"'He either fears his fate too much,Or his deserts are small,Who dares not put it to the touchTo win or lose it all.'
That's somethin' like it, ain't it, Charlie?" he asked.
Phillips was amazed. "Well, I declare, Winslow," he exclaimed, "you beat me! I can't place you at all. Whoever would have accused you of reading poetry—and quoting it."
Jed rubbed his chin. "I don't know much, of course," he said, "but there's consider'ble many poetry books up to the library and I like to read 'em sometimes. You're liable to run across a—er—poem— well, like this one, for instance—that kind of gets hold of you. It fills the bill, you might say, as nothin' else does. There's another one that's better still. About—
'Once to every man and nationComes the moment to decide.
Do you know that one?"
His visitor did not answer. After a moment he swung himself from the workbench and turned toward the door.
"'He either fears his fate too much,'" he quoted, gloomily. "Humph! I wonder if it ever occurred to that chap that there might be certain kinds of fate that COULDN'T be feared too much? . . . Well, so long, Jed. Ah hum, you don't know where I can get hold of some money, do you?"
Jed was surprised. "Humph!" he grunted. "I should say you HAD hold of money two-thirds of every day. Feller that works in a bank is supposed to handle some cash."
"Yes, of course," with an impatient laugh, "but that is somebody else's money, not mine. I want to get some of my own."
"Sho! . . . Well, I cal'late I could let you have ten or twenty dollars right now, if that would be any help to you."
"It wouldn't; thank you just the same. If it was five hundred instead of ten, why—perhaps I shouldn't say no."
Jed was startled.
"Five hundred?" he repeated. "Five hundred dollars? Do you need all that so very bad, Charlie?"
Phillips, his foot upon the threshold of the outer shop, turned and looked at him.
"The way I feel now I'd do almost anything to get it," he said, and went out.
Jed told no one of this conversation, although his friend's parting remark troubled and puzzled him. In fact it troubled him so much that at a subsequent meeting with Charles he hinted to the latter that he should be glad to lend the five hundred himself.
"I ought to have that and some more in the bank," he said. "Sam would know whether I had or not. . . . Eh? Why, and you would, too, of course. I forgot you know as much about folks' bank accounts as anybody. . . . More'n some of 'em do themselves, bashfulness stoppin' me from namin' any names," he added.
Charles looked at him. "Do you mean to tell me, Jed Winslow," he said, "that you would lend me five hundred dollars without any security or without knowing in the least what I wanted it for?"
"Why—why, of course. 'Twouldn't be any of my business what you wanted it for, would it?"
"Humph! Have you done much lending of that kind?"
"Eh? . . . Um. . . . Well, I used to do consider'ble, but Sam he kind of put his foot down and said I shouldn't do any more. But I don't HAVE to mind him, you know, although I generally do because it's easier—and less noisy," he added, with a twinkle in his eye.
"Well, you ought to mind him; he's dead right, of course. You're a good fellow, Jed, but you need a guardian."
Jed shook his head sadly. "I hate to be so unpolite as to call your attention to it," he drawled, "but I've heard somethin' like that afore. Up to now I ain't found any guardian that needs me, that's the trouble. And if I want to lend you five hundred dollars, Charlie, I'm goin' to. Oh, I'm a divil of a feller when I set out to be, desperate and reckless, I am."
Charlie laughed, but he put his hand on Jed's shoulder, "You're a brick, I know that," he said, "and I'm a million times obliged to you. But I was only joking; I don't need any five hundred."
"Eh? . . . You don't? . . . Why, you said—"
"Oh, I—er—need some new clothes and things and I was talking foolishness, that's all. Don't you worry about me, Jed; I'm all right."
But Jed did worry, a little, although his worry concerning the young man's need of money was so far overshadowed by the anxiety caused by his falling in love with Maud Hunniwell that it was almost forgotten. That situation was still as tense as ever. Two- thirds of Orham, so it seemed to Jed, was talking about it, wondering when the engagement would be announced and speculating, as Gabe Bearse had done, on Captain Sam's reception of the news. The principals, Maud and Charles, did not speak of it, of course— neither did the captain or Ruth Armstrong. Jed expected Ruth to speak; he was certain she understood the situation and realized its danger; she appeared to him anxious and very nervous. It was to him, and to him alone—her brother excepted—she could speak, but the days passed and she did not. And it was Captain Hunniwell who spoke first.
Captain Sam entered the windmill shop about two o'clock one windy afternoon in the first week of March. He was wearing a heavy fur overcoat and a motoring cap. He pulled off the coat, threw it over a pile of boards and sat down.
"Whew!" he exclaimed. "It's blowing hard enough to start the bark on a log."
Jed looked up.
"Did you say log or dog?" he asked, solemnly.
The captain grinned. "I said log," he answered. "This gale of wind would blow a dog away, bark and all. Whew! I'm all out of breath. It's some consider'ble of a drive over from Wapatomac. Comin' across that stretch of marsh road by West Ostable I didn't know but the little flivver would turn herself into a flyin'- machine and go up."
Jed stopped in the middle of the first note of a hymn.
"What in the world sent you autoin' way over to Wapatomac and back this day?" he asked.
His friend bit the end from a cigar. "Oh, diggin' up the root of all evil," he said. "I had to collect a note that was due over there."
"Humph! I don't know much about such things, but I never mistrusted 'twas necessary for you to go cruisin' like that to collect notes. Seems consider'ble like sendin' the skipper up town to buy onions for the cook. Couldn't the—the feller that owed the money send you a check?"
Captain Sam chuckled. "He could, I cal'late, but he wouldn't," he observed. "'Twas old Sylvester Sage, up to South Wapatomac, the 'cranberry king' they call him up there. He owns cranberry bogs from one end of the Cape to the other. You've heard of him, of course."
