Before he could close the drawer completely I caught his arm and held it.
“George,” I cried, “George, what is the matter? Tell me; you must tell me.”
He tried to pull his arm free. Finding that I would not let him do this he gave up the attempt and, with a poor attempt at a laugh, answered, “Matter? Why, nothing is the matter. I am tired and nervous, same as I've told you I've been for the last two or three months, and you scared me, tiptoeing in like a sneak thief, this time of night.”
“Time of night! It is but a little after nine. What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing is the matter, I tell you. Let go of my arm, Ros. What do you mean by holding on to me like this?”
“What do YOU mean, George? What does THAT mean?”
I pointed to the drawer. He looked and, with a sudden effort, jerked his arm free and closed the drawer.
“That?” with a forced laugh. “Oh, that's nothing. It was late and I was alone here, so—”
“I know better. George, you're frightening us all. Don't you suppose we can see that something is wrong with you? I have seen it ever since I came here to work. You are worrying your friends. You worry me. Give us a chance to help you. Give ME a chance. You owe me that. Tell me your trouble and I'll pull you out of it; see if I don't.”
My confidence was, of course, only pretence, but my earnestness had some effect. He looked at me wistfully, and shook his head.
“Nobody can pull me out,” he said. “You're a good fellow to want to help, but you can't. There ain't any trouble. I'm just nervous—”
“I know better. You're lying, George. Yes, you are; you're lying.”
“Humph! You're pretty plain spoken, Ros Paine. There ain't many people I'd take that from.”
“You'll take it from me, because you can't help it and because you know it is true. Come, George; come. You have been a friend to me; the only real friend I have had in years. I have been looking for a chance to get even for what you have done for me. Maybe here is the chance. Let me help you. I will.”
He was wavering; I could see it. But again he shook his head.
“Nobody can help me,” he said.
“George, for my sake—well, then, if not for my sake or your own, then for Nellie's, give me a chance. You aren't treating her right, George. You should think of her. You—”
“Stop! Damn you, Ros Paine! what right have you to—”
“The right of a friend, her friend and yours. You're frightening the poor girl to death. She is beginning to be afraid you don't care for her.”
“I? I don't care for HER? I don't—Oh, my God!”
To my utter amazement he began to laugh. And then, all at once, his laughter ceased, he swayed, choked, and, suddenly collapsing in the chair, dropped his head upon his arms on the table and sobbed, sobs that shook him from head to heel.
For one strong, healthy, normal man to see another cry is a disconcerting and uncomfortable experience. Masculine tears do not flow easily and poor George, on the verge of hysterics, was a pitiful and distressing spectacle. I was almost as completely disorganized as he. I felt ashamed for him and ashamed of myself for having seen him in such a condition. I wanted desperately to help him and I did not know what to do, so beyond patting him on the back and begging him repeatedly to brace up and not behave like that, I did nothing. At last his sobs ceased and he was silent. I had risen from my chair and now I stood there with a hand on his shoulder; the ticking of the ancient eight-sided clock on the wall sounded loud in the room.
Suddenly he sat up and threw off my hand.
“Well,” he said, bitterly, “I'm a fine specimen of a man, ain't I. Ain't you proud of me?”
“I am mighty sorry for you,” I answered. “And I mean to help you.”
“You can't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do know, Ros,” he turned and looked me straight in the eye. “I am going to give you some good advice. Take it, for your own sake. Clear out of here and leave me. Don't have anything more to do with me. Clear out.”
I did not move.
“Are you going to do as I tell you?” he demanded. “Mind, I'm telling you this for your own good. Will you clear out and leave me?”
I smiled. “Of course not,” I answered.
“Don't be a fool. You can't afford to be my friend. Clear out and leave me, do you hear?”
“I hear. Now, George, what is it?”
His fingers tapped the table. I could see he was making up his mind.
“You want to know?” he said. “You won't be satisfied until you do?”
“I have made that fairly plain, I hope. At least I've tried to.”
His fist clenched and he struck the table.
“Then, by the Almighty, I'll tell you!” he cried, fiercely. “It'll be all over the county in a week. You might as well know it now. I'm a crook. I'm a thief. I've stolen money from this bank and I can't pay it back because I haven't got it and can't get it. I'm a crook, I tell you, and in a week or so it'll be the county jail for mine. Unless—unless,” with a significant glance at the drawer, “something else happens to me in the meantime. There; now you know. Are you satisfied? Are you happy because you've found out?”
I did not answer. To tell the truth I was not entirely overcome by surprise at the disclosure. I had begun to suspect something of the sort. Yet, now that my suspicions were confirmed, I was too greatly shocked and horrified to speak at once.
“Well?” he sneered. “Now will you clear out and let me settle this my own way?”
I pulled my chair forward and sat down.
“Tell me all about it, George,” I said, as calmly as I could. “How much is it?”
He stared at me aghast. “You won't go?” he cried. “You—you are going to stick by me even—even—”
“There! there! pull yourself together, old fellow. We won't give up the ship yet. How much is it? It can't be a great sum.”
“It ain't. But, Ros—you—you can't—you mustn't be mixed up in this. I shan't let you. Don't you see?”
I argued and pleaded and reasoned with him for what seemed a long time before he would consent to tell me the whole story. And when it was told there was nothing new or novel in it. The old tale of an honest man who had not meant to go wrong, but, tempted by one of those wiles of the devil, an “inside tip” on the stock market, had bought heavily on margins, expecting to clear a handsome profit in a short time. The stock was Louisville and Transcontinental and the struggle for its control by certain big interests had made copy for financial writers for nearly a year. George had bought at a time when one syndicate had, so it believed, secured the control.
Then something went wrong in the deal and the shares began to decline in value. He put up more margins and still more, but it continued to decline. Finally under the spur of another “tip,” the last of his own savings having gone to the insatiate brokers, he sent, to bolster his account and to save him from utter ruin, some bonds belonging to the bank.
