not my intention to threaten my nephew, Mr. Smith. Nothing is farther from my thoughts. I’m simply going to let him understand that I am not satisfied with things as they are. I don’t mind telling you that I’ve already made a few inquiries and—well, there is something peculiar about the whole business, that’s all I’ve got to say. It won’t hurt my nephew to know that I’m interested, will it?” he wound up, a sly, crafty twinkle in his eye.
“You take a tip from me, Mr. Gooch,” said the chairman, somewhat forcibly. “Let sleeping dogs lie. If you go to making any cracks about this young feller that you can’t prove, he’ll wipe the earth up with you next November. I’ve been in politics a long time and I know something about the human race. You are banking on the big Democratic majority we usually have in this county. I want to tell you right here and now that if you start any ugly talk about young Baxter and can’t back it up with facts, there won’t be a decent Democrat in the county that’ll vote for you. And I guess we’re far enough south to be able to say that most of us are decent.”
Mr. Gooch arose. “You said a while ago that he would stump this county from end to end, calling me everything he can lay his tongue to. Well, all I’ve got to say to you, Mr. Smith, is that he sha’n’t have it all his own way.”
“There’s just this difference, Mr. Gooch. The voters will believe what he says about you, and they won’t believe a blamed word you say about him.”
“Good day, Mr. Smith!”
“Good day, Mr. Gooch.”
Two days later, Horace Gooch stopped his ancient automobile in front of the Baxter Block in Rumley and inquired of a man in the doorway:
“Is young Oliver Baxter here?”
The loiterer turned his head lazily without changing the position of his body, squinted searchingly into the store, and then replied that he was.
“Will you ask him to step out here? I want a word or two with him.”
Another searching look into the store. “He seems to be busy, Mister. Leastwise, he’s talkin’ to a couple of men.”
“Tell him his uncle is out here.”
The citizen of Rumley started.
“The one he’s runnin’ against?” he demanded.
“Yes. His Uncle Horace.”
“Well, I guess I can do that much for you, Mr. Gooch,” drawled the other generously, and shuffled slowly into the store. Presently he returned.
“He says to hitch your Ford to that telephone pole and come right in. He’ll be disengaged in a couple of minutes.”
Mr. Gooch glared. “You tell him I swore never to enter that store again. If he wants to see me he will have to come out here.”
The citizen disappeared. He was back in a jiffy, grinning broadly.
“Well?” demanded Mr. Gooch, as the messenger remained silent. “What did he say?”
The citizen chuckled. “It ain’t fit to print,” said he.
“Well,” said Mr. Gooch, after a moment’s reflection, “I don’t mind waiting a while. He’ll have to come out some time, I reckon.”
The citizen shrugged his shoulders and spread his palms in a gesture disclaiming all responsibility.
Mr. Gooch shut off his engine and settled back in the seat, the personification of grim and dogged patience.
Fifteen minutes passed. Passers-by, sensing something unusual, found an excuse for loitering in front of nearby showwindows; several persons entered Silas Link’s undertaking parlors next door and seemed deeply interested in the rubber plants that adorned the windows; Marmaduke Smith, the messenger-boy, with two telegrams in his book, pedaled his bicycle up to the curb and, anchoring it with one thin and spidery leg, sagged limply upon the handlebar and waited for something to happen. Mr. Link came out of his office, and after taking one look at the hard-faced old man in the automobile, hurried to the rear of his establishment. A few seconds later he returned, accompanied by Joseph Sikes. They took up a position in the doorway and, ignoring Mr. Gooch, gazed disinterestedly down the street in the opposite direction.
At last Oliver October appeared. He glanced at his watch as he crossed the sidewalk.
“Hello, Uncle Horace,” was his greeting. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. And I’m in a bit of a hurry, too. Some friends coming down on Number Seventeen. Mr. and Mrs. Sage—you remember them, no doubt. And their daughter. The train’s due at 4:10—and it’s three minutes of four now. Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?”
“Yes, there is,” said Mr. Gooch harshly. “I came over here to demand an apology from you, young man—a public apology, printed over your signature in the newspapers.”
“What’s the joke, Uncle Horace?” asked Oliver calmly.
“Joke? There’s no joke about it. You know what I mean. I demand an apology for what you said in the letter you wrote in reply to mine of the twenty-seventh inst.”
“Do you expect me to print my letter in the newspapers together with the apology?”