Jed rubbed his chin. "Maybe so," he drawled, "but if I have I've forgot him. The only sage I recollect is the sage tea Mother used to make me take when I had a cold sometimes. I COULDN'T forget that."
"Well, everybody but you has heard of old Sylvester. He's the biggest crank on earth."
"Hum-m. Seems 's if he and I ought to know each other. . . . But maybe he's a different kind of crank; eh?"
"He's all kinds. One of his notions is that he won't pay bills by check, if he can possibly help it. He'll travel fifty miles to pay money for a thing sooner than send a check for it. He had this note—fourteen hundred dollars 'twas—comin' due at our bank to-day and he'd sent word if we wanted the cash we must send for it 'cause his lumbago was too bad for him to travel. I wanted to see him anyhow, about a little matter of a political appointment up his way, so I decided to take the car and go myself. Well, I've just got back and I had a windy v'yage, too. And cold, don't talk!"
"Um . . . yes. . . . Get your money, did you?"
"Yes, I got it. It's in my overcoat pocket now. I thought one spell I wasn't goin' to get it, for the old feller was mad about some one of his cranberry buyers failin' up on him and he was as cross-grained as a scrub oak root. He and I had a regular row over the matter of politics I went there to see him about 'special. I told him what he was and he told me where I could go. That's how we parted. Then I came home."
"Hum. . . . You'd have had a warmer trip if you'd gone where he sent you, I presume likely. . . . Um. . . . Yes, yes. . . .
'There's a place in this chorusFor you and for me,And the theme of it everAnd always shall be:Hallelujah, 'tis do-ne!I believe. . . .'
Hum! . . . I thought that paint can was full and there ain't more'n a half pint in it. I must have drunk it in my sleep, I guess. Do I look green around the mouth, Sam?"
It was just before Captain Sam's departure that he spoke of his daughter and young Phillips. He mentioned them in a most casual fashion, as he was putting on his coat to go, but Jed had a feeling that his friend had stopped at the windmill shop on purpose to discuss that very subject and that all the detail of his Wapatomac trip had been in the nature of a subterfuge to conceal this fact.
"Oh," said the captain, with somewhat elaborate carelessness, as he struggled into the heavy coat, "I don't know as I told you that the directors voted to raise Charlie's salary. Um-hm, at last Saturday's meetin' they did it. 'Twas unanimous, too. He's as smart as a whip, that young chap. We all think a heap of him."
Jed nodded, but made no comment. The captain fidgeted with a button of his coat. He turned toward the door, stopped, cleared his throat, hesitated, and then turned back again.
"Jed," he said, "has—has it seemed to you that—that he—that Charlie was—maybe—comin' to think consider'ble of—of my daughter—of Maud?"
Jed looked up, caught his eye, and looked down again. Captain Sam sighed.
"I see," he said. "You don't need to answer. I presume likely the whole town has been talkin' about it for land knows how long. It's generally the folks at home that don't notice till the last gun fires. Of course I knew he was comin' to the house a good deal and that he and Maud seemed to like each other's society, and all that. But it never struck me that—that it meant anything serious, you know—anything—anything—well, you know what I mean, Jed."
"Yes. Yes, Sam, I suppose I do."
"Yes. Well, I—I don't know why it never struck me, either. If Georgianna—if my wife had been alive, she'd have noticed, I'll bet, but I didn't. 'Twas only last evenin'; when he came to get her to go to the pictures, that it came across me, you might say, like—like a wet, cold rope's end' slappin' me in the face. I give you my word, Jed, I—I kind of shivered all over. She means—she means somethin' to me, that little girl and—and—"
He seemed to find it hard to go on. Jed leaned forward.
"I know, Sam, I know," he said. His friend nodded.
"I know you do, Jed," he said. "I don't think there's anybody else knows so well. I'm glad I've got you to talk to. I cal'late, though," he added, with a short laugh, "if some folks knew I came here to—to talk over my private affairs they'd think I was goin' soft in the head."
Jed smiled, and there was no resentment in the smile.
"They'd locate the softness in t'other head of the two, Sam," he suggested.
"I don't care where they locate it. I can talk to you about things I never mention to other folks. Guess it must be because you—you— well, I don't know, but it's so, anyhow. . . . Well, to go ahead, after the young folks had gone I sat there alone in the parlor, in the dark, tryin' to think it out. The housekeeper had gone over to her brother's, so I had the place to myself. I thought and thought and the harder I thought the lonesomer the rest of my life began to look. And yet—and yet I kept tellin' myself how selfish and foolish that was. I knew 'twas a dead sartinty she'd be gettin' married some time. You and I have laughed about it and joked about it time and again. And I've joked about it with her, too. But— but jokin's one thing and this was another. . . . Whew!"
He drew a hand across his forehead. Jed did not speak. After a moment the captain went on.
"Well," he said, "when she got home, and after he'd gone, I got Maud to sit on my knee, same as she's done ever since she was a little girl, and she and I had a talk. I kind of led up to the subject, as you might say, and by and by we—well, we talked it out pretty straight. She thinks an awful sight of him, Jed. There ain't any doubt about that, she as much as told me in those words, and more than told me in other ways. And he's the only one she's ever cared two straws for, she told me that. And—and—well, I think she thinks he cares for her that way, too, although of course she didn't say so. But he hasn't spoken to her yet. I don't know, but—but it seemed to me, maybe, that he might be waitin' to speak to me first. I'm his—er—boss, you know, and perhaps he may feel a little—little under obligations to me in a business way and that might make it harder for him to speak. Don't it seem to you maybe that might be it, Jed?"
Poor Jed hesitated. Then he stammered that he shouldn't be surprised. Captain Sam sighed.
