IN the course of the next few days Dan decided that there was no danger of trouble from the hands. Things settled back into their accustomed rut. He was only a little less popular, perhaps.
He was indebted to Clarence for the first warning he received as to what was in store for him.
It came about in this way. Clarence had retired to the yards, where, secure from observation, he was indulging in a quiet smoke, furtively keeping an eye open for McClintock, whose movements were uncertain, as he knew from sad experience.
A high board fence was in front of him, shutting off the yards from the lower end of the town. At his back was a freight car, back of that again were the interlacing tracks, and beyond them a cornfield and Billup's Fork, with its inviting shade of sycamores and willows and its tempting swimming-holes.
Suddenly he heard a scrambling on the opposite side of the fence, and ten brown fingers clutched the tops of the boards, then a battered straw hat came on a level with the fingers, at the same instant a bare foot and leg were thrown over the fence, and the owner of the battered straw hat swung himself into view. All this while a dog whined and yelped; then followed a vigorous scratching sound, and presently a small, dilapidated-looking yellow cur squeezed itself beneath the fence. Clarence recognized the intruders. It was Branyon's boy, Augustus, commonly called “Spide,” because of his exceeding slimness and the length of his legs, and his dog Pink.
As soon as Branyon's boy saw Clarence he balanced himself deftly on the top of the fence with one hand and shaded his eyes elaborately with the other. An amiable, if toothless, smile curled his lips. When he spoke it was with deep facetiousness.
“Hi! come out from behind that roll of paper!”
But Clarence said not a word. He puffed away at his cigarette, apparently oblivious of everything save the contentment it gave him, and as he puffed Spide's mouth worked and watered sympathetically. His secret admiration was tremendous. Here was Clarence in actual and undisturbed possession of a whole cigarette. He had to purchase his cigarettes in partnership with some other boy, and go halves on the smoking of them. It made him feel cheap and common.
“Say I got one of them coffin-tacks that ain't working?” he inquired. Clarence gazed off up the tracks, ignoring the question and the questioner. Spide's presence was balm to his soul. But as one of the office force of the Buckhom and Antioch he felt a certain lofty reserve to be incumbent upon him. Besides, he and Spide had been engaged in a recent rivalry for Susie Poppleton's affections. It is true he had achieved a brilliant success over his rival, but that a mere school-boy should have ventured to oppose him, a salaried man, had struck him as an unpardonable piece of impertinence for which there could be no excuse.
Spide, however, had taken the matter most philosophically. He had recognized that he could not hope to compete with a youth who possessed unlimited wealth, which he was willing to lay out on chewing-gum and candy, his experience being that the sex was strictly mercenary and incapable of a disinterested love. Of course he had much admired Miss Poppleton; from the crown of her small dark head, with its tightly braided “pig-tails,” down to her trim little foot he had esteemed her as wholly adorable; but, after all, his affair of the heart had been an affair of the winter only. With the coming of summer he had found more serious things to think of. He was learning to swim and to chew tobacco. The mastering of these accomplishments pretty well occupied his time.
“Say!” he repeated, “got another?”
Still Clarence blinked at the fierce sunlight which danced on the rails, and said nothing. Spide slid skilfully down from his perch, but his manner had undergone a change.
“Who throwed that snipe away, anyhow?” he asked, disdainfully. Clarence turned his eyes slowly in his direction.
“Lookee here. You fellows got to keep out of these yards, or I'll tell McClintock. First we know some of you kids will be getting run over, and then your folks will set up a lively howl. Get on out! It ain't no place for little boys!”
He put the cigarette between his lips and took a deep and tantalizing pull at it. Spide kept to his own side of the ditch that ran between the fence and the tracks.
“Huh!” with infinite scorn. “Who's a kid? You won't be happy till I come over there and lick you!”
“First thing I know you'll be stealing scrap iron!”
“My gosh! The Huckleberry'd have to stop running if I swiped a coupling-pin!”
Clarence had recourse to the cigarette, and again Spide was consumed with torturing jealousies. “Where did you shoot that snipe, anyhow?” he inquired, insultingly.
Once more Clarence allowed his glance to stray off up the tracks.