“Not much,” he declared, “only about thirty-five hundred dollars' worth, that's all. I never would have done it, Ros, but I was wild, desperate, you see. Here I was, getting ready to be married; Nellie and Cap'n Jed and the rest believing me to be comfortably fixed. It's easy enough now to say that I ought to have gone to her and told her. If I hadn't been certain that the market would turn and I'd be all right in a week, I'd have done it. But I was sure I'd be all right and I couldn't take the chance. I knew what her father would say about her marrying a pauper, and I just couldn't take the risk of losing her; I couldn't. She means more to me than—than—oh, wait until your time comes! Wait until the girl comes along that you care for more than the whole world. And then see what you'd do. See what it would mean to give her up! Just wait—wait and see!”
“Yes, yes,” I put in, hastily. “I understand, George. But the stock, Louisville and Transcontinental, how is it now?”
“Just the same. It is dead, practically speaking. It hasn't moved half a point for six weeks. I've been expecting it would, but it hasn't. It's all right; the value is there; I know it. If I could only hang on and wait I could get my money back, part of it, anyhow. But I can't. I can't wait. And the broker people have got those bonds. Ros, I've been fighting this thing for weeks and weeks. I ain't slept a night for years, or so it seems. And next week—next WEEK I was to be married. My God! think of it!”
“Here, here! Don't do that,” I urged. “Brace up. You and I must work this out. Wasn't there any one you could go to? Anyone you could borrow the money of? Thirty-five hundred isn't such a lot.”
“Whom could I go to? I tried. Lord knows I tried! I did borrow a thousand of Cap'n Elisha Warren; trumped up some excuse or other and got that. But that was all he could let me have. And I know he thought my asking for that was queer.”
“Did you consider going straight to Cap'n Dean and—”
“Dean? Cap'n Jed? Her father? Oh, Ros, don't be a fool altogether! I beg your pardon, old man! I don't mean it. You mustn't mind. I ain't responsible for what I say just now. But I couldn't go to Cap'n Jed. You know him. He's as straight and square and honest as he is obstinate and cranky. If I went to him I couldn't tell him the truth. And if I lied he'd suspect and want to know why I needed to borrow money. And Nellie—don't you see? There's the real awfulness of the whole thing. I couldn't go to her and tell her I was a thief. I couldn't see her face when I told her. And yet she's got to know it. She's got to know it!”
“But why? The stock may go up any day and then you could withdraw part of your margin.”
He struck the table with another blow. “The stock ain't moved for six weeks, I tell you,” he declared. “And, Ros,” he leaned forward, his haggard face working with emotion, “those bonds ain't in our safe here, where they should be, and the bank examiner is due here within the next four days. He's at Middleboro now. I 'phoned Bearse, the cashier there, this very forenoon on a matter of business, and he happened to mention that the examiner was in his bank and working his way down the Cape. It's all up with me! All up! And Nellie! poor girl; I can't be here when she finds it out. I know you think I'm a poor specimen of a man, Ros, but I can't face the music. No,” desperately, “and I won't.”
He was giving way again, but I seized his shoulder and shook him.
“Stop it!” I commanded. “Stop it, George! Let me think. Be quiet now and let me think. There must be a way out somewhere. Let me think.”
He leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said, hopelessly; “think, if you want to. Though why you should want to think about a thing like me I don't see. And I used to despise a crook as much as any one! and a coward still more! And now I'm both a crook and a coward.”
I knew his cowardice was merely on Nellie's account. George Taylor was no coward in the ordinary sense of the word, nor was he a crook. I rose and paced up and down the room. He watched me listlessly; it was plain that he felt no confidence whatever in my being able to help him. After a time he spoke.
“It's no use, Ros,” he said. “Don't worry your head about me; I ain't worth it. If there was any way out, any way at all, I'd have sighted it long ago. There ain't. Take my advice and leave me. You don't want to be mixed up with an embezzler.”
I turned on him, impatiently. “I have been mixed up, as you call it, with one before,” I said, sharply. “Is my own family record so clean that I need to pretend—there, George! don't be an idiot. Let me think.”
The clock chimed ten. I stopped in my walk and turned to him.
“George,” I said, “tell me this: If you had the money to buy back these bonds belonging to the bank you would be all right, wouldn't you? If you had it in your hands by to-morrow morning, I mean.”
“Yes; IF I had it—but I haven't.”
“You could send the money to the brokers and—”
“Send! I wouldn't send; I'd go myself and fetch the bonds back with me. Once I had them in that safe again I—”
“And you would not take any more risks, even if the market dropped and they had to sell out your account? Even if you lost every cent of your investment?”
The fierce earnestness of his answer satisfied even me. “What do you think I am?” he demanded. “Investment be hanged! It's my name as an honest man that I care about. Once let me get that back again and I'll face the poorhouse. Yes, and I'll tell Nellie the truth, all except that I was a thief; I can't tell her that. But I will tell her that I haven't got a cent except my salary. Then if she wants to give me up, all right. I'll bear it as best I can. Or, if she doesn't, and I lose my job here, I'll get another one somewhere else; I'll work at anything. She and I can wait and . . . But what is the use of talking like this? I've been over every inch of the ground a thousand times. There ain't a ray of light anywhere. The examiner will be here, the bonds will be missing, and I—I'll be in jail, or in hell, one or the other.”
“No, you won't,” I said, firmly.
“I won't! Why not?”
“Because there IS a ray of light. More than a ray. George, you go home and go to bed. To-morrow morning I may have news for you, good news.”
The blood rushed to his face. He seized the arm of his chair.
“Good news!” he gasped. “Good news for ME! Ros—Ros, for the Lord's sake, what do you mean? You don't mean you see a way to—”
“Never mind what I mean. But I should like to know what you mean by not coming to me before? What are friends for, if not to help each other? Who told you that I was dead broke?”
“You? Why, you ain't got . . . Have you? Ros Paine, you ain't got thirty-five hundred to spare. Why, you told me yourself—”
“Shut up! Get up from that chair and come with me. Yes, you; and now, this minute. Give me that thing you've got in the drawer there. No, I'll take it myself. You ought to be ashamed of its being there, George. I am ashamed of you, and, if I thought you really meant to use it, I should be still more ashamed. Come! don't keep me waiting.”