"Well," he said, "if that's it, it does him credit, anyhow. I ain't goin' to be selfish in this thing, Jed. If she's goin' to have a husband—and she is, of course—I cal'late I'd rather 'twas Charlie than anybody else I've ever run across. He's smart and he'll climb pretty high, I cal'late. Our little single-sticked bankin' craft ain't goin' to be big enough for him to sail in very long. I can see that already. He'll be navigatin' a clipper one of these days. Well, that's the way I'd want it. I'm pretty ambitious for that girl of mine and I shouldn't be satisfied short of a top-notcher. And he's a GOOD feller, Jed; a straight, clean, honest and above-board young chap. That's the best of it, after all, ain't it?"
Jed's reply was almost a groan, but his friend did not notice. He put on his overcoat and turned to go.
"So, there you are," he said. "I had to talk to somebody, had to get it off my chest, and, as I just said, it seems to be easier to talk such things to you than anybody else. Now if any of the town gas engines—Gab Bearse or anybody else—comes cruisin' in here heavin' overboard questions about how I like the notion of Maud and Charlie takin' up with each other, you can tell 'em I'm tickled to death. That won't be all lie, neither. I can't say I'm happy, exactly, but Maud is and I'm goin' to make-believe be, for her sake. So long."
He went out. Jed put his elbows on the workbench and covered his face with his hands. He was still in that position when Ruth Armstrong came in. He rose hastily, but she motioned him to sit again.
"Jed," she said, "Captain Hunniwell was just here with you; I saw him go. Tell me, what was he talking about?"
Jed was confused. "Why—why, Mrs. Ruth," he stammered, "he was just talkin' about—about a note he'd been collectin', and—and such."
"Wasn't he speaking of his daughter—and—and my brother?"
This time Jed actually gasped. Ruth drew a long breath. "I knew it," she said.
"But—but, for mercy sakes, HOW did you know? Did he—?"
"No, he didn't see me at all. I was watching him from the window. But I saw his face and—" with a sudden gesture of desperation, "Oh, it wasn't that at all, Jed. It was my guilty conscience, I guess. I've been expecting him to speak to you—or me—have been dreading it every day—and now somehow I knew he had spoken. I KNEW it. What did he say, Jed?"
Jed told the substance of what Captain Sam had said. She listened. When he finished her eyes were wet.
"Oh, it is dreadful," she moaned. "I—I was so hoping she might not care for Charlie. But she does—of course she does. She couldn't help it," with a sudden odd little flash of loyalty.
Jed rubbed his chin in desperation.
"And—and Charlie?" he asked, anxiously. "Does he—"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure he does. He has never told me so, never in so many words, but I can see. I know him better than any one else in the world and I can see. I saw first, I think, on Thanksgiving Day; at least that is when I first began to suspect—to fear."
Jed nodded. "When they was at the piano together that time and Sam said somethin' about their bein' a fine-lookin' couple?" he said.
"Why, yes, that was it. Are you a mind reader, Jed?"
"No-o, I guess not. But I saw you lookin' kind of surprised and— er—well, scared for a minute. I was feelin' the same way just then, so it didn't need any mind reader to guess what had scared you."
"I see. But, oh, Jed, it is dreadful! What SHALL we do? What will become of us all? And now, when I—I had just begun to be happy, really happy."
She caught her breath in a sob. Jed instinctively stretched out his hand.
"But there," she went on, hurriedly wiping her eyes, "I mustn't do this. This is no time for me to think of myself. Jed, this mustn't go any further. He must not ask her to marry him; he must not think of such a thing."
Jed sadly shook his head. "I'm afraid you're right," he said. "Not as things are now he surely mustn't. But—but, Mrs. Ruth—"
"Oh, don't!" impatiently. "Don't use that silly 'Mrs.' any longer. Aren't you the—the best friend I have in the world? Do call me Ruth."
If she had been looking at his face just then she might have seen— things. But she was not looking. There was an interval of silence before he spoke.
"Well, then—er—Ruth—" he faltered.
"That's right. Go on."
"I was just goin' to ask you if you thought Charlie was cal'latin' to ask her. I ain't so sure that he is."
He told of Charles' recent visit to the windmill shop and the young man's query concerning the making of a decision. She listened anxiously.
"But don't you think that means that he was wondering whether or not he should ask her?" she said.
"No. That is, I don't think it's sartin sure it means that. I rather had the notion it might mean he was figgerin' whether or not to go straight to Sam and make a clean breast of it."
"You mean tell—tell everything?"
"Yes, all about the—the business at Middleford. I do honestly believe that's what the boy's got on his mind to do. It ain't very surprisin' that he backs and fills some before that mind's made up. See what it might mean to him: it might mean the loss of his prospects here and his place in the bank and, more'n everything else, losin' Maud. It's some decision to make. If I had to make it I— Well, I don't know."
She put her hand to her eyes. "The POOR boy," she said, under her breath. "But, Jed, DO you think that is the decision he referred to? And why hasn't he said a word to me, his own sister, about it? I'm sure he loves me."
"Sartin he does, and that's just it, as I see it. It ain't his own hopes and prospects alone that are all wrapped up in this thing, it's yours—and Babbie's. He's troubled about what'll happen to you. That's why he hasn't asked your advice, I believe."
They were both silent for a moment. Then she said, pleadingly, "Oh, Jed, it is up to you and me, isn't it? What shall we do?"
It was the "we" in this sentence which thrilled. If she had bade him put his neck in front of the handsaw just then Jed would have obeyed, and smilingly have pulled the lever which set the machine in motion. But the question, nevertheless, was a staggerer.
"W-e-e-ll," he admitted, "I—I hardly know what to say, I will give in. To be right down honest—and the Lord knows I hate to say it— it wouldn't do for a minute to let those two young folks get engaged—to say nothin' of gettin' married—with this thing between 'em. It wouldn't be fair to her, nor to Sam—no, nor to him or you, either. You see that, don't you?" he begged. "You know I don't say it for any reason but just—just for the best interests of all hands. You know that, don't you—Ruth?"