“That isn’t necessary, young man.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Oliver, unruffled. “I’ll agree to publish your letter to me and my reply, and I’ll follow them up with an apology for mine if you’ll apologize to me for yours. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
“Don’t beat about the bush,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “Don’t get fresh, young man. I’m not here to bandy words with you. I wrote you a very plain and dignified letter in which I told you what I thought of the underhanded way you acted in regard to those dear old ladies, Mrs. Bannester and her sister. You know as well as I do that it was my intention to restore their property to them, absolutely tax free and without a single claim against it. You simply sneaked in and got ahead of me, and now you are giving people to understand that I meant to foreclose on ’em and turn them out of house and home. You—”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Oliver, looking at his watch again, “I know that’s what you said in your letter—that and a lot of other things, Uncle Horace.”
“And what did you say in reply to my simple, straightforward letter? You said you wouldn’t trust me as far as you could throw a locomotive with one hand, or something like that. You said—”
“Yes, I know I said that—and a lot of other things too. You don’t have to repeat what I said. I’ve got a copy of the letter in my desk. It wasn’t a very long letter, for that matter, and I can recall every word of it. Do you want to continue this discussion, Uncle Horace? If you’ll look around you will see that quite a little crowd is collecting. Don’t you think you’d better drop the matter right here and now?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t care how big a crowd there is. The bigger the better, far as I’m concerned. If I don’t have a written and published acknowledgment from you that you deliberately misrepresented me, that you played me an underhanded trick simply for political purposes, I’ll—I’ll—”
“Well, what?”
“I’ll make it so blamed hot for you you’ll wish you’d never been born,” grated Mr. Gooch, shaking his bony finger in his nephew’s face.
Observing this physical symptom of animosity, the Messrs. Sikes and Link hastily stepped forth from the doorway and advanced toward the car.
“Keep your temper, Oliver,” called out the former warningly. “Hang on to it!”
“Don’t forget yourself, boy,” cried Mr. Link.
Mr. Gooch glanced at the two old men.
“You stay away from here, you meddling old—” he started to shout.
“Blow your police whistle, Silas,” urged Mr. Sikes. “Blow it! We’ll see if—”
“Never mind, Uncle Joe,” interrupted Oliver, with an airy wave of his hand. “No need of a cop, is there, Uncle Horace?”
“Not at present,” replied his uncle grimly. “Later on we may need one—but not just now.”
“Then we can end the discussion in two seconds. I decline to apologize, I refuse to accept an apology from you, and I’ll see you in Jericho before I’ll retract a word I’ve said about the Bannester affair. The only thing I will say to you is that I hadn’t the faintest idea of running for office when I helped those poor old ladies out of their trouble. You can lump it if you—”
“And what’s more,” broke in Mr. Sikes, heatedly, “this nomination was forced on Oliver against the wishes of his friends and family. When his poor old father sees in the newspapers that Oliver is headed for the halls of state, he’ll break his heart. No matter where Ollie is, he grabs up the newspaper every morning of his life to see what the news is from Rumley—”
“Isthatso?” snarled Mr. Gooch. “Well, I’m not so sure of that, Mr. Swipes—I’m not so sure of it, and neither are a great many other people. There are people in this county—yes, right here in this town—that would like to know a lot more about what has become of my poor brother-in-law than they know at present.”
“I am one of those people, Uncle Horace,” said Oliver quietly.
“And don’t you go calling Ollie Baxter a brother-in-law,” snorted Mr. Sikes. “I won’t stand here and let you slander my lifelong friend by calling him a brother-in-law. If you’ll get out of that automobile, I’ll—”
“Hold your horses, Joe,” put in Mr. Link, clutching his crony’s arm.
“Oh, he can’t bulldoze me,” said Mr. Gooch loftily.
“Smash him, Mr. Sikes,” whispered young Marmaduke Smith, excitedly.
Horace turned to his nephew. “It rests with you, young man, whether a certain investigation takes place or not,” he said, threateningly.
“What do you mean by investigation?” demanded Oliver, his eyes narrowing. “Just what are you driving at?”
His uncle leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly. “Is there any evidence that your father ever left this place at all?”
Oliver looked his uncle straight in the eye for many seconds, a curious pallor stealing over his face. When he spoke it was with a visible effort; and his voice was low and tense.
“There is no evidence to the contrary.”