“For half a cent I'd come across and do what I say!” added Spide, stooping down to roll up his trousers leg, and then easing an unelastic “gallus” that cut his shoulders. This elicited a short and contemptuous grunt from Clarence. He was well pleased with himself. He felt Spide's envy. It was sweet and satisfying.
“Say!” with sudden animation. “You fellers will be going around on your uppers in a day or so. I'll bet you'd give a heap to know what I know!”
“I wouldn't give a darned cent to know all you know or ever will know!” retorted Clarence, promptly.
“Some people's easily upset here in the cupola,” tapping his brimless covering. “I wouldn't want to give you brain-fever; I don't hate you bad enough.”
“Well, move on. You ain't wanted around here. It may get me into trouble if I'm seen fooling away my time on you.”
“I hope to hell it will,” remarked Branyon's boy, Augustus, with cordial ill-will and fluent profanity. He was not a good little boy. He himself would have been the first to spurn the idea of personal sanctity. But he was literally bursting with the importance of the facts which he possessed, and Clarence's indifference gave him no opening.
“What will you bet there ain't a strike?”
“I ain't betting this morning,” said Clarence, blandly. “But if there is one we are ready for it. You bet the hands won't catch us napping. We are ready for 'em any time and all the time.” This, delivered with a large air, impressed Spide exceedingly.
“Have you sent for the militia a'ready?” he asked, anxiously.
“That's saying,” noting the effect of his words. “I can't go blabbing about, telling what the road's up to, but we are awake, and the hands will get it in the neck if they tackle the boss. He's got dam little use for laboring men, anyhow.”
To Clarence, Oakley was the most august person he had ever known. He religiously believed his position to be only second in point of importance and power to that of the President of the United States.
He was wont to invest him with purely imaginary attributes, and to lie about him at a great rate among his comrades, who were ready to credit any report touching a man who was reputed to be able to ride on the cars without a ticket. Human grandeur had no limits beyond this.
“There was a meeting last night. I bet you didn't know that,” said Spide.
“I heard something of it. Was your father at the meeting, Spide?” he asked, dropping his tone of hostility for one of gracious familiarity. The urchin promptly crossed the ditch and stood at his side.
“Of course the old man was. You don't suppose he wouldn't be in it?”
“Oh, well, let 'em kick. You see the boss is ready for 'em,” remarked Clarence, indifferently. He wanted to know what Spide knew, but he didn't feel that he could afford to show any special interest. “Where you going—swimming?” he added.
“Yep.” But Spide was not ready to drop the fascinating subject of the strike. He wished to astonish Clarence, who was altogether too knowing.
“The meeting was in the room over Jack Britt's saloon,” he volunteered.
“I suppose you think we didn't know that up at the office. We got our spies out. There ain't nothing the hands can do we ain't on to.”
Spide wrote his initials in the soft bank of the ditch with his big toe, while he meditated on what he could tell next.
“Well, sir, you'd 'a' been surprised if you'd 'a' been there.”
“Was you there, Spide?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, come off; you can't stuff me.”
“I was, too, there. The old lady sent me down to fetch pap home. She was afraid he'd get full. Joe Stokes was there, and Lou Bentick, and a whole slew of others, and Griff Ryder.”
Clarence gasped with astonishment. “Why, he ain't one of the hands.”
“Well, he's on their side.”
“What you giving us?”
“Say, they are going to make a stiff kick on old man Oakley working in the shops. They got it in for him good and strong.” He paused to weigh the effect of this, and then went on rapidly: “He's done something. Ryder knows about it. He told my old man and Joe Stokes. They say he's got to get out. What's a convicted criminal, anyhow?”
“What do you want to know that for, Spide?” questioned the artful Clarence, with great presence of mind.
“Well, that's what old man Oakley is. I heard Ryder say so myself, and pap and Joe Stokes just kicked themselves because they hadn't noticed it before, I suppose. My! but they were hot! Say, you'll see fun to-morrow. I shouldn't be surprised if they sent you all a-kiting.”
Clarence was swelling with the desire to tell Oakley what he had heard. He took the part of a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“Have one?” he said.
Spide promptly availed himself of his companion's liberality.