"Of course, of course. But what then?"
"I don't really know what then. Seems to me the very first thing would be for you to speak to him, put the question right up to him, same as he's been puttin' it to himself all this time. Get him to talk it over with you. And then—well, then—"
"Yes?"
"Oh, I don't know! I declare I don't."
"Suppose he tells me he means to marry her in spite of everything? Suppose he won't listen to me at all?"
That possibility had been in Jed's mind from the beginning, but he refused to consider it.
"He will listen," he declared, stoutly. "He always has, hasn't he?"
"Yes, yes, I suppose he has. He listened to me when I persuaded him that coming here and hiding all—all that happened was the right thing to do. And now see what has come of it! And it is all my fault. Oh, I have been so selfish!"
"Sshh! sshh! You ain't; you couldn't be if you tried. And, besides, I was as much to blame as you. I agreed that 'twas the best thing to do."
"Oh," reproachfully, "how can you say that? You know you were opposed to it always. You only say it because you think it will comfort me. It isn't true."
"Eh? Now—now, don't talk so. Please don't. If you keep on talkin' that way I'll do somethin' desperate, start to make a johnny cake out of sawdust, same as I did yesterday mornin', or somethin' else crazy."
"Jed!"
"It's true, that about the johnny cake. I came pretty nigh doin' that very thing. I bought a five-pound bag of corn meal yesterday and fetched it home from the store all done up in a nice neat bundle. Comin' through the shop here I had it under my arm, and— hum—er—well, to anybody else it couldn't have happened, but, bein' Jed Shavin's Winslow, I was luggin' the thing with the top of the bag underneath. I got about abreast of the lathe there when the string came off and in less'n two thirds of a shake all I had under my arm was the bag; the meal was on the floor—what wasn't in my coat pocket and stuck to my clothes and so on. I fetched the water bucket and started to salvage what I could of the cargo. Pretty soon I had, as nigh as I could reckon it, about fourteen pound out of the five scooped up and in the bucket. I begun to think the miracle of loaves and fishes was comin' to pass again. I was some shy on fish, but I was makin' up on loaves. Then I sort of looked matters over and found what I had in the bucket was about one pound of meal to seven of sawdust. Then I gave it up. Seemed to me the stuff might be more fillin' than nourishin'."
Ruth smiled faintly. Then she shook her head.
"Oh, Jed," she said, "you're as transparent as a windowpane. Thank you, though. If anything could cheer me up and help me to forget I think you could."
Jed looked repentant. "I'd no business to tell you all that rigamarole," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm always doin' the wrong thing, seems so. But," he added, earnestly, "I don't want you to worry too much about your brother—er—Ruth. It's goin' to come out all right, I know it. God won't let it come out any other way."
She had never heard him speak in just that way before and she looked at him in surprise.
"And yet God permits many things that seem entirely wrong to us humans," she said.
"I know. Things like the Kaiser, for instance. Well, never mind; this one's goin' to come out all right. I feel it in my bones. And," with a return of his whimsical drawl, "I may be short on brains, but a blind man could see they never skimped me when they passed out the bones."
She looked at him a moment. Then, suddenly leaning forward, she put her hand upon his big red one as it lay upon the bench.
"Jed," she said, earnestly, "what should I do without you? You are my one present help in time of trouble. I wonder if you know what you have come to mean to me."
It was an impulsive speech, made from the heart, and without thought of phrasing or that any meaning other than that intended could be read into it. A moment later, and without waiting for an answer, she hurried from the shop.
"I must go," she said. "I shall think over your advice, Jed, and I will let you know what I decide to do. Thank you ever and ever so much."
Jed scarcely heard her. After she had gone, he sat perfectly still by the bench for a long period, gazing absently at the bare wall of the shop and thinking strange thoughts. After a time he rose and, walking into the little sitting-room, sat down beside the ugly little oak writing table he had bought at a second-hand sale and opened the upper drawer.
Weeks before, Ruth, yielding to Babbie's urgent appeal, had accompanied the latter to the studio of the local photographer and there they had been photographed, together, and separately. The results, although not artistic triumphs, being most inexpensive, had been rather successful as likenesses. Babbie had come trotting in to show Jed the proofs. A day or so later he found one of the said proofs on the shop floor where the little girl had dropped it. It happened to be a photograph of Ruth, sitting alone.
And then Jed Winslow did what was perhaps the first dishonest thing he had ever done. He put that proof in the drawer of the oak writing table and said nothing of his having found it. Later he made a wooden frame for it and covered it with glass. It faded and turned black as all proofs do, but still Jed kept it in the drawer and often, very often, opened that drawer and looked at it. Now he looked at it for a long, long time and when he rose to go back to the shop there was in his mind, along with the dream that had been there for days and weeks, for the first time the faintest dawning of a hope. Ruth's impulsive speech, hastily and unthinkingly made, was repeating itself over and over in his brain. "I wonder if you know what you have come to mean to me?" What had he come to mean to her?
An hour later, as he sat at his bench, Captain Hunniwell came banging in once more. But this time the captain looked troubled.
"Jed," he asked, anxiously, "have you found anything here since I went out?"
Jed looked up.
"Eh?" he asked, absently. "Found? What have you found, Sam?"
"I? I haven't found anything. I've lost four hundred dollars, though. You haven't found it, have you?"
Still Jed did not appear to comprehend. He had been wandering the rose-bordered paths of fairyland and was not eager to come back to earth.
"Eh?" he drawled. "You've—what?"
His friend's peppery temper broke loose.
"For thunder sakes wake up!" he roared. "I tell you I've lost four hundred dollars of the fourteen hundred I told you I collected from Sylvester Sage over to Wapatomac this mornin'. I had three packages of bills, two of five hundred dollars each and one of four hundred. The two five hundred packages were in the inside pocket of my overcoat where I put 'em. But the four hundred one's gone. What I want to know is, did it drop out when I took off my coat here in the shop? Do you get that through your head, finally?"