“But—but Ros—”
“Will you do as I tell you?”
I dragged him, almost literally dragged him, from the chair. Then, after extinguishing the lamp, I led him to the door of the bank and locked it, putting the key in my pocket.
“Now,” said I, “I want you to make me a promise. I want you to quit behaving like a coward, because you are not one, and promise me that you will go straight home and to bed. I'll see you again the first thing in the morning. Then, I think—yes, I think your troubles, the worst part of them, will be over.”
“But, Ros, PLEASE—I can't believe it! Won't you tell me—”
“Not a word. Will you promise me to behave like a man and go home? Or must I go with you?”
“No. I'll—I'll promise. I'll go straight home. But, oh Ros, I can't understand—”
“Good night.”
I left him standing there, stammering incoherently like a man awakening from a nightmare, and hurried away.
I could not describe my progress down the dark Lower Road and along the Shore Lane. I do not remember any portion of it. I think I ran most of the way and if I met any one—which is not likely, considering the time—he or she must have thought me crazy. My thoughts were centered upon one fixed purpose. I had made up my mind to do a certain thing and, if possible, to do it that very night. If I did not, if I had time in which to reflect, to consider consequences, I might lose my nerve and it would not be done at all.
It was with a feeling of great relief that, as I came in sight of the Colton house, I saw lights in the rooms on the lower floor. The family, not being native born Denboroites, had not retired even though it was well after ten. I hastened up the long drive, and stood before the big door, my hand upraised to the knocker. And then, just for a moment, I hesitated.
If I lifted that knocker and let it fall; if I summoned the servant and announced that I wished to speak with Mr. Colton; if I did what I had come there to do, it would be all over with me in the village. My new born popularity, the respect which Cap'n Warren and Cap'n Jed and the rest of the townspeople had shown toward me of late, the cordial recognition which had been mine during the past few weeks and which, in spite of pretended indifference, I had come to expect and enjoy, all these would be lost if I persisted in my purpose. My future in Denboro depended upon whether or not I knocked at that door. And it was not too late to back out, even yet. I had only to turn quietly away and tell George, when I saw him in the morning, that I could not help him as I had hoped. And then I thought of his face as I saw it when I entered the bank—and of Nellie's letter to me.
I seized the knocker and rapped sharply.
For a few moments my knock was unanswered. Then I heard footsteps and the door was opened. Johnson, the butler, opened it, and his clerical countenance assumed a most astonished expression when he saw me standing before him.
“Is Mr. Colton in?” I asked.
“What? What—sir?” stammered Johnson. The “sir” was added under protest. He did not wish to show more respect than was absolutely necessary to a countryman, but he scarcely dared speak as disrespectfully as he felt. Therefore he compromised by voicing the respect and looking the other way.
“Is Mr. Colton in?” I repeated.
“I don't know. I—I don't think so—sir.”
The windows at my left were, I knew, those of the library, the room where “Big Jim” and I had had our first lively discussion of the Shore Lane matter. I glanced at them.
“I think he is,” I said. “In fact I know it; there is his shadow on the curtain. Tell him Mr. Paine wishes to speak with him.”
Johnson looked as insolent as he dared, and still hesitated.
“It is very late,” he said. “Mr. Colton is not in the 'abit of receiving callers at this time of night and—”
He was interrupted. The door behind him, the door leading from the library to the hall, opened and Colton himself appeared.
“What is it, Johnson?” he asked. “Anything wrong?”
The butler hastened to explain.
“No sir,” he said; “nothing wrong exactly, sir. There is a person 'ere to see you, sir, and—”
“To see me, eh? Who is it? Why, hello, Paine! is that you?”
“Mr. Colton,” said I, “I am sorry to disturb you at such a late hour, but—”
“Come in, come in,” he interrupted. “What are you standing out there for? Johnson, why didn't you ask Mr. Paine in? What do you mean by keeping him out there?”
Mr. Johnson looked troubled.
“It was so late, sir,” he stammered, “I thought—”
“You thought! If I had wanted any one to think I never should have hired you. Come in, Paine. Come into the library.”
He led the way to the library and I followed him. It was my second visit to the big, handsomely furnished room and again, as on the first occasion, the sight of the books and all the other refinements and luxuries which money brings to its possessor gave me a pang of envy and resentment. It added increased bitterness to the humiliation of my errand. I had left that room defiantly expressing my independence. I had come back to it—
“Sit down,” ordered Colton, pulling forward the big, leather-covered chair. “Have a cigar?”
“No thank you.”
“Humph! That's what you said when you were here before. You're young, Paine. When you get to be as old as I am you'll never refuse a good cigar, or anything else that is good, when it is offered you. Well, you're still standing. Aren't going to refuse to sit down, are you?”
That was exactly what I was going to do. I would not sit down in that house. I would not accept the slightest courtesy from this man or any of his people. I would get rid of the unpleasant task I had come to do and then go away, never to return. They might make the most of the triumph which was to be theirs, but I would compel them to understand that I was not seeking their favor. I would not accept their patronage and they should know it. This, as I look back at it now, seems silly and childish enough, but I was not myself that night.
“Mr. Colton,” said I, ignoring the proffered chair, “I have come to see you on a matter of business.”
“Business, eh? Umph! I thought probably you were going to ask me to go fishing with you again. I'm all ready for another tussle with those—what do you call 'em—squid—squit—good Lord! what a name for a decent fish! But I don't care a continental what you call 'em. I'm ready to get at 'em when you say the word.”
“My business will not detain either of us long. I—”
“Sit down, man, sit down. You make me nervous standing there.”
“No. I won't sit.”
He looked at me.
“What is the matter with you?” he asked. “You haven't got a balky digestion, have you? I've been fighting one for the last week. That fool of a country doctor tells me if I'm not careful what I eat I'll keel over pretty soon. I told him I'd eaten what I dashed please ever since I'd had teeth and I wasn't going to quit now. But I do feel like the devil. Look it, don't I?”
He did look ill, that was a fact, though I had not noticed it before and was far from feeling pity for him then. In fact I was rather glad to know that he was uncomfortable. I wanted him to be.