“There’s no evidence at all,” said Gooch, “either one way or the other. There has never been anything like a thorough search for him—in the neighborhood of his own home. From all I can learn, you have run things to suit yourself so far as the search around here is concerned. Well, I am here to say that I’m not satisfied. I don’t believe Oliver Baxter ever ran away from home. I believe he’s out there in that swamp of yours. Now you know what I mean by an investigation, young man—and if it is ever undertaken I want to say to you it won’t be under your direction and it won’t be a half-hearted job. And the swamp won’t be the only place to be searched. There are other places he might be besides that swamp.”
“I think I get your meaning, Uncle Horace,” said Oliver, now cool and self-possessed. “If I don’t do what you ask, you’ll start something, eh? Your idea, I take it, is to impress the voters of the county with the idea that my father may have met with foul play, and that I know more about the circumstances than I’ve—”
“I am not saying or claiming anything of the sort,” broke in Mr. Gooch hastily, with visions of a suit for slander looming up before him. “I am not accusing you of anything, Oliver. All I want and all I shall insist on is a thorough examination.”
“And if I agree to withdraw from the race and perjure myself in the matter of the Bannester tax scandal, you will drop the investigation and forget all about it—is that the idea?”
“I hate to take any drastic step that might involve my own nephew in—er—in fact, I’d a good deal sooner not ask the authorities to take a hand in the matter.”
“I see. The point I’m trying to get at is this, Uncle Horace,” went on Oliver, relentlessly. “If I do what you ask, you will agree to let me off scot-free even though I may have killed my own father? You can answer that question, can’t you?”
“I am not here to argue with you,” snapped Mr. Gooch, his gaze sweeping the ever-increasing group of spectators. “Your candidacy has nothing to do with my determination to sift this business to the bottom,” he went on, suddenly realizing that he was now committed to definite action. “I shall appeal to the proper authorities and nothing you do or say, young man, can head off the investigation. That’s final. I’m going to find out what became of the money he drew out of the bank and where you got the money to pay up for Mrs. Bannester and her sister. I’m going to find out why you refuse to let the dredgers go farther out into the swamp, and I’m going to—Oh, you needn’t grin! There are plenty of witnesses who will swear that you and him were not on good terms, and that one day you threatened to hire an aeroplane and take him up five miles and drop him overboard if he didn’t quit pestering you with that story about the gypsy. A lot of people heard you say that and—”
“It begins to look as though you were actually accusing me of murder, Uncle Horace.”
“Good boy!” cried Mr. Sikes, appeasingly. “That’s the way to hold your temper. He’s wonderful, ain’t he, Silas?”
“Wonderful, nothing!” said Mr. Link. “He ain’t had anything to get mad about, far as I can see. The thing is, why ain’t he laughin’ himself sick at the darned old nanny goat?”
“You go to grass!” shouted Mr. Gooch furiously.
Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link joined in the gale of laughter that went up from the crowd.
Mr. Gooch, crimson with rage, shook his finger at Oliver. “That’s right—that’s right! Laugh while you can, you young scoundrel. You think you’re safe and that you got everything covered up, but you’ll be laughing on the other side of the face before I get through with you. I’m going to find out what happened to Oliver Baxter if it takes all the rest of my life. You won’t be laughing so darned idiotically when the prosecuting attorney begins asking questions of you. You bet you won’t. Because he’ll be getting at the truth and the real facts, and that’s what you don’t want, my laddie buck. I’m going to demand a complete investigation before I’m a day older, and I’m going to show the people of this here town that I mean business. The grand jury’s in session now. I’ll have this business up before them to-morrow and I’ll demand a complete investi—”
He broke off in the middle of the oft-repeated word and jerked his head back. Oliver had taken that instant to snap his fingers under Mr. Gooch’s nose, not once but thrice in rapid succession.
“Investigate and be damned!” cried the young man angrily. “You infernal old buzzard! Go ahead and—”
“Whoa, Oliver!” shouted Mr. Sikes, in a panic. “Don’t lose your—”
“All right, Uncle Joe,” gulped Oliver—“all right! I came near letting go of myself for a—”
“He would have killed me in cold blood if I’d been alone with him,” exclaimed Mr. Gooch. “My God, when I think of poor old Oliver out there on that lonely back road, trying to reason with him, I—”
“See here, Uncle Horace,” interrupted Oliver, in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, “I’ll tell you what I will do. I will give you five thousand dollars in cash if you find my father for me. It has cost me twice that amount already—my own money, mind you—but I’ll give you—”
“Dead or alive?” demanded Mr. Gooch sternly, accusingly.