“Well, so long,” the latter added. “I got to get back,” and a moment later he might have been seen making his way cautiously in the direction of the office, while Spide, his battered hat under his arm, and the cigarette clutched in one hand, was skipping gayly across the cornfield towards the creek followed by Pink. He was bound for the “Slidy,” a swimming-hole his mother had charged him on no account to visit. Under these peculiar circumstances it was quite impossible for him to consider any other spot. Nowhere else was the shade so cool and dense, nowhere else did the wild mint scent the summer air with such seductive odors, and nowhere else were such social advantages to be found.
There were always big boys hanging about the “Slidy” who played cards and fished and loafed, but mostly loafed, because it was the easiest, and here Mr. Tink Brown, Jeffy's logical successor and unofficial heir apparent, held court from the first of June to the last of August. The charm of his society no respectable small boy was able to withstand. His glittering indecencies made him a sort of hero, and his splendid lawless state was counted worthy of emulation.
But Spide discovered that the way of the transgressor is sometimes as hard as the moralists would have us believe.
It was the beginning of the season, and a group of boys, in easy undress, were clustered on the bank above the swimming-hole. They were “going in” as soon as an important question should be decided.
The farmer whose fields skirted Billup's Fork at this point usually filled in the “Slidy” every spring with bits of rusty barb-wire and osage-orange cuttings. The youth of Antioch who were prejudiced maintained that he did it to be mean, but the real reason was that he wished to discourage the swimmers, who tramped his crops and stole his great yellow pumpkins to play with in the water.
The time-honored method of determining the condition of the hole was beautifully simple. It was to catch a small boy and throw him in, and until this rite was performed the big boys used the place but gingerly. Mr. Brown and his friends were waiting for this small boy to happen along, when the unsuspecting Spide ran down the bank. He was promptly seized by the mighty Tink.
“Been in yet, Spide?” asked his captor, genially.
“Nope.”
“Then this is your chance.” Whereat Spide began to cry. He didn't want to go in. All at once he remembered he had promised his mother he wouldn't and that his father had promised him a licking if he did—two excellent reasons why he should stay out—but Tink only pushed him towards the water's edge.
“You're hurting me! Lemme alone, you big loafer! Lemme go, or I'll tell the old man on you!” and he scratched and clawed, but Tink merely laughed, and the other boys advised him to “chuck the little shaver in.”
“Lemme take off my shirt and pants! Lemme take off my pants—just my pants, Tink!” he entreated.
But he was raised on high and hurled out into the stream where the sunlight flashed among the shadows cast by the willows. His hat went one way and his cigarette another. Pink was considerately tossed after him, and all his earthly possessions were afloat.
There was a splash, and he disappeared from sight to reappear a second later, with streaming hair and dripping face.
“How is it?” chorussed the big boys, who were already pulling off their clothes, as they saw that neither barb-wire nor osage-orange brush festooned the swimmer.
“Bully!” ecstatically, and he dived dexterously into the crown of his upturned hat, which a puff of wind had sent dancing gayly down-stream.
SAY!” Clarence blurted out, “there's going to be a strike!”
Oakley glanced up from his writing.
“What's that you are telling me, Clarence?”
“There's going to be a strike, Mr. Oakley.”
Dan smiled good-naturedly at the boy.
“I guess that has blown over, Clarence,” he said, kindly.
“No, it ain't. The men had a meeting last night. It was in the room over Jack Britt's saloon. I've just been talking with a fellow who was there; he told me.”
“Sit down,” said Oakley, pushing a chair towards him.
“Now, what is it?” as soon as he was seated. And Clarence, editing his reminiscences as he saw fit, gave a tolerably truthful account of his conversation with Spide. The source of his information, its general incompleteness, and the frequent divergences, occasioned by the boy's attempt to incorporate into the narrative a satisfactory reason for his own presence in the yards, did not detract from its value in Oakley's estimation. The mere fact that the men had held a meeting was in itself significant. Such a thing was new to Antioch, as yet unvisited by labor troubles.
“What is that you say about my father?” For he had rather lost track of the story and caught at the sudden mention of his father's name.
“Spide says they got it in for him. I can't just remember what he did say. It was something or other Griff Ryder knows about him. It's funny, but it's clean gone out of my head, Mr. Oakley.”
Oakley started. What could Ryder know about his father? What could any one know?