“What is the matter with you?” he demanded. “You look as if you had seen your grandmother's ghost.”
I ignored the question. “Mr. Colton,” I began again. “You made an offer not long ago.”
I had caught his attention at last. He leaned back in his chair.
“I did,” he said. “Ye-es, I did. Do you mean you are going to accept it?”
“In a way—yes.”
“In a way? What do you mean by that? I tell you frankly, Paine, if you go to work for me there must be no 'ifs' or 'buts' about it. You'll enter my office and you'll do as I, or the men under me, tell you to do.”
I was glad he said that, glad that he misunderstood me. It gave me an opportunity to express my feelings toward him—as I was feeling then.
“Don't let that trouble you,” I said, sarcastically. “There will be no 'ifs' and 'buts' so far as that is concerned. I have no desire to work for you, Mr. Colton, and I don't intend doing so. That was not the offer I meant.”
He was surprised, I am sure, but he did not express astonishment. He bent forward and looked at me more keenly than ever.
“There was only one other offer that I remember making you,” he said, slowly. “That was for that land of yours. I offered you five thousand dollars for it. Do you mean you accept that offer?”
“Not exactly.”
“Humph! Paine, we're wasting a lot of time here, it seems to me. My time is more or less valuable, and my digestion is, as I told you, pretty bad. Come! get it over. What do you mean? Are you going to sell me that land?”
“Yes.”
He puffed deliberately at his cigar. His gaze did not leave my face.
“Why?” he asked, after a moment.
“That is my own affair. I will sell you the land, but not for five thousand dollars.”
His expression changed. He knocked the ashes from his cigar and frowned.
“I see,” he sneered. “Humph! Well, I've tried to make it plain to you fellows down here that I couldn't be held up. I thought I'd done it, but evidently I haven't. Five hundred is a good price for that land. Five thousand is ridiculous, but I gave you my reasons for being willing to be robbed that much. That, however, is the limit. I'll give you five thousand, but not another cent. You can take it or get out.”
This was better. When he talked like that I could answer him and enjoy it.
“I'll get out very shortly,” I said. “You are no more anxious to have that happen than I am. I don't want your other cent. I don't want your five thousand dollars. I'll sell you the land on one condition—no, on two. The first is that you pay me thirty-five hundred dollars for it.”
“WHAT?”
I had upset his composure this time. He forgot to sneer; he even forgot to smoke.
“What?” he cried again. “Thirty-five hundred! Why, I offered you—”
“I know your offer. This is mine: I will sell you the land for thirty-five hundred, and not another cent. That, as you say, is the limit. You can take it or—or I will follow your suggestion and get out.”
We looked at each other. His fingers moved toward the match box on the table. He took a match, scratched it, and held it to the end of his cigar. Then he took the cigar from his lips, blew out the match and tossed the latter into the fireplace.
“What is the second condition?” he asked, abruptly.
“That you pay me in cash, in money and not by check, at once.”
“At once? Now, do you mean?”
“Yes, now. To-night if possible; if not, no later than nine o'clock to-morrow morning.”
“Humph! Do you think I carry thirty-five hundred loose in my change pocket?”
“I don't know. But that is the second condition.”
“Humph! . . . Look here, Paine; what—? I offered you the five thousand. That offer holds good.”
“I don't accept it. I will sell for thirty-five hundred; no more and no less.”
“But why not more?”
“I don't know. Yes, I do, too. You said once that you were willing to pay forty-five hundred for the privilege of having your own way. Perhaps I am willing to sacrifice fifteen hundred for the privilege of having mine. At all events I mean what I say.”
“But why just thirty-five? Wouldn't you take thirty-six?”
“No. It is useless to argue, Mr. Colton, and useless to ask my reasons. I have them, and that is enough. Will you accept MY offer?”
He hesitated. The sneer had left his face and his tone when he addressed me was respectful, though there was a curious note of chagrin or dissatisfaction in it. I had expected him to be eager and, perhaps, mockingly triumphant. He was not. He seemed reluctant, almost disappointed.
“I suppose I'll have to,” he said. “But, Paine, what is up? Why are you doing this? You're not afraid of me? No, of course you're not. You're not the kind to squeal and lie down because you think the odds are against you . . . Confound you!” with a sudden burst of impatience, “you are enough to upset all the self-conceit a man's got in him. Just as I think I'm beginning to size you up you break loose in a new place.”
“Pardon me,” I put in, “but I don't see that you are helping to save that valuable time of yours. I understand that you accept. Will you pay me now?”
He rose, threw away his cigar, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood regarding me.
“Your mind is made up, is it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Humph! Have you thought of what our mutual friend Dean and the rest of the patriots may say when they find this out?”
I had thought of little else all the way from the bank to his door. I was thinking of it then.
“Of course,” he added, “that is not my affair, but—”
“It is not.”
“You're right; it isn't. Still—hang it all, Paine! I don't often feel any compunctions when I beat a fellow in a game like this, and I did intend to have my own way in this one—”
“Well, you're having it, aren't you?” I put in. “Why talk so much about it?”
“Because I am not so sure I am having it. Of course I can see that, for some reason or other, you need thirty-five hundred dollars. Anyone but you, if they were going to sell, would get the last dime they could squeeze. You won't, because you are as pig-headed as—as—”
“Oh, do cut it short,” I snapped. And then, a trifle ashamed of my rudeness, “Excuse me, Mr. Colton, but this isn't exactly pleasant for me and I want to get it over. Will you pay me now?”
“Hold on; let me finish. I was going to say that, if you needed the thirty-five, perhaps I could manage to let you have it.”
I stared at him. “Let me have it!” I cried. “Do you mean you'll lend it to me?”
“Why, yes, maybe. You and I have had such a first-rate, square, stand up fight that I rather hate to have it end. I want to lick you, not have you quit before I've really begun to fight. There's no fool philanthropy in this, understand; it is just for my own satisfaction.”
I was so taken aback by this totally unexpected offer from the man whom I had insulted a dozen times since I entered his house, that I found it almost impossible to answer.