“Yes, dead or alive. Now, wait a second. I’ve got something more to say to you. My father always said you were the meanest creature that God ever let live, and I used to dispute it once in a while. I claimed that a hyena was worse. Now I know he was right and I was wrong. Go ahead with your investigation. Go as far as you like. You can’t bluff me. I am in this race to stay and I’m going after you tooth and nail. Now I guess we understand each other. I’m going after you because of the way you treated my father and I’m—”
“And I’m going after you for the wayyoutreated him,” bawled Mr. Gooch, throwing in the clutch viciously. Then he muttered an execration.
“If you’ll give Marmaduke Smith a dime he’ll crank it for you,” said Oliver, turning on his heel. He glanced up at the clock on the bank down the street. “Oh, thunder!” he exclaimed in dismay. “You’ve made me miss the train!”
“If you crank that car, Marmaduke,” said Mr. Sikes menacingly, “I’ll boot you all over town.”
So Mr. Gooch got out and cranked the car, and drove away to a chorus of undesirable invitations.
“Where’s Oliver?” demanded Mr. Sikes, as the car turned the corner. “We got to stick purty close to him from now on, Silas.”
“What for, Joe?”
“So’s we can be ready to establish an alibi in case anything happens to Horace Gooch. Supposin’ some poor devil he’s made a beggar of takes it into his head to put a bullet into—What say, Marmy?”
“Oliver took my wheel and beat it for the depot,” said Marmaduke Smith happily.
CHAPTER XVIII
The return of Mrs. Sage after an absence of twenty-three years was an “event” far surpassing in interest anything that had transpired in Rumley since the strange disappearance of old Oliver Baxter.
Hundreds of people, eager to see the famous Josephine Judge, crowded the station platform, long before the train from Chicago was due to arrive; they filled the depot windows; they were packed like sardines atop the spare baggage and express trucks; they ranged in overflow disorder along the sidewalks on both sides of the street adjacent. In this curious throng were acquaintances of another day, those who remembered her as the incomprehensible wife of Parson Sage when Sharp’s Field was a barren outskirt and the trains for Chicago passed through Rumley at forty miles an hour—a whistle, a rising and diminishing roar, a disdainful clanging of bells, and then the tail end of a coach that left a whirlwind of dust in its wake as it thundered away. TheMorning Despatchdug up an ancient and totally featureless picture of Josephine Judge as she was at the time of her last appearance in Chicago, some twenty years before, and printed it, with rare tact on the part of the editor, in that department of the paper devoted exclusively on Saturdays—and this was Saturday—to church news and a directory of divine services. Inasmuch as this sadly blurred two-column “cut” represented Miss Judge as a svelte Salvation Army lassie, the editor may have been pardoned for giving it a prominent position on the “Church page,” notwithstanding the fact that said lassie was depicted in the act of tickling a tambourine with the toe of her left foot. In any case, a great many people who were not in the habit of reading the church section studied it with interest this morning, and planned to take half an hour or so off in the afternoon.
The train pulled in. The crowd tiptoed and gaped, craned its thousand necks, and then surged to the right. Above the hissing of steam and the grinding of wheels rose the voice of Sammy Parr far down the platform.
“Keep back, everybody! Don’t crowd up so close. Right this way, Mr. Sage—How are you? Open up there, will you? Let ’em through. Got my new car over here, Mr. Sage—lots of room. Hello, Jane! Great honor to have the pleasure of taking Mrs. Sage home in my car. Right over this way. Grab those suitcases, boys. Open up, please!”
Mr. Sage paused aghast half way down the steps of the last coach but one. He stared, open-mouthed, out over the sea of faces; his knees seemed about to give way under him; his nerveless fingers came near relaxing their grip on the suitcase handles; he was bewildered, stunned.
“In heaven’s name—” he groaned, and then, poor man, over his shoulder in helpless distress to the girl behind him—“Oh, Jane, why didn’t we wait for the midnight—”
But some one had seized the bags and with them he was dragged ingloriously to the platform. Jane came next, crimson with embarrassment. She hurried down the steps and waited at the bottom for her mother to appear. As might have been expected of one so truly theatric, Josephine delayed her appearance until the stage was clear, so to speak. She even went so far as to keep her audience waiting. Preceded by the Pullman porter, who up to this time had remained invisible but now appeared as a proud and shining minion bearing boxes and traveling cases, wraps and furs, she at length appeared, stopping on the last step to survey, with well-affected surprise and a charming assumption of consternation, the crowd that packed the platform. Recovering herself with admirable aplomb, she rested her hand gracefully upon the brass rail and bowed to the right and the left and straight before her; the rigid smile with which every successful actress nightly envelops her audience in response to curtain calls parted her carmine lips while her big eyes ranged with sightless intensity over a void studded with what their fatuous owners were prone to call faces. Just as she was on the point of stepping down to the platform, her attention seemed suddenly to have been caught and held by an object off to the left at an elevation of perhaps ten feet above the heads of the spectators. She studied this object smilingly for thirty or forty seconds. As many as a dozen kodaks clicked during this brief though providential period of inactivity on her part.