It had gotten through. Jed now looked as troubled as his friend. He rose hastily and went over to the pile of boards upon which Captain Sam had thrown his coat upon entering the shop on his previous visit that day. Together they searched, painstakingly and at length. The captain was the first to give up.
"'Tain't here," he snapped. "I didn't think 'twas. Where in time is it? That's what I want to know."
Jed rubbed his chin.
"Are you sure you had it when you left Wapatomac?" he asked.
"Sure? No, I ain't sure of anything. But I'd have sworn I did. The money was on the table along with my hat and gloves. I picked it up and shoved it in my overcoat pocket. And that was a darned careless place to put it, too," he added, testily. "I'd have given any feller that worked for me the devil for doin' such a thing."
Jed nodded, sympathetically. "But you might have left it there to Sylvester's," he said. "Have you thought of telephonin' to find out?"
"Have I thought? Tut, tut, tut! Do you think I've got a head like a six-year-old young-one—or you? Course I've thought—and 'phoned, too. But it didn't do me any good. Sylvester's house is shut up and the old man's gone to Boston, so the postmaster told me when I 'phoned and asked him. Won't be back for a couple of days, anyhow. I remember he told me he was goin'!"
"Sho, sho! that's too bad."
"Bad enough, but I don't think it makes any real difference. I swear I had that money when I left Sage's. I came in here and then I went straight to the bank."
"And after you got there?"
"Oh, when I got there I found no less than three men, not countin' old Mrs. Emmeline Bartlett, in my room waitin' to see me. Nellie Hall—my typewriter, you know—she knew where I'd been and what a crank old Sage is and she says: 'Did you get the money, Cap'n?' And I says: 'Yes, it's in my overcoat pocket this minute.' Then I hurried in to 'tend to the folks that was waitin' for me. 'Twas an hour later afore I went to my coat to get the cash. Then, as I say, all I could find was the two five hundred packages. The four hundred one was gone."
"Sho, sho! Tut, tut, tut! Where did you put the coat when you took it off?"
"On the hook in the clothes closet where I always put it."
"Hum-m! And—er—when you told Nellie about it did you speak loud?"
"Loud? No louder'n I ever do."
"Well—er—that ain't a—er—whisper, Sam, exactly."
"Don't make any difference. There wasn't anybody outside the railin' that minute to hear if I'd bellered like a bull of Bashan. There was nobody in the bank, I tell you, except the three men and old Aunt Emmeline and they were waitin' in my private room. And except for Nellie and Eddie Ellis, the messenger, and Charlie Phillips, there wan't a soul around, as it happened. The money hasn't been stolen; I lost it somewheres—but where? Well, I can't stop here any longer. I'm goin' back to the bank to have another hunt."
He banged out again. Fortunately he did not look at his friend's face before he went. For that face had a singular expression upon it. Jed sat heavily down in the chair by the bench. A vivid recollection of a recent remark made in that very shop had suddenly come to him. Charlie Phillips had made it in answer to a question of his own. Charlie had declared that he would do almost anything to get five hundred dollars.
The next morning found Jed heavy-eyed and without appetite, going through the form of preparing breakfast. All night, with the exception of an hour or two, he had tossed on his bed alternately fearing the worst and telling himself that his fears were groundless. Of course Charlie Phillips had not stolen the four hundred dollars. Had not he, Jed Winslow, loudly proclaimed to Ruth Armstrong that he knew her brother to be a fine young man, one who had been imprudent, it is true, but much more sinned against than sinning and who would henceforth, so he was willing to swear, be absolutely upright and honest? Of course the fact that a sum of money was missing from the Orham National Bank, where Phillips was employed, did not necessarily imply that the latter had taken it.
Not necessarily, that was true; but Charlie had, in Jed's presence, expressed himself as needing money, a sum approximately that which was missing; and he had added that he would do almost anything to get it. And—there was no use telling oneself that the fact had no bearing on the case, because it would bear heavily with any unprejudiced person—Charlie's record was against him. Jed loyally told himself over and over again that the boy was innocent, he KNEW he was innocent. But— The dreadful "but" came back again and again to torment him.
All that day he went about in an alternate state of dread and hope. Hope that the missing four hundred might be found, dread of—many possibilities. Twice he stopped at the bank to ask Captain Sam concerning it. The second time the captain was a trifle impatient.
"Gracious king, Jed," he snapped. "What's the matter with you? 'Tain't a million. This institution'll probably keep afloat even if it never turns up. And 'twill turn up sooner or later; it's bound to. There's a chance that I left it at old Sage's. Soon's the old cuss gets back and I can catch him by telephone I'll find out. Meanwhile I ain't worryin' and I don't know why you should. The main thing is not to let anybody know anything's missin'. Once let the news get out 'twill grow to a hundred thousand afore night. There'll be a run on us if Gab Bearse or Melissa Busteed get goin' with their throttles open. So don't you whisper a word to anybody, Jed. We'll find it pretty soon."
And Jed did not whisper a word. But he anxiously watched the inmates of the little house, watched Charles' face when he came home after working hours, watched the face of his sister as she went forth on a marketing expedition, even scrutinized Babbie's laughing countenance as she came dancing into the shop, swinging Petunia by one arm. And it was from Babbie he first learned that, in spite of all Captain Hunniwell's precautions, some one had dropped a hint. It may as well be recorded here that the identity of that some one was never clearly established. There were suspicions, centering about the bank messenger, but he stoutly denied having told a living soul.
Barbara, who was on her way home from school, and had rescued the long-suffering Petunia from the front fence where she had been left suspended on a picket to await her parent's return, was bubbling over with news and giggles.