“What do you say?” he asked.
“No,” I faltered. And then more firmly, “No; certainly not. I—I am much obliged to you, Mr. Colton, but—no.”
“All right. You know best. I'll take your offer and I will hand you the money at the bank to-morrow morning. Will that do?”
“Not at the bank, Mr. Colton. Send it over to the house, if you can conveniently.”
“I'll have it here before ten. My lawyer will draw up the papers and arrange for transfer of title in a few days. What? Going, are you? Good night. Oh—er—Paine, remember that my other offer, that of the place in my office, is open when you're ready to take it.”
I shook my head. I had turned to go, but now I turned back, feeling that, perhaps, I should apologize again for my rudeness. After all, he had been kind, very kind, and I had scarcely thanked him. So I turned back to say something, I hardly knew what.
My doing so was a mistake. The door behind me opened and a voice said reproachfully, “Father, are you still here? The doctor said . . . Oh, I beg pardon.”
I recognized the voice. Of all voices in the world I wished least to hear it just then. My back was toward the door and I kept it so. If she would only go! If she would only shut that door and go away!
I think she would have gone but her father called her.
“Mabel,” he cried, “Mabel, don't go. It's all right. Come in. Paine and I have finished our talk. Nothing more you wished to say, was there, Paine?”
“No,” said I. I was obliged to turn now; I could not get out of that room without doing it. So turn I did, and we faced each other.
“Good evening, Miss Colton,” I said, with all the calmness I could muster.
She said, “Good evening,” distantly and without any enthusiasm, but I saw her glance at her father and then at me and I knew she was wondering what our being together could possibly mean.
“Paine has been making me a little call,” explained Colton, his eye twinkling. “Mabel, I'll risk another bet that you can't guess why he came.”
“I shall not try,” she said, disdainfully.
“Oh, you'd better! No? You won't? Well, then, I'll tell you. He has just sold me that land of his . . . Don't look at me like that; he has. We had a little disagreement as to price, but,” with a grin, “I met his figures and we closed the deal. Aren't you going to congratulate him on having come to his senses at last? Come! he's waiting for congratulations.”
This was not true. I was waiting for nothing; I was on my way to the door. But, to reach it I was obliged to pass her and our eyes met. My glance wavered, I know, but hers did not. For a moment she looked at me. Then she smiled. Whenever I am tempted to be vain, even now, I remember that smile.
“I congratulate him,” she said. “Come, Father; you must go to bed now.”
I am not going to attempt a description of my thoughts that night. It would take too long and the description would be wearisome. Other people's miseries are not interesting and I shall not catalog mine. Morning came at last and I rose, bathed my hot face in cold water, and went down stairs. Early as it was, not yet six, I heard Dorinda in the kitchen and, having no desire for conversation, I went out and walked up and down the beach until breakfast time. I had to pretend to eat, but I ate so little that both Lute and Dorinda once more commented upon my lack of appetite. Lute, who had never become fully reconciled to my becoming a member of the working class, hastened to lay the blame for my condition upon my labors at the bank.
“The trouble is,” he announced, dogmatically, “the trouble is, Roscoe, that you ain't fitted for bein' shut up astern of a deck. Look at yourself now! Just go into Comfort's room and stand in front of her lookin' glass and look at yourself. There you be, pale and peaked and wore out. Look for all the world just as I done when I had the tonsils two winters ago. Ain't that so, Dorindy?”
His wife's answer was a contemptuous sniff.
“If you mean to say that you looked peaked when you had sore throat,” she announced, “then there's somethin' the matter with your mind or your eyesight, one or t'other. You peaked? Why, your face was swelled up like a young one's balloon Fourth of July Day. And as for bein' pale! My soul! I give you my word I couldn't scurcely tell where your neck left off and the strip of red flannel you made me tie 'round it begun.”
“Don't make no difference! I FELT pale, anyhow. And I didn't eat no more'n Ros does. You'll have to give in to that, Dorindy. I didn't eat nothin' but beef tea and gruel.”
“You et enough of them to float a schooner.”
“Maybe I did,” with grieved dignity; “maybe I did. But that's no reason why you should set there and heave my sufferin's in my face.”
“What is the man talkin' about now? I didn't heave 'em in your face. They come there themselves, same as sore throat sufferin's generally do, and if you hadn't waded around in the snow with leaky boots, because you was too lazy to take 'em to the shoemaker's to be patched, they wouldn't.”
Lute drew back from the table. “It's no use!” he declared, “a man can't even be sick in peace in this house. Some wives would have been sorry to see their husbands with one foot in the grave.”
“Your feet was in the cookstove oven most of the time. There! there! the more you talk the further from home you get. You started in with Roscoe and the bank and you're in the grave already. If I was you I'd quit afore I went any further. Land knows where you might fetch up if you kept on! I . . . Mercy on us! who's at the kitchen door this time in the mornin'?”
Her husband, ever curious, was on his way to answer the knock already. He came back, a moment later, sputtering with excitement.
“It's that Mr. butler, the Johnson over to Mr. Colton's,” he whispered. “I mean it's that Jutler—that—There, Dorindy! you see what sort of a state your hectorin' has worked me into! It's that parson critter who opens Colton's door for him, that's who 'tis. And he wants to see Ros. I tried to find out what for, but he wouldn't tell.”
Even Dorinda showed surprise. She looked at the clock, “This hour of the mornin'!” she exclaimed; “what in the world—?”
I hastened to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind me just in time to prevent Lute's following me. Johnson, the butler, was standing on the mica slab at the threshold inspecting our humble premises with lofty disdain.
“Mr. Colton sent this to you, sir,” he said, handing me an envelope. “He wishes you to send a receipt by me.”
I took the envelope and, stepping back out of sight, tore it open. Inside was a check on a New York bank for four thousand dollars. It was made payable to “Bearer.” With it was this brief note:
Dear Paine:
This is the best I can do for you, as I haven't the money on hand. Cash it yourself, take out your thirty-five hundred and hold the additional five hundred until I, or one of the family, call for it. I made the thing payable to Bearer because I imagined you would prefer it that way. Send me some sort of receipt by Johnson; anything will do. I will see my lawyer in a day or two. Meanwhile have your papers, deeds, etc., ready when he calls for them.