Now, a great many—perhaps all—of those who made up the eager, curious crowd, expected to behold a young and radiant Josephine Judge; they had seen her in the illustrated Sunday supplements and in the pictorial magazines; always she was sprightly and vivid and alluring. They were confronted, instead, by a tall, angular woman of fifty-two or-three, carelessly—even “sloppily”—dressed in a slouchy two-piece pepper and salt tweed walking costume, a glistening black straw hat that sat well down upon a mass of bright auburn hair—(old-timers in the crowd remembered her jet black tresses)—stout English oxfords somewhat run down at the heel, and a neck piece of white fur. What most of the observers at first took to be a wad of light brown fur tucked under her right arm was discovered later to be a beady-eyed “Pekinese.”
But the minister’s wife was still a vividly handsome woman; the years had put their lines at the corners of her eyes, to be sure, and had pressed the fullness out of her cheeks, but they had not dimmed the luster of her eyes nor sobered the smile that played about her mirthful lips. She had taken good care of herself; she had made a business of keeping young in looks as well as in spirit.
She had gone away from Rumley with a cheap and unlovely suitcase; she came back with twenty trunks, her traveling bags of seal, her jewel box and toilet case, hat boxes, shoe boxes, a pedigreed “Peke” named Henry the Eighth, and an accent that could have come from nowhere save the heart of London-town. In a clear, full voice, trained to reach remote perches in lofty theaters, she spoke to her husband from the coach steps:
“Herbert, dear, have you the checks for my luggage, or have I?”
“I—I will attend to the trunks—” he began huskily, only to be interrupted by the indefatigable Sammy.
“Don’t give ’em another thought, Mr. Sage. I’ll see to everything. Give me the checks and—right this way, please, Mrs. Sage.”
“Thank you—thank you so much,” said Mrs. Sage graciously, and, as Sammy bustled on ahead, inquired in an undertone of Jane at whose side she walked: “Is that the wonderful Oliver October I’ve been hearing so much about?”
“No, Mother—that is Sammy Parr. I—I don’t see Oliver anywhere. I wrote him the train we were coming—”
A few paces ahead Sammy was explaining loudly to Mr. Sage: “I guess something important of a political nature must have turned up to keep Oliver from meeting the train. We had it all fixed up to meet you with my car and he was to be here at four sharp. Doc Lansing’s up at Harbor Point, Michigan, for a little vacation. Won’t be back till Sunday week. Muriel’s out here in the car, Mr. Sage. She’ll drive you home while I see about the baggage.”
Mr. Sage had recovered his composure by this time. He leaned close to Sammy’s ear and said gravely:
“Luggage, Sammy—luggage.”
“Sure—I get you,” said Sammy, winking. “But just the same I’ll call it baggage till I’ve got it safely out of the hands of Jim O’Brien, the baggage master. He doesn’t like me any too well as it is, and if I called it—Here we are! Hop right in, Jane. Permit me to introduce myself, Mrs. Sage. I am—”
“I remember you quite well,” interrupted the great actress (pronouncing it “quate”). “You are Sammy Parr—little Sammy Parr who used to live—ah—let me see, where was it you were living when I left Rumley, Sammy?”
Sammy flushed with joy to the roots of his hair.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me, Mrs.—”
“Pairfectly,” said she. “Oh, thank you so much. What a lovely car you have. Don’t come too close to Henry the Eighth—he has a vile way of snapping at people, whether he likes them or not. My word, Sammy! Jane! Herbert! Can I believe my eyes? Is this Rumley? Is this—”
“This is my wife, Mrs. Sage,” introduced Sammy, indicating the bare-headed young lady at the wheel.