"Oh, Uncle Jed," she demanded, jumping up to perch panting upon a stack of the front elevations of birdhouses, "isn't Mr. Gabe Bearse awfully funny?"
Jed sighed. "Yes," he said, "Gabe's as funny as a jumpin' toothache."
The young lady regarded him doubtfully. "I see," she said, after a moment, "you're joking again. I wish you'd tell me when you're going to do it, so Petunia and I would know for sure."
"All right, I'll try not to forget to remember. But how did you guess I was jokin' this time?"
"'Cause you just had to be. A jumping toothache isn't funny. I had one once and it made me almost sick."
"Um-hm. W-e-e-ll, Gabe Bearse makes 'most everybody sick. What set you thinkin' about him?"
"'Cause I just met him on the way home and he acted so funny. First he gave me a stick of candy."
Mr. Winslow leaned back in his chair.
"What?" he cried. "He gave you a stick of candy? GAVE it to you?"
"Yes. He said: 'Here, little girl, don't you like candy?' And when I said I did he gave me a stick, the striped peppermint kind it was. I'd have saved a bite for you, Uncle Jed, only I and the rest ate it all before I remembered. I'm awfully sorry."
"That's all right. Striped candy don't agree with me very well, anyway; I'm liable to swallow the stripes crossways, I guess likely. But tell me, did Gabe look wild or out of his head when he gave it to you?"
"Why, no. He just looked—oh—oh, you know, Uncle Jed—MYSter'ous— that's how he looked, MYSter'ous."
"Hum! Well, I'm glad to know he wan't crazy. I've known him a good many years and this is the first time I ever knew him to GIVE anybody anything worth while. When I went to school with him he gave me the measles, I remember, but even then they was only imitation—the German kind. And now he's givin' away candy: Tut, tut! No wonder he looked—what was it?—mysterious. . . . Hum. . . . Well, he wanted somethin' for it, didn't he? What was it?"
"Why, he just wanted to know if I'd heard Uncle Charlie say anything about a lot of money being gone up to the bank. He said he had heard it was ever and ever so much—a hundred hundred dollars—or a thousand dollars, or something—I don't precactly remember, but it was a great, big lot. And he wanted to know if Uncle Charlie had said how much it was and what had become of it and—and everything. When I said Uncle Charlie hadn't said a word he looked so sort of disappointed and funny that it made me laugh."
It did not make Jed laugh. The thought that the knowledge of the missing money had leaked out and was being industriously spread abroad by Bearse and his like was very disquieting. He watched Phillips more closely than before. He watched Ruth, and, before another day had passed, he had devised a wonderful plan, a plan to be carried out in case of alarming eventualities.
On the afternoon of the third day he sat before his workbench, his knee clasped between his hands, his foot swinging, and his thoughts busy with the situation in all its alarming phases. It had been bad enough before this new development, bad enough when the always present danger of Phillips' secret being discovered had become complicated by his falling in love with his employer's daughter. But now— Suppose the boy had stolen the money? Suppose he was being blackmailed by some one whom he must pay or face exposure? Jed had read of such things; they happened often enough in novels.
He did not hear the door of the outer shop open. A month or more ago he had removed the bell from the door. His excuse for so doing had been characteristic.
"I can't stand the wear and tear on my morals," he told Ruth. "I ain't sold anything, except through the mail, since the winter really set in. And yet every time that bell rings I find myself jumpin' up and runnin' to wait on a customer. When it turns out to be Gabe Bearse or somebody like him I swear, and swearin' to me is like whiskey to some folks—comfortin' but demoralizin'."
So the bell having been removed, Jed did not hear the person who came into and through the outer shop. The first sign of that person's presence which reached his ears was an unpleasant chuckle. He turned, to see Mr. Phineas Babbitt standing in the doorway of the inner room. And—this was the most annoying and disturbing fact connected with the sight—the hardware dealer was not scowling, he was laughing. The Winslow foot fell to the floor with a thump and its owner sat up straight.
"He, he, he!" chuckled Phineas. Jed regarded him silently. Babbitt's chuckle subsided into a grin. Then he spoke.
"Well," he observed, with sarcastic politeness, "how's the great Shavin's Jedidah, the famous inventor of whirlagigs? He, he, he!"
Jed slowly shook his head. "Phin," he said, "either you wear rubbers or I'm gettin' deaf, one or the other. How in the world did you get in here this time without my hearin' you?"
Phineas ignored the question. He asked one of his own. "How's the only original high and mighty patriot this afternoon?" he sneered.
The Winslow hand caressed the Winslow chin.
"If you mean me, Phin," drawled Jed, "I'm able to sit up and take nourishment, thank you. I judge you must be kind of ailin', though. Take a seat, won't you?"
"No, I won't. I've got other fish to fry, bigger fish than you, at that"
"Um-hm. Well, they wouldn't have to be sperm whales to beat me, Phin. Be kind of hard to fry 'em if they was too big, wouldn't it?"
"They're goin' to fry, you hear me. Yes, and they're goin' to sizzle. He, he, he!"
Mr. Winslow sadly shook his head. "You must be awful sick, Phin," he drawled. "That's the third or fourth time you've laughed since you came in here."
His visitor stopped chuckling and scowled instead. Jed beamed gratification.
"That's it," he said. "Now you look more natural. Feelin' a little better . . . eh?"
The Babbitt chin beard bristled. Its wearer leaned forward.
"Shut up," he commanded. "I ain't takin' any of your sass this afternoon, Shavin's, and I ain't cal'latin' to waste much time on you, neither. You know where I'm bound now? Well, I'm bound up to the Orham National Bank to call on my dear friend Sam Hunniwell. He, he, he! I've got a little bit of news for him. He's in trouble, they tell me, and I want to help him out. . . . Blast him!"