Yours truly,
JAMES W. COLTON.
For a minute I considered. If I could cash the check at the bank without Taylor's knowledge and get him off to Boston on the early train, I might be able to cover my tracks. It was necessary that they should be covered. Knowing George as I did I knew that he would never consent to my sacrifice. He would not permit me to wreck my future in Denboro to save him. The money must be turned over to the Boston bankers and the bank's bonds once more in the vault where they belonged before he learned where that money came from. Then it would be too late to refuse and too late to undo what had been done. He would have to accept and I might be able to prevail upon him to keep silent regarding the whole affair. I disliked the check with Colton's name upon it; I should have much preferred the cash; but cash, it seemed, could not be had without considerable delay, and with that bank examiner's visit imminent every moment of time was valuable. I folded the check, put it in my pocketbook, and, hastily scribbling a receipt in pencil at the bottom of Colton's note, replaced the latter in the envelope and handed it to Johnson, who departed.
Entering the dining-room I found Dorinda and Lute at the window, peering after the butler.
“By time!” exclaimed Lute, “if I didn't know I should say he was a bigger big-bug than old Colton himself. Look how he struts! He sartin is a dignified lookin' man. I don't see how he ever come to be just hired help.”
“Um-hm,” sniffed the cynical Mrs. Rogers. “Well; you can get an awful lot of dignity for its board and lodgin'! There's nothin' much more dignified or struts much better'n a rooster, but it's the hens that lay the eggs. What did he want, Roscoe?”
I made some excuse or other for Mr. Johnson's early call and, taking my cap from the rack, hurried from the house. I went “across lots” and, running a good part of the way, reached the bank just as Sam Wheeler was sweeping out. He expressed surprise at my early arrival and wished to know what was up.
“Ain't nothin' wrong, is there, Ros?” asked Sam anxiously. “I saw by the paper that the market was feverish again yesterday.”
Sam was an ambitious youth and, being desirous of becoming a banker in the shortest possible time, read the financial page with conscientious thoroughness. I assured him that the market's fever was not contagious—at least I had not contracted the disease—and sent him out to sweep the front steps. As soon as he had gone I opened the safe, found, to my joy, that we had an abundance of currency on hand, cashed the Colton check and locked it securely in the drawer of my own desk. So far I was safe. Now to secure George's safety.
He came in soon after, looking as if, as he had told me, he had not slept for years. He bade Sam good morning and then walked over to my side.
“Well, Ros?” he asked, laying a shaking hand on the desk beside me.
“Not here, George,” I whispered. “Come into the directors' room.”
I led the way and he followed me. I closed the door behind us, took the thirty-five hundred dollars in notes from my pocket and laid them on the table.
“There's the money, George,” I said. “Now you've got just time enough to catch that nine o'clock train for Boston.”
I thought, for a moment, he was going to collapse altogether. Then he pounced upon the money, counted it with fingers that trembled so he could scarcely control them, and turned to me.
“Ros—Ros—” he stammered. “Where did you—how did you—Great God, man! I—I—”
“There! there!” I interrupted. “I told you I wasn't a pauper exactly. Put that where you won't lose it and clear out. You haven't any time to argue.”
“But—but, Ros, I hadn't ought to take this from you. I don't see where you got it and—”
“That's my business. Will you go?”
“I don't know as I ever can pay you. Lord knows I'll try all my life, but—”
I seized his arm. “George,” I urged, impatiently, “you fool, don't waste time. Get that train, do you hear! Those bonds must be in that safe by night. Go!”
The mention of the bonds did what my urging had failed to do. He crammed the bills into his pocket book, thrust the latter into an inside pocket, and rushed from the room. I followed him as far as the outer door. He was running up the road like a wild man. Sam stared after him.
“For mercy sakes!” he cried, “what's the matter with the boss? Has he gone loony?”
“No,” I said, turning back to my desk; “he's sane enough, I guess. He's after the train.”
“I should think he was after somethin'. Did you see the face he had on him? If he ain't crazy then you and I are, that's all I've got to say.”
“All right, Sam,” I answered, drawing a long breath, “perhaps that's it. Perhaps you and I are the crazy ones—one of us, at any rate.”
All that day I worked hard. I did not go home for lunch, but sent Sam over to Eldredge's store for canned ham and crackers which I ate at my desk. It was a fairly busy day, fortunately, and I could always find some task to occupy my mind. Lute called, at two o'clock, to inquire why I had not been home and I told him that Taylor was away and I should be late for supper. He departed, shaking his head.
“It's just as I said,” he declared, “you're workin' yourself sick, that's what you're doin'. You're growin' foolish in the head about work, just the same as Dorindy. And YOU don't need to; you've got money enough. If I had independent means same as you've got I tell you I'd have more sense. One sick invalid in the family's enough, ain't it?”
“No doubt, Lute,” I replied. “At all events you must take care of your health. Don't YOU work yourself sick.”
Lute turned on me. “I try not to,” he said, seriously; “I try not to, but it's a hard job. You know what that wife of mine is cal'latin' to have me do next? Wash the hen house window! Yes sir! wash the window so's the hens can look at the scenery, I presume likely. I says to her, says I, 'That beats any foolishness ever I heard! Next thing you'll want me to put down a carpet in the pigsty, won't ye? You would if we kept a pig, I know.'”
“What did she say to that?” I inquired.
“Oh, the land knows! Somethin' about keepin' one pig bein' trouble enough. I didn't pay much attention. But I shan't wash no hen's window, now you can bet on that!”
I shouldn't have bet much on it. He went away, to spend the next hour in a political debate at Eldredge's, and I wrote letters, needlessly long ones. Closing time came and Sam went home, leaving me to lock up. The train was due at six-twenty, but it was nearly seven before I heard it whistle at the station. I stood at the front window looking up the road and waiting.