He was not left long in doubt. The next morning, shortly after he arrived at the office, he heard the heavy shuffling of many feet on the narrow platform outside his door, and a deputation from the carpenter-shop, led by Joe Stokes and Branyon, entered the room. For a moment or so the men stood in abashed silence about the door, and then moved over to his desk.
Oakley pushed back his chair, and, as they approached, came slowly to his feet. There was a hint of anger in his eyes. The whole proceeding smacked of insolence. The men were in their shirt-sleeves and overalls, and had on their hats. Stokes put up his hand and took off his hat. The others accepted this as a signal, and one after another removed theirs. Then followed a momentary shuffling as they bunched closer. Several, who looked as if they would just as soon be somewhere else, breathed deep and hard. The office force—Kerr, Holt, and Miss Walton—suspended their various tasks and stood up so as not to miss anything that was said of done.
“Well, men, what is it?” asked Oakley, sharply—so sharply that Clarence, who was at the water-cooler, started. He had never heard the manager use that tone before.
Stokes took a step forward and cleared his throat, as if to speak. Then he looked at his comrades, who looked back their encouragement at him.
“We want a word with you, Mr. Oakley,” said he.
“What have you to say?”
“Well, sir, we got a grievance,” began Stokes, weakly, but Branyon pushed him to one side hastily and took his place. He was a stockily built Irish-American, with plenty of nerve and a loose tongue. The men nudged each other. They knew Mike would have his say.
“It's just this, Mr. Oakley: There's a man in the carpenter-shop who's got to get out. We won't work with him no longer!”
“That's right,” muttered one or two of the men under their breath.
“Whom do you mean?” asked Oakley, and his tone was tense and strenuous, for he knew. There was an awkward silence. Branyon fingered his hat a trifle nervously. At last he said, doggedly:
“The man who's got to go is your father.”
“Why?” asked Oakley, sinking his voice. He guessed what was coming next, but the question seemed dragged from him. He had to ask it.
“We got nothing against you, Mr. Oakley, but we won't work in the same shop with a convicted criminal.”
“That's right,” muttered the chorus of men again.
Oakley's face flushed scarlet. Then every scrap of color left it.
“Get out of here!” he ordered, hotly.
“Don't we get our answer?” demanded Branyon.
While the interview was in progress, McClintock had entered, and now stood at the opposite end of the room, an attentive listener.
“No,” cried Oakley, hoarsely. “I'll put whom I please to work in the shops. Leave the room all of you!”
The men retreated before his fury, their self-confidence rather dashed by it. One by one they backed sheepishly out of the door, Branyon being the last to leave. As he quitted the room he called to Dan:
“We'll give you until to-morrow to think it over, but the old man's got to go.”
McClintock promptly followed Branyon, and Clarence darted after him. He was in time to witness the uncorking of the master-mechanic's vials of wrath, and to hear the hot exchange of words which followed.
“You can count your days with the Huckleberry numbered, Branyon,” he said. “I'm damned if I'll have you under me after this.”
“We'll see about that,” retorted Branyon, roughly. “Talk's cheap.”
“What's the old man ever done to you, you infernal loafer?”
“Shut up, Milt, and keep your shirt on!” said Stokes, in what he intended should be conciliatory tones. “We only want our rights.”
“We'll have 'em, too,” said Branyon, shaking his head ominously. “We ain't Dagoes or Pollacks. We're American mechanics, and we know our rights.”
“You're a sneak, Branyon. What's he ever done to you?”
“Oh, you go to hell!” ruffling up his shirt-sleeves.
“Well, sir,” said McClintock, his gray eyes flashing, “you needn't be so particular about the old man's record. You know as much about the inside of a prison as he does.”
“You're a damn liar!” Nevertheless McClintock spoke only the truth. At Branyon's last word he smashed his fist into the middle of the carpenter's sour visage with a heavy, sickening thud. No man called him a liar and got away with it.
“Gee!” gasped the closely attentive but critical Clarence. “What a soaker!” Branyon fell up against the side of the building near which they were standing. Otherwise he would have gone his length upon the ground, and the hands rushed in between the two men.
Stokes and Bentick dragged their friend away by main strength. The affair had gone far enough. They didn't want a fight.
McClintock marched into the office, crossed to the water-cooler, and filled himself a tumbler; then he turned an unruffled front on Oakley.