This time Jed made no reply; but he, too, leaned forward and his gaze was fixed upon the hardware dealer's face. There was an expression upon his own face which, when Phineas saw it, caused the latter to chuckle once more.
"He, he!" he laughed. "What's the matter, Shavin's? You look kind of scared about somethin'. 'Tain't possible you've known all along what I've just found out? I wonder if you have. Have you?"
Still Jed was silent. Babbit grunted.
"It don't make any difference whether you have or not," he said. "But if you ain't I wonder what makes you look so scared. There's nothin' to be scared about, as I see. I'm just cal'latin' to do our dear old chummie, Cap'n Sam, a kindness, that's all. He's lost some money up there to the bank, I understand. Some says it's four thousand dollars and some says it's forty. It don't make any difference, that part don't. Whatever 'tis it's missin' and I'm going to tell him where to find it. That's real good of me, ain't it? Ain't it, Shavin's; eh?"
The little man's malignant spite and evident triumph were actually frightening. And it was quite evident that Jed was frightened. Yet he made an effort not to appear so.
"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, yes, seems 's if 'twas. Er—er— Where is it, Phin?"
Phineas burst out laughing. "'Where is it, Phin?'" he repeated, mockingly. "By godfreys mighty, I believe you do know where 'tis, Shavin's! You ain't gettin' any of it, are you? You ain't dividin' up with the blasted jailbird?"
Jed was very pale. His voice shook as he essayed to speak.
"Wh-what jailbird?" he faltered. "What do you mean? What—what are you talkin' about, Phin?"
"'What are you talkin' about, Phin?' God sakes, hear him, will you! All right, I'll tell you what I'm talkin' about. I'm talkin' about Sam Hunniwell's pet, his new bookkeeper up there to the bank. I'm talkin' about that stuck-up, thievin' hypocrite of a Charlie Phillips, that's who I'm talkin' about. I called him a jailbird, didn't I? Well, he is. He's served his term in the Connecticut State's prison for stealin'. And I know it."
Jed groaned aloud. Here it was at last. The single hair had parted and the sword had fallen. And now, of all times, now! He made a pitiful attempt at denial.
"It ain't so," he protested.
"Oh, yes, it is so. Six or eight weeks ago—in January 'twas— there was a drummer in my store sellin' a line of tools and he was lookin' out of the window when this Phillips cuss went by with Maud Hunniwell, both of 'em struttin' along as if common folks, honest folks, was dirt under their feet. And when this drummer see 'em he swore right out loud. 'Why,' says he, 'that's Charlie Phillips, of Middleford, ain't it?' 'His name's Phillips and he comes from Connecticut somewheres,' says I. 'I thought he was in state's prison,' says he. 'What do you mean?' says I. And then he told me. 'By godfreys,' says I, 'if you can fix it so's I can prove that's true I'll give you the biggest order you ever got in this store.' ''Twon't be any trouble to prove it,' says he. 'All you've got to do is look up his record in Middleford.' And I've looked it up. Yes, sir-ee, I've looked it up. Ho, ho!"
Jed, white and shaking, made one more attempt.
"It's all a lie," he cried. "Of course it is. Besides, if you knew so much why have you been waitin' all this time before you told it? If you found out all this—this pack of rubbish in January why did you wait till March before you told it? Humph! That's pretty thin, I—"
Phineas interrupted.
"Shut up!" he ordered. "Why did I wait? Well, now, Shavin's, seein' it's you and I love you so, I'll tell you. At first I was for runnin' right out in the street and hollerin' to all hands to come and hear the good news about Sam Hunniwell's pet. And then thinks I: 'Hold on! don't be in any hurry. There's time enough. Just wait and see what happens. A crook that steals once is liable to try it again. Let's wait and see.' And I waited, and— He, he, he!—he has tried it again. Eh, Shavin's?"
Jed was speechless. Babbitt, looking like a triumphantly vicious Bantam rooster, crowed on.
"You don't seem to be quite so sassy and talky as you was when I first came in, Shavin's," he sneered. "Guess likely YOU ain't feelin' well now . . . eh? Do you remember what I told you last time I was in this shop? I told you I'd pay my debts to you and Sam Hunniwell if I waited fifty year. Well, here's Hunniwell's pay comin' to him now. He's praised that Phillips thief from one end of Ostable county to the other, told how smart he was and how honest and good he was till—Lord A'mighty, it's enough to turn a decent man's stomach! And not only that, but here's the feller courtin' his daughter. Oh, ho, ho, ho! that's the best of the whole business. That was another thing made me hang off and wait; I wanted to see how the courtin' came along. And it's come along all right. Everybody's onto 'em, hangin' over each other, and lookin' soft at each other. She's just fairly heavin' herself at his head, all hands says so. There ain't been anybody in this town good enough for her till he showed up. And now it's comin' out that he's a crook and a jailbird! And he'll be jailed for stealin' THIS time, too. Ho, ho!"
He stopped, out of breath, to indulge in another long chuckle. Jed leaned forward.
"What are you talkin' about, Phin?" he demanded. "Even allowin' all this—this rigmarole of yours about—about Middleford business— was true—"
"It is true and you know it is. I believe you've known it all along."
"I say allowin' it is, you haven't any right to say Charlie took this money from the Orham bank. You can't prove any such thing."
"Aw, be still! Prove—prove nothin'. When a cat and a sasser of milk's shut up together and the milk's gone, you don't need proof to know where it's gone, do you? Don't talk to me about proof, Jed Winslow. Put a thief alongside of money and anybody knows what'll happen. Why, YOU know what's happened yourself. You know darn well Charlie Phillips has stole the money that's gone from the bank. Down inside you you're sartin sure of it; and I don't want any better proof of THAT than just your face, Shavin's."
This time Jed did not attempt to contradict. Instead he tried a new hazard.