I waited only a few minutes, but they were long ones. Then I saw George coming, not running this time, but walking with rapid strides. The crowd, waiting on the post-office steps, shouted at him but he paid no attention. He sprang up the steps and entered the bank. I stepped forward and seized his hand. One look at his face was enough; he had the bonds, I knew it.
“Ros, you here!” he exclaimed. “Is it all right? The examiner hasn't showed up?”
“No,” I answered. “You have them, George?”
“Right in my pocket, thank the Lord—and you, Ros Paine. Just let me get them into that safe and I—What! You're not going?”
“Yes, I'm going. I congratulate you, George. I am as glad as you are. Good night.”
“But Ros, I want to tell you about it. I want to thank you again. I never shall forget . . . Ros, hold on!”
But I was already at the door. “Good night,” I called again, and went out. I went straight home, ate supper, spent a half hour with Mother, and then went to my room and to bed. The excitement was over, for good or bad the thing was done beyond recall, and I suddenly realized that I was very tired. I fell asleep almost immediately and slept soundly until morning. I was too tired even to think.
I had plenty of time to think during the fortnight which followed and there was enough to think about. The lawyer came and the papers were signed transferring to James W. Colton the strip of land over which Denboro had excited itself for months. Each day I sat at my desk expecting Captain Dean and a delegation of indignant citizens to rush in and denounce me as a traitor and a turncoat. Every time Sam Wheeler met me at my arrival at the bank I dreaded to look him in the face, fearing that he had learned of my action and was waiting to question me about it. In spite of all my boasts and solemn vows not to permit “Big Jim” Colton to obtain the Shore Lane I had sold it to him; he could, and it was to be expected that he would, close it at once; Denboro would make its just demand upon me for explanations, explanations which, for George and Nellie's sake, I could not give; and after that the deluge. I was sitting over a powder mine and I braced myself for the explosion.
But hours and days passed and no explosion came. The fishcarts rattled down the Lane without hindrance. Except for the little flurry of excitement caused by the coming wedding at the Dean homestead the village life moved on its lazy, uneventful jog. I could not understand it. Why did Colton delay? He, whose one object in life was to have his own way, had it once more. Now that he had it why didn't he make use of it? Why was he holding back? Out of pity for me? I did not believe it. Much more likely that his daughter, whose pride I had dared to offend, had taken the affair in her hands and this agony of suspense was a preliminary torture, a part of my punishment for presuming to act contrary to her imperial will.
I saw her occasionally, although I tried my best not to do so. Once we passed each other on the street and I stubbornly kept my head turned in the other direction. I would risk no more looks such as she had given me when, in response to her father's would-be humorous suggestion, she had offered me her “congratulations.” Once, too, I saw her on the bay, I was aboard the Comfort, having just anchored after a short cruise, and she went by in the canoe, her newest plaything, which had arrived by freight a few days before. A canoe in Denboro Bay was a distinct novelty; probably not since the days of the Indians had one of the light, graceful little vessels floated there, and this one carried much comment among the old salts alongshore. It was the general opinion that it was no craft for salt water.
“Them things,” said Zeb Kendrick, sagely, “are all right for ponds or rivers or cricks where there ain't no tide nor sea runnin'. Float anywheres where there's a heavy dew, they say they will. But no darter of mine should go out past the flats in one of 'em if I had the say. It's too big a risk.”
“Yup; well, Zeb, you ain't got the say, I cal'late,” observed Thoph Newcomb. “And it takes more'n say to get a skiff like that one. They tell me the metal work aboard her is silver-plated—silver or gold, I ain't sure which. Wonder the old man didn't make it solid gold while he was about it. He'd do anything for that girl if she asked him to. And she sartin does handle it like a bird! She went by my dory t'other mornin' and I swan to man if she and the canoe together wan't a sight for sore eyes. I set and watched her for twenty minutes.”
“Um—ye-es,” grunted Zeb. “And then you charged the twenty minutes in against the day's work quahaugin' you was supposed to be doin' for me, I suppose.”
“You can take out the ten cents when you pay me—if you ever do,” said Newcomb, gallantly. “'Twas wuth more'n that just to look at her.”
The time had been when I should have agreed with Thoph. Sitting in the canoe, bare-headed, her hair tossing in the breeze, and her rounded arms swinging the light paddle, she was a sight for sore eyes, doubtless. But it was not my eyes which were sore, just then. I watched her for a moment and then bent over my engine. I did not look up again until the canoe had disappeared beyond the Colton wharf.
I did not tell Mother that I had sold the land. I intended to do so; each morning I rose with my mind made up to tell her, and always I put off the telling until some other time. I knew, of course, that she should be told; that I ought to tell her rather than to have her learn the news from others as she certainly would at almost any moment, but I knew, too, that even to her I could not disclose my reason for selling. I must keep George's secret as he had kept mine and take the consequences with a close mouth and as much of my old indifference to public opinion as I could muster. But I realized, only too well, that the indifference which had once been real was now only pretense.
I have said very little about George Taylor's gratitude to me, nor his appreciation of what I had done for him. The poor fellow would have talked of nothing else if I had let him.
“You've saved my good name and my life, Ros,” he said, over and over again, “and not only my life, but what is a mighty sight more worth saving, Nellie's happiness. I don't know how you did it; I believe yet that there is something behind all this, that you're keeping something from me. I can't see how, considering all you've said to me about your not being well-off, you got that money so quick. But I know you don't want me to talk about it.”
“I don't, George,” I said. “All I ask of you is just to forget the whole thing.”
“Forget! I shan't forget while I live. And, as soon as ever I can scrape it together, I'll pay you back that loan.”
He had kept his word, so far as telling Nellie of his financial condition was concerned. He had not, of course, told her of his use of the bank bonds, but he had, as he said he would, told her that, in all probability, he should be left with nothing but his salary.
“I told her she was free to give me up,” he said, with emotion, “and what do you suppose she said to me? That she would marry me if she knew she must live in the poorhouse the rest of her days. Yes, and be happy, so long as we could be together. Well, I ain't worth it, and I told her so, but I'll do my best to be worth something; and she shan't have to live in the poorhouse either.”