“How do you do, Mrs. Sage. I’m awfully thrilled to meet you. I saw you act in London during the war. My first husband was an officer in the American Army, you see. You were perfectly lovely. I shall never forget—oh, dear, what was the name of the play? I ought to remember—”
“Don’t try,” interrupted Mrs. Sage. “I want to forget it myself. I say, Herbert, old thing, you can’t make me believe this is Rumley. You are deceiving me. I don’t recognize a single—Oh, yes, I do! I take it all back. I would know that man if I saw him in Timbuktu. The old Johnnie in the car we just passed. It was Gooch—the amiable Gooch—and, my word, what a dust he was raising!”
Oliver, pedaling furiously, arrived at the parsonage ten minutes behind the Sages. The minister greeted him as he came clattering up the front steps.
“Sh!” he cautioned, his finger to his lips. “Don’t make such a noise, Oliver—if you please. She’s—she’s resting. Sh! Do you mind tiptoeing, lad? Jane and I have got quite in the habit of it the past two weeks. I am happy to see you, my boy. She always rests about this time of the day. You have come out for the senatorship, I hear. Especially if she’s had a train trip or anything like that. Well, well, I hope you will go in with flying colors. If she doesn’t get her rest right on the minute, she has a headache and—”
“Where is Jane, Uncle Herbert?” broke in Oliver, twiddling his hat. He was struck by the dazed, beatific, and yet harassed expression in the minister’s eyes—as if he were still in a maze of wonder and perplexity from which he was vainly trying to extricate himself.
“Jane? Oh, yes, Jane. Why, Jane is upstairs with her dear mother—helping her with her hair, I think. I am sure she will not be down for some time, Oliver. After the hair I think she rubs her back or something of that sort. Do you mind toddling—I mean strolling—around the yard with me, Oliver? I was on the point of taking Henry the Eighth out for a little exercise—ten minutes is the allotted time, ten to the second. He—”
“Henry the what?” inquired Oliver, still gripping the pastor’s hand.
“The Eighth,” said Mr. Sage, looking about the porch and shifting the position of his feet in some trepidation. “Bless my soul, what can have become of him? I hope I haven’t been standing on him. I should have squashed him—Ah, I remember! The hatrack!”
He dashed into the hall, followed by Oliver, and there was Henry the Eighth suspended from the hatrack by his leash in such a precarious fashion that only by standing on his hind legs was he able to avoid strangulation.
“I am so absent-minded,” murmured Mr. Sage, rather plaintively. “Poor doggie! Was he being hanged like a horrid old murderer? Was he—”
“Hey!” cried Oliver. “He’s nipping your ankle, Uncle Herbert.”
“I know he is,” said Mr. Sage, smiling patiently. “He does it every time he gets a chance. I’m quite used to it by now.”
“I’d kick his ugly little head off,” said Oliver.
“Oh, dear, no! You wouldn’t kick Henry the Eighth, I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
They were out on the porch now, Mr. Sage holding the leash at arm’s length and walking in a lopsided, overhanging sort of manner in order to keep his ankles out of reach of Henry the Eighth’s sharp little snappers. Oliver followed down the steps and out upon the sunburnt lawn.
“Does he snap at you like that all the time?” he inquired, sending a swift, searching glance up at the second floor windows.
“I am afraid he does,” said Mr. Sage, dejectedly. “He doesn’t like me.”
“I’ll tell you what, Uncle Herbert,” began Oliver mendaciously; “you just lead him around toward the back of the house, out of sight of those windows up there, and I’ll show you how to break him of that. I love dogs, and I know how to make ’em love me.”
“He will not allow you to pet him, Oliver,” said Mr. Sage hastily.
“I’m not going to pet him,” said Oliver grimly. “You want to break him of biting, don’t you?”
“I should very much like to be on—er—friendly terms with him.”
“All right then. Bring him back this way. We’ll give him his first lesson in politeness. The trouble with Henry the Eighth is he’s been spoiled by women. What he needs is a good sound spanking.”
“Bless my soul, Oliver! You—”
“I guess it’s safe over there back of the woodshed, Uncle Herbert. They can’t see or hear from the house. Many’s the time I’ve been taken out to the woodshed, and I don’t believe Henry the Eighth is any better than I was.”
“My dear boy, I—”
“Now, let him snap at you a couple of times—let him think he’s got you trembling all over with fright. That’s the stuff! Gee, he’s a mean little beast, isn’t he? He’s got the idea he’s a lion or a tiger. Now, yank him up by the leash and take hold of the back of his neck with your left hand—”
“You do it, Oliver. Really, I—I—can’t,” pleaded Mr. Sage.