“I guess we'd better chuck those fellows—fire 'em out bodily, the impudent cusses! What do you say, Mr. Oakley?”
But Dan was too demoralized to consider or even reply to this. He was feeling a burning sense of shame and disgrace. The whole town must know his father's history, or some garbled version of it. Worse still, Constance Emory must know. The pride of his respectability was gone from him. He felt that he had cheated the world of a place to which he had no right, and now he was found out. He could not face Kerr, nor Holt, nor McClintock. But this was only temporary. He couldn't stand among his ruins. Men survive disgrace and outlive shame just as they outlive sorrow and suffering. Nothing ever stops. Then he recognized that, since his secret had been wrested from him, there was no longer discovery to fear. A sense of freedom and relief came when he realized this. The worst had happened, and he could still go on. How the men had learned about his father he could not understand, but instinct told him he had Ryder to thank. Following up the clew Kenyon had given him, he had carefully looked into Roger Oakley's record, a matter that simply involved a little correspondence.
He had told Branyon and Stokes only what he saw fit, and had pledged himself to support the men in whatever action they took. He would drive Oakley out of Antioch. That was one of his motives; he was also bent on cultivating as great a measure of personal popularity as he could. It would be useful to Kenyon, and so advantageous to himself. The Congressman had large ambitions. If he brought his campaign to a successful issue it would make him a power in the State. Counting in this victory, Ryder had mapped out his own career. Kenyon had force and courage, but his judgment and tact were only of a sort. Ryder aspired to supply the necessary brains for his complete success. Needless to say, Kenyon knew nothing of these benevolent intentions on the part of his friend. He could not possibly have believed that he required anything but votes.
Oakley turned to Clarence.
“Run into the carpenter-shop, and see if you can find my father. If he is there, ask him to come here to me at once.”
The boy was absent only a few moments. Roger Oakley had taken off his work clothes and had gone up-town before the men left the shop. He had not returned.
Dan closed his desk and put on his hat, “I am going to the hotel,” he said to Kerr. “If anybody wants to see me you can tell them I'll be back this afternoon.”
“Very well, Mr. Oakley.” The treasurer was wondering what would be his superior's action. Would he resign and leave Antioch, or would he try and stick it out?
Before he left the room, Dan said to McClintock:
“I hope you won't have any further trouble, Milt Better keep an eye on that fellow Branyon.”
McClintock laughed shortly, but made no answer, and for the rest of the morning Clarence dogged his steps in the hope that the quarrel would be continued under more favorable circumstances. In this he was disappointed. Branyon had been induced to go home for repairs, and had left the yards immediately after the trouble occurred, with a wet handkerchief held gingerly to a mashed and bloody nose. His fellows had not shown the sympathy he felt they should have shown under the circumstances. They told him he had had enough, and that it was well to stop with that.
Dan hurried up-town to the hotel. He found his father in his room, seated before an open window in his shirt-sleeves, and with his Bible in his lap. He glanced up from the book as his son pushed open the door.
“Well, Dannie?” he said, and his tones were mild, meditative, and inquiring.
“I was looking for you, father. They told me you'd come up-town.”
“So I did; as soon as I heard there was going to be trouble over my working in the shops I left.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“Not a word, Dannie, but I knew what was coming, and quit work.”
“You shouldn't have done it, daddy,” said Dan, seating himself on the edge of the bed near the old man. “I can't let them say who shall work in the shops and who not. The whole business was trumped up out of revenge for the cut. They want to get even with me forthat, you see. If I back down and yield this point, there is no telling what they'll ask next—probably that the wages be restored to the old figure.”
He spoke quite cheerfully, for he saw his father was cruelly hurt.
“It was all a mistake, Dannie—my coming to you, I mean,” Roger Oakley said, shutting the book reverently and laying it to one side. “The world's a small place, after all, and we should have known we couldn't keep our secret. It's right I should bear my own cross, but it's not your sin, and now it presses hardest on you. I'm sorry, Dannie—” and his voice shook with the emotion he was striving to hide.
“No, no, father. To have you here has been a great happiness to me.”
“Has it, Dannie? has it really?” with a quick smile. “I am glad you can say so, for it's been a great happiness to me—greater than I deserved,” and he laid a big hand caressingly on his son's.