"Phin," he pleaded, "don't be too hard. Just think of what'll happen if you come out with that—that wild-goose yarn of yours. Think of Maud, poor girl. You haven't got anything against her, have you?"
"Yes, I have. She's stuck-up and nose in the air and looks at me as if I was some sort of—of a bug she wouldn't want to step on for fear of mussin' up her shoes. I never did like her, blast her. But leavin' that all to one side, she's Sam Hunniwell's young-one and that's enough for me."
"But she's his only child, Phin."
"Good enough! I had a boy; he was an only child, too, you'll remember. Where is he now? Out somewheres where he don't belong, fightin' and bein' killed to help Wall Street get rich. And who sent him there? Why, Sam Hunniwell and his gang. You're one of 'em, Jed Winslow. To hell with you, every one of you, daughters and all hands."
"But, Phin—just a minute. Think of what it'll mean to Charlie, poor young feller. It'll mean—"
"It'll mean ten years this time, and a good job, too. You poor fool, do you think you can talk me out of this? You, you sawdust- head? What do you think I came into your hole here for? I came here so's you'd know what I was goin' to do to your precious chums. I wanted to tell you and have the fun of watchin' you squirm. Well, I'm havin' the fun, plenty of it. Squirm, you Wall Street bloodsucker, squirm."
He fairly stood on tiptoe to scream the last command. To a disinterested observer the scene might have had some elements of farce comedy. Certainly Phineas, his hat fallen off and under foot, his scanty gray hair tousled and his pugnacious chin beard bristling, was funny to look at. And the idea of calling Jed Winslow a "Wall Street bloodsucker" was the cream of burlesque. But to Jed himself it was all tragedy, deep and dreadful. He made one more desperate plea.
"But, Phin," he begged, "think of his—his sister, Charlie's sister. What'll become of her and—and her little girl?"
Phineas snorted. "His sister," he sneered. "All right, I'll think about her all right. She's another stuck-up that don't speak to common folks. Who knows anything about her any more'n they did about him? Better look up her record, I guess. The boy's turned out to be a thief; maybe the sister'll turn out to be—"
"Stop! Be still!"
Jed actually shouted it. Babbitt stopped, principally because the suddenness of the interruption had startled him into doing so. But the pause was only momentary. He stared at the interrupter in enraged amazement for an instant and then demanded: "Stop? Who are you tellin' to stop?"
"You."
"I want to know! Well, I'll stop when I get good and ready and if you don't like it, Shavin's, you can lump it. That Phillips kid has turned out to be a thief and, so far as anybody 'round here knows, his sister may be—"
"Stop!" Again Jed shouted it; and this time he rose to his feet. Phineas glared at him.
"Humph!" he grunted. "You'll make me stop, I presume likely."
"Yes."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, it's got to be so. Look here, Phin, I realize you're mad and don't care much what you say, but there's a limit, you know. It's bad enough to hear you call poor Charlie names, but when you start in on Ruth—on Mrs. Armstrong, I mean—that's too much. You've got to stop."
This speech was made quietly and with all the customary Winslow deliberation and apparent calm, but there was one little slip in it and that slip Babbitt was quick to notice.
"Oh, my!" he sneered. "Ruth's what we call her, eh? Ruth! Got so chummy we call each other by our first names. Ruthie and Jeddie, I presume likely. Aw, haw, haw!"
Jed's pallor was, for the moment, succeeded by a vivid crimson. He stammered. Phineas burst into another scornful laugh.
"Haw, haw, haw!" he crowed. "She lets him call her Ruth. Oh, my Lord A'mighty! Let's Shavin's Winslow call her that. Well, I guess I sized her up all right. She must be about on her brother's level. A thief and—"
"Shut up, Phin!"
"Shut up? YOU tell me to shut up!"
"Yes."
"Well, I won't. Ruth Armstrong! What do I care for—"
The speech was not finished. Jed had taken one long stride to where Babbitt was standing, seized the furious little creature by the right arm with one hand and with the other covered his open mouth, covered not only the mouth, but a large section of face as well.
"You keep quiet, Phin," he drawled. "I want to think."
Phineas struggled frantically. He managed to get one corner of his mouth from behind that mammoth hand.
"Ruth Armstrong!" he screamed. "Ruth Armstrong is—"
The yell died away to a gurgle, pinched short by the Winslow fingers. Then the door leading to the kitchen, the door behind the pair, opened and Ruth Armstrong herself came in. She was pale and she stared with frightened eyes at the little man struggling in the tall one's clutch.
"Oh, Jed," she breathed, "what is it?"
Jed did not reply. Phineas could not.
"Oh, Jed, what is it?" repeated Ruth. "I heard him shouting my name. I was in the yard and I heard it. . . . Oh, Jed, what IS it?"
Babbitt at last managed to wriggle partially clear. He was crazy with rage, but he was not frightened. Fear of physical violence was not in his make-up; he was no coward.
"I'll tell you what it is," he screamed. "I'll tell you what it is: I've found out about you and that stuck-up crook of a brother of yours. He's a thief. That's what he is, a thief and a jailbird. He stole at Middleford and now he's stole again here. And Jed Winslow and you are—"
He got no further, being once more stoppered like a bottle by the Winslow grip and the Winslow hand. He wriggled and fought, but he was pinned and helpless, hands, feet and vocal organs. Jed did not so much as look at him; he looked only at Ruth.
Her pallor had increased. She was trembling.
"Oh, Jed," she cried, "what does he mean? What does he mean by—by 'again—here'?"
Jed's grip tightened over his captive's mouth.
"He doesn't mean anything," he declared, stoutly. "He don't know what he means."
From behind the smothering fingers came a defiant mumble. Ruth leaned forward.
"Jed," she begged, "does he—does he know about—about—"
Jed nodded. She closed her eyes and swayed slightly, but she did not collapse or give way.