“Go ahead! Yank him up—look out, sir! He came close to getting you that time. That’s the way. You taught me the art of self-defense a long time ago. Turn about is fair play, sir. I’m going to teach you the art of self-protection. Now take the end of the leash and give him ten sharp cuts with it. Go on! I’ll keep watch.”
And so, to the immeasurable astonishment of Henry the Eighth, ten chastening lashes were administered to his squirming hindquarters, each succeeding one being a little harder than its predecessor as the minister abandoned himself to a most unseemly though delightful state of malevolence. Half way through he decided to drag the performance out a little by increasing the length of the intervals between lashes, thus deceiving Henry the Eighth into the belief that each blow was the last only to find himself lamentably mistaken a few seconds later.
“Keep a sharp watch, Oliver,” whispered Mr. Sage, between his teeth somewhere along about the seventh lash.
“I will,” said Oliver, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of the west window in what he knew to be Jane’s bed-chamber. “Don’t you worry.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t—don’t let her catch me at it.”
“I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t at the station when Jane—when you got in, Uncle Herbert. Did you have a comfortable trip down from—”
“Nine,” counted Mr. Sage, and then fifteen seconds later: “Ten. Now, what shall I do with him, Oliver? If I let him down he’ll jump at me like a rattlesnake and—”
“Oh, no, he won’t,” said Oliver, reluctantly withdrawing his gaze from the window and joining the other beyond the corner of the woodshed. “He’ll lick your hand if you hold it close enough to his nose. Let him down. See that? He’s got his tail between his legs—or as much of it as he can get there—and he’ll keep it there till he thinks you want him to wag it.”
“I feel like a brute,” muttered Mr. Sage, but not as contritely as might have been expected. “I hope I haven’t really injured the poor little fellow.” Henry the Eighth, cringing flat on his little belly, peeped anxiously but evilly up at his new master. “He doesn’t appear to be able to stand on his feet, Oliver.”
“Does he know any tricks?”
“Oh my, yes. He’s really quite clever. He does quite a few for Josephine. Rolls over, plays dead, jumps over her foot, sits up and begs, and—”
“Tell him to roll over,” said Oliver sternly.
“Oh, he won’t do them for me. He growls at me whenever I attempt to—”
“Tell him to roll over.”
“Roll over, Henry—roll over, sir! Why—why, bless my soul, he’s doing it.”
“Tell him to play dead.”
Henry the Eighth “played dead”—with his beady eyes wide open, however—and then sat up on his haunches and begged.
“Now, see what he’ll do if you try to pat his head.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t like to risk—er—he is quite likely to nip my fingers if I—”
“If he tries it, spank him once or twice.”
Henry the Eighth plucked up the courage to growl when the minister’s left hand neared his head. An instant later, the flat of Mr. Sage’s right hand came in contact with a portion of Henry’s anatomy that already had suffered considerable pain and indignity. Whereupon he squeezed out an apologetic little yelp and turned over on his back to play dead again. Mr. Sage solemnly shook both of the feathery front paws and called him a nice doggie. He had to call him a nice doggie three times, and, besides that, had to show his teeth in a broad, ingratiating smile before Henry was willing to trust his own eyes and ears. He wagged his bushy tail weakly, experimentally.
“Nice doggie,” said Mr. Sage again.
“Don’t overdo it,” warned Oliver. “Don’t be too polite to him. He’ll be thinking he’s a lion again, Uncle Herbert.”
“I wouldn’t have Mrs. Sage know that I’ve thrashed him for anything in the world,” said the minister guiltily. “You won’t mention it, my lad?”
“I can’t promise not to tell Jane about it.”
“Oh, I don’t mind your telling Jane. She’s been at me for a week to paddle him—”
“I say, Uncle Herbert, don’t you think Jane may have finished—er—rubbing Mrs. Sage’s back by this time?” inquired the impatient Oliver.
“Possibly,” said the other. “Come along, doggie—let’s romp a bit. Oh, by the way, before I forget it, Oliver, Mrs. Sage prefers to be—er—called Miss Judge.”
Oliver’s face fell. “Oh, thunder! Am I not to call her Aunt Josephine?”
“Certainly—certainly, my boy. I mean, Miss Judge in public. It seems to be a—er—a theatrical custom. On the train coming down a gentleman from Hopkinsville joined us for a few moments and I was obliged to introduce her as ‘my wife, Miss Judge.’ Come along, Henry—there’s a nice dog! Jump over my foot! Good! He did it splendidly, didn’t he, Oliver?”