“We must go ahead, daddy, as if nothing had happened. If we let this hurt us, we'll end by losing all our courage.”
“It's been a knock-out blow for me, Dannie,” with a wistful sadness, “and I've got to go away. It's best for you I should. I've gone in one direction and you've gone another. You can't reconcile opposites. I've been thinking of this a good deal. You're young, and got your life ahead of you, and you'll do big things before you're done, and people will forget I can't drag you down just because I happen to be your father and love you. Why, I'm of a different class even, but I can't go on. I'm just as I am, and I can't change myself.”
“Why, bless your heart, daddy,” cried Dan, “I wouldn't have you changed. You're talking nonsense. I won't let you go away.”
“But the girl, Dannie, the girl—the doctor's daughter! You see I hear a lot of gossip in the shop, and even if you haven't told me, I know.”
“We may as well count that at an end,” said Dan, quietly.
“Do you think of leaving here?”
“No. If I began by running, I'd be running all the rest of my life. I shall remain until I've accomplished everything I've set out to do, if it takes ten years.”
“And what about Miss Emory, Dannie? If you are going to stay, why is that at an end?”
“I dare say she'll marry Mr. Ryder. Anyhow, she won't marry me.”
“But I thought you cared for her?”
“I do, daddy.”
“Then why do you give up? You're as good as he is any day.”
“I'm not her kind, that's all. It has nothing to do with this. It would have been the same, anyhow. I'm not her kind.”
Roger Oakley turned this over slowly in his mind. It was most astonishing. He couldn't grasp it.
“Do you mean she thinks she is better than you are?” he asked, curiously.
“Something of that sort, I suppose,” dryly. “I want you to come back into the shops, father.”
“I can't do it, Dannie. I'm sorry if you wish it, but it's impossible. I want to keep out of sight. Back East, when they pardoned me, every one knew, and I didn't seem to mind, but here it's not the same. I can't face it. It may be cowardly, but I can't.”
OAKLEY had told his father he was going to call at the Emorys'. He wanted to see Constance once more. Then it didn't much matter what happened.
As he passed up the street he was conscious of an impudent curiosity in the covert glances the idlers on the corners shot at him. With hardly an exception they turned to gaze after him as he strode by. He realized that an unsavory distinction had been thrust upon him. He had become a marked man. He set his lips in a grim smile. This was what he would have to meet until the silly wonder of it wore off, or a fresh sensation took its place, and there would be the men at the shops; their intercourse had hitherto been rather pleasant and personal, as he had recognized certain responsibilities in the relation which had made him desire to be more than a mere task-master. The thought of his theories caused him to smile again. His humanitarian-ism had received a jolt from which it would not recover in many a long day.
The hands already hated him as a tyrant, and probably argued that his authority was impaired by the events of the morning, though how they arrived at any such conclusion was beyond him, but he had felt something of the kind in Branyon's manner. When the opportunity came it would be a satisfaction to undeceive them, and he was not above wishing this opportunity might come soon, for his mood was bitter and revengeful, when he recalled their ignorant and needlessly brutal insolence.
Early as he was, he found, as he had anticipated when he started out, that Ryder was ahead of him. The editor was lounging on the Emorys' porch with the family. He had dined with them.
As Dan approached he caught the sound of Constance's voice. There was no other voice in Antioch which sounded the same, or possessed the same quality of refinement and culture. His heart beat with quickened pulsations and his pace slackened. He paused for an instant in the shadow of the lilac-bushes that shut off the well-kept lawn from the street. Then he forced himself to go on. There was no gain in deferring his sentence; better have it over with. Yet when he reached the gate he would gladly have passed it without entering had it not been that he never abandoned any project simply because it was disagreeable. He had done too many disagreeable things not to have outlived this species of cowardice.
The instant he saw him, the doctor rose from his seat on the steps and came quickly down the walk. There was no mistaking the cordiality he gave his greeting, for he intended there should be none. Mrs. Emory, too, took pains that he should feel the friendliness of her sentiment towards him. Constance, however, appeared embarrassed and ill at ease, and Dan's face grew very white. He felt that he had no real appreciation of the changed conditions since his father's story had become public property. He saw it made a difference in the way his friends viewed him. He had become hardened, and it had been impossible for him to foresee just how it would affect others, but to these people it was plainly a shock. The very kindliness he had experienced at the hands of the doctor and Mrs. Emory only served to show how great the shock was. In their gracious, generous fashion they had sought to make it easy for him.