“I don't think there's much danger of that,” I said. “And, by the way, George, your Louisville and Transcontinental speculation may not be all loss. You may save something out of it. There has been considerable trading in the stock during the past two days. It is up half a point already, according to the papers. Did you notice it?”
“Yes, I noticed it. But I tell you, Ros, I don't care. I'll be glad to get some of my money back, of course; enough to pay you and Cap'n Elisha anyhow; but I'm so happy to think that Nellie need never know I was a thief that I don't seem to care much for anything else.”
Nellie was happy, too. She came to me and told me of her happiness. It was all on George's account, of course.
“The poor fellow had lost money in investments,” she said, “and he thought I would not care for him if I found out he was poor. He isn't poor, of course, but if he was it would make no difference to me. I am so glad to see him without that dreadful worried look on his face that I—I—Oh, you must think me awful silly, Roscoe! I guess I am. I know I am. But you are the only one I can talk to in this way about—about him. All Ma wants to talk about now is the wedding and clothes and such, and Pa always treats me as if I was a child. I feel almost as if you were the closest friend I have, and I know George feels the same. He says you have helped him out of his troubles. I was sure you would; that is why I wrote you that letter. We are both SO grateful to you.”
Their gratitude and the knowledge of their happiness were my sole consolations in this trying time. They kept me from repenting what I had done. It was hard not to repent. If Colton had only made known his purchase and closed the Lane at once, while my resolution was red hot, I could have faced the wrath of the village and its inevitable consequences fairly well, I believed; but he still kept silent and made no move. I saw him once or twice; on one occasion he came into the bank, but he came only to cash a check and did not mention the subject of the Lane. He did not look well to me and I heard him tell Taylor something about his “damned digestion.”
The wedding day came. I, as best man, was busy and thankful for the bustle and responsibility. They occupied my mind and kept it from dwelling on other things. George worked at the bank until noon, getting ready to leave the institution in my charge and that of Dick Small, Henry's brother, who had reported for duty that morning. The marriage was to take place at half past one in the afternoon and the bridal couple were to go away on the three o'clock train. The honeymoon trip was to be a brief one, only a week.
Every able-bodied native of Denboro, man, woman and child, attended that wedding, I honestly believe. It was the best sort of advertising for Olinda Cahoon and Simeon Eldredge, for Olinda had made the gowns worn by the bride and the bride's mother and a number of the younger female guests, and Sim had sold innumerable bottles of a peculiarly penetrating perfume, a large supply of which he had been talked into purchasing by a Boston traveling salesman.
“Smell it, Ros, do ye?” whispered Sim, grinning triumphantly between the points of a “stand-up” collar. “I give you my word when that slick-talkin' drummer sold me all that perfumery, I thought I was stuck sure and sartin. But then I had an idee. Every time women folks come into the store and commenced to talk about the weddin' I says to 'em, says I, 'Can't sell you a couple of handkerchiefs to cry on, can I, Miss So-and-so? Weddin's are great places for sheddin' tears, you know.' If I sold 'em the handkerchiefs all well and good; but if they laughed and said they had a plenty, I got out my sample bottle of 'May Lilock', that's the name of the cologne, and asked 'em to smell of it. 'If you cry with that on your handkerchief,' says I, 'all hands will be glad to have you do it. And only twenty cents a bottle!' You wouldn't believe how much I sold. You can smell this weddin' afore you come in sight of the house, can't ye now.”
You could, and you continued to smell it long after you left. My best suit reeked of “May Lilac” weeks later when I took it out of the closet.
Dorinda was there, garbed in rustling black alpaca, her Sunday gown for ten years at least, and made over and “turned” four or five times. Lute was on deck, cutaway coat, “high water” trousers and purple tie, grand to look upon, Alvin Baker and Elnathan Mullet and Alonzo Black and Thoph Newcomb and Zeb Kendrick were, as the Item would say, “among those present” and if Zeb's black cutaway smelled slightly of fish it was, at least, a change from the pervading “May Lilac.”
Captain Jed strutted pompously about, monarch of the day. He greeted me genially.
“Hello, Ros!” he said. “You out here? Thought you'd be busy overhaulin' George's runnin' riggin' and makin' sure he was all ready to heave alongside the parson.”
“I have been,” I answered. “I am on my way back there now.”
“All right, all right. Matildy give me fits for not stayin' upstairs until the startin' gun was fired, but I told her that, between her with her eyes full of tears and Olindy Cahoon with her mouth full of pins, 'twas no place for a male man. So I cleared out till everything was shipshape. Say, Ros,” he laid his hand on my shoulder and bent to whisper in my ear: “Say, Ros,” he said, “I'm glad to see you're takin' my advice.”
“Taking your advice?” I repeated, puzzled.
“Yes; about not playin' with fire, you know. I ain't heard of you and the Princess cruisin' together for the past week. Thought 'twas best not to be too familiar with the R'yal family, didn't you? That's right, that's right. We can't take chances. We've got Denboro and the Shore Lane to think about, ain't we?”
I did not answer. I did not risk looking him in the face.
“She's liable to be here most any time, I cal'late,” he went on. “Nellie would insist on invitin' her. And I must say that, to be honest, the present she sent is the finest that's come aboard yet. The only thing I've got against her is her bad judgment in pickin' a father. If 'twan't for that I—hello! Who—Why, I believe—”
There was a commotion among the guests and heads were turned toward the door. The captain started forward. I started back. She had entered the room and was standing there, looking about her with smiling interest. I had forgotten that, considering her friendship with Nellie, she was certain to be invited.
She was dressed in a simple, but wonderful, white gown and wore a bunch of lilies of the valley at her bosom. The doorway was decorated with sprays of honeysuckle and green boughs and against this background she made a picture that brought admiring whispers from the people near me. She did not notice me at first and I think I should have escaped by the side door if it had not been for Sim Eldredge. Simeon was just behind me and he darted forward with outstretched hand.
“Why, how d'ye do, Miss Colton!” exclaimed Sim. “You're just in time, ain't ye! Let me get you a chair. Alvin,” to Mr. Baker, who, perspiring beneath the unaccustomed