Meanwhile, Jane, having brushed her mother’s hair, was now employed in the more laborious task of rubbing the lady’s back—a task attended by grateful little grunts and sighs on the part of the patient and a rather expressive tightening of the lips and crinkling of the brow on the part of the impatient daughter.
“You have a great deal of magnetism in your hands, my dear,” droned Mrs. Sage, luxuriously—the sort of thing one invariably purrs when one’s head is being rubbed. “As I say, my maid always did it for me in London, but God bless my soul, she never had the touch that you have. Really, my dear, it was like being scraped with sandpaper. The right shoulder now, please.”
“I think Oliver is downstairs with father,” began Jane wistfully.
“She was my dresser, too,” went on Mrs. Sage drowsily. “Really, I wonder now that I endured her as long as I did. And I shouldn’t, you may be sure, if she hadn’t—a little lower down, dear—if she hadn’t—ah—what was I going to say? Oh, yes; if she hadn’t been so kind to Henry the Eighth. I do hope your father is giving him a nice little romp in the front—”
“Shall I run down and see, Mother?” broke in Jane eagerly.
“Presently, my dear, presently. I shall be taking my tub in a few—you say we have a bathroom now? Dear me, how the house has grown. It used to be a sort of stand-up process in a wash-tub half full of warm water and suds. Ah me! What a change time has wrought. You must take me all over the house to-morrow, Jane dear. I sha’n’t be quite up to it this evening, don’t you know. How many servants have we?”
“One,” said Jane succinctly.
“One?” gasped Josephine. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“One is all we need, and besides one is all we can afford. I am afraid you will have a lot to put up with, Mother dear.”
Josephine was silent for a long time. Suddenly she lifted her head and looked up into her daughter’s face.
“My dear,” she said, with a wry little twist at the corner of her generous mouth, “I’ve come home to stay. I daresay you will find me capable of taking things as they are. I did it once before and I can do it again. Now, if you will draw me a nice warm tub; I’ll—I’ll—” she yawned voluptuously—“I’ll get in and sozzle a bit. And that reminds me, Jane. I shall never in any way interfere with you as housekeeper here. Your father assures me that you are a perfect manager. I was a very poor one in my day. I daresay we’d better let well enough alone. Don’t make it too hot, my dear—and do see if you can find my bath slippers in that bag over there by the door.”
The express wagon with Mrs. Sage’s trunks arrived as Oliver, in despair, was preparing to depart as he had come, on Marmaduke Smith’s bicycle. He took fresh hope. Here was a chance to see Jane after all. With joyous avidity he offered to help Joe O’Brien lug the trunks upstairs.
“Where do you want ’em, Jane?” he shouted from the bottom of the stairs. There was no answer. “Where shall we put them, Uncle Herbert?” he asked, his hands jammed deep in his pockets.
“Bless my soul, I—I haven’t an idea,” groaned Mr. Sage, passing his hand over his brow. This act seemed to have cleared some of the fog from his brain. “Unless you put them in my study,” he suggested brightly. “They will fill it to overflowing, but—but I can think of no other place. Dear me, what a lot of them there are.”
Fifteen minutes later, the trunks being piled high in the pastor’s little study, Oliver mopped his brow and expressed himself feelingly to Mr. Sage from the bottom of the porch steps.
“I’ll make Uncle Horace sweat for this,” he growled. “If he hadn’t come nosing around this afternoon, I would have—At the same time, Uncle Herbert, I think Jane might have been allowed a minute or two to say hello to a fellow. Good Lord, sir, is—is this to be Jane’s job from now on?”
“Sh! The windows are open, Oliver.”
“Is she to be nothing but a lady’s maid to Aunt Josephine?”
“We are so happy to have her with us, my dear boy, that—er—nothing—er—”
“I understand, Uncle Herbert,” broke in Oliver contritely, noting the pastor’s distress. “I’m sorry I spoke as I did. Tell Jane I’ll call her up this evening. And please tell Aunt Josephine I am awfully keen to see her. I used to love her better than anything going, you know.”
“It’s different now,” said Mr. Sage. “You are both considerably older than you were. Will you come up to-night?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll come up and move the trunks for you, Uncle Herbert. So that you can have room to write next Sunday’s sermon,” he said, with his gay, whimsical smile.
Then he pedaled slowly away on Marmaduke’s wheel, looking over his shoulder until the windows of the parsonage were no longer visible.