Oakley and the editor did not speak. Civility seemed the rankest hypocrisy under the circumstances. A barely perceptible inclination of the head sufficed, and then Ryder turned abruptly to Miss Emory and resumed his conversation with her.
Dan seated himself beside the doctor on the steps. He was completely crushed. He hadn't the wit to leave, and he knew that he was a fool for staying. What was the good in carrying on the up-hill fight any longer? Courage is a fine quality, no doubt, but it is also well for a man to have sense enough to know when he is fairly beaten, and he was fairly beaten.
He took stock of the situation. Quite independent of his hatred of the fellow, he resented Ryder's presence there beside Constance. But what was the use of struggling? The sooner he banished all thought of her the better it would be for him. His chances had never been worth considering.
He stole a glance at the pair, who had drawn a little to one side, and were talking in low tones and with the intimacy of long acquaintance. He owned they were wonderfully well suited to each other. Ryder was no mean rival, had it come to that. The world had given him its rub. He knew perfectly the life with which Miss Emory was familiar, his people had been the right sort. He was well-born and well-bred, and he showed it.
It dawned upon the unwilling Oakley slowly and by degrees that to Constance Emory he must be nothing more nor less than the son of a murderer. He had never quite looked at it in that light before. He had been occupied with the effect rather than the cause, but he was sure that if Ryder had told her his father's history he had made the most of his opportunity. He wondered how people felt about a thing of this kind. He knew now what his portion would be. Disgrace is always vicarious in its consequences. The innocent generally suffer indiscriminately along with the guilty.
The doctor talked a steady stream at Oakley, but he managed to say little that made any demand on Dan's attention. He was sorry for the young man. He had liked him from the start, and he believed but a small part of what he had heard. It is true he had had the particulars from Ryder, but Ryder said what he had to say with his usual lazy indifference, as if his interest was the slightest, and had vouched for no part of it.
He would hardly have dared admit that he himself was the head and front of the offending. Dr. Emory would not have understood how it could have been any business of his. It would have finished him with the latter. As it was he had been quick to resent his glib, sneering tone.
But Dan's manner convinced the doctor that there were some grounds for the charges made by the hands when they demanded Roger Oakley's dismissal, or else he was terribly hurt by the occurrence. While Dr. Emory was reaching this conclusion Dan was cursing himself for his stupidity. It would have been much wiser for him to have remained away until Antioch quieted down. Perhaps it would have been fairer, too, to his friends, but since he had blundered he would try and see Miss Emory again; she should know the truth. It was characteristic of him that he should wish the matter put straight, even when there was no especial advantage to be gained.
Soon afterwards he took his leave. The doctor followed him down to the gate. There was a certain constraint in the manner of the two men, now that they were alone together. As they paused by the gate, Dr. Emory broke silence with:
“For God's sake, Oakley, what is this I hear about your father? I'd like your assurance that it is all a pack of lies.”
A lump came into Dan's throat, and he answered, huskily: “I am sure it is not at all as you have heard; I am sure the facts are quite different from the account you have had—”
“But—”
“No, I can't deny it outright, much as I'd like to.”
“You don't mean—Pardon me, for, of course, I have no right to ask.”
Dan turned away his face. “I don't know any one who has a better right to ask,” he said.
“Well, I shouldn't have asked if I'd thought there was a word of truth in the story. I had hoped I could deny it for you. That was all.”
“I guess I didn't appreciate how you would view it. I have lived in the shadow of it so long—”
The doctor looked aghast at the admission. He had not understood before that Dan was acknowledging the murder. Even yet he could not bring himself to believe it. Dan moved off a step, as if to go.
“Do you mean it is true, Oakley?” he asked, detaining him.
“Substantially, yes. Good-night,” he added, hopelessly.
“Wait,” hastily. “I don't want you to go just yet.” He put out his hand frankly. “It's nothing you have done, anyhow,” he said, as an afterthought.
“No, but I begin to think it might just as well have been.”
Dr. Emory regarded him earnestly. “My boy, I'm awfully sorry for you, and I'm afraid you have gotten in for more than you can manage. It looks as though your troubles were all coming in a bunch.”
Dan smiled. “My antecedents won't affect the situation down at the shops, if that is what you mean. The men may not like me any the better, or respect me any the more for knowing of them, but they will discover that that will make no difference where our relations are concerned.”
“To be sure. I only meant that public opinion will be pretty strong against you. It somehow has an influence,” ruefully.
“I suppose it has,” rather sadly.
“Do you have to stay and face it? It might be easier, you know—I don't mean exactly to run away—”
“I am pledged to put the shops and road on a paying basis for General Cornish. He'd about made up his mind to sell to the M. & W. If he does, it will mean the closing of the shops, and they will never be opened up again. That will wipe Antioch off the map. Not so very long ago I had a good deal of sympathy for the people who would be ruined, and I can't change simply because they have, can I?” with a look on his face which belonged to his father.
The doctor stroked his beard meditatively and considered the question.
“I suppose there is such a thing as duty, but don't you think, under the circumstances, your responsibility is really very light?”
Dan laughed softly.
“I didn't imagine you would be the first to advise me to shirk it.”
“I wouldn't ordinarily, but you don't know Antioch. They can make it very unpleasant for you. The town is in a fever of excitement over what has happened to-day. It seems the men are not through with you yet.”
“Yes, I know. My father should have gone back. It looks as if I'd yielded, but I couldn't ask him to when I saw how he felt about it.”
“You see the town lives off the shops and road. It is a personal matter to every man, woman, and child in the place.”
“That's what makes me so mad at the stupid fools!” said Oakley, with some bitterness. “They haven't the brains to see that they have a lot more at stake than any one else. If they could gain anything from a fight I'd have plenty of patience with them, but they are sure losers. Even if they strike, and the shops are closed for the next six months, it won't cost Cornish a dollar; indeed, it will be money in his pocket.”
“I don't think they'll strike,” said the doctor. “I didn't mean that exactly, but they'll try to keep you on a strain.”
“They have done about all they can in that direction. The worst has happened. I won't say it didn't bruise me up a bit. Why, I am actually sore in every bone and muscle. I was never so battered, but I'm beginning to get back, and I'm going to live the whole thing down right here. I can't have skeletons that are liable to be unearthed at any moment.”
He took a letter from his pocket, opened it and handed it to the doctor.
“I guess you can see to read this if you will step nearer the street-lamp.”
The letter was an offer from one of the big Eastern lines. While the doctor knew very little of railroads, he understood that the offer was a fine one, and was impressed accordingly.
“I'd take it.” he said. “I wouldn't fritter away my time here. Precious little thanks you'll ever get.”
“I can't honorably break with General Cornish. In fact, I have already declined, but I wanted you to see the letter.”
“I am sorry for your sake that you did. You are sure to have more trouble.”
“So much the more reason why I should stay.”
“I am quite frank with you, Oakley. Some strong influence is at work. No, it hasn't to do with your father. You can't well be held accountable for his acts.”
Ryder's laughter reached them as he spoke. Oakley could see him faintly outlined in the moonlight, where he sat between Constance Emory and her mother. The influence was there. It was probably at work at that very moment.
“I wouldn't be made a martyr through any chivalrous sense of duty,” continued the doctor. “I'd look out for myself.”
Dan laughed again. “You are preaching cowardice at a great rate.”
“Well, what's the use of sacrificing one's self? You possess a most horrible sense of rectitude.”
“I would like to ask a favor of you,” hesitating.
“I was going to say if there was anything I could do—”
“If you don't mind,” with increasing hesitancy, “will you say to Miss Emory for me that I'd like to see her to-morrow afternoon? I'll call about three—that is—”
“Yes, I'll tell her for you.”
“Thank you,” gratefully. “Thank you very much. You think she will be at home?” awkwardly, for he was afraid the doctor had misunderstood.
“I fancy so. I can see now, if you wish.”
“No, don't. I'll call on the chance of finding her in.”
“Just as you prefer.”
Oakley extended his hand. “I won't keep you standing any longer. Somehow our talk has helped me. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
The doctor gazed abstractedly after the young man as he moved down the street, and he continued to gaze after him until he had passed from sight in the shadows that lay beneath the whispering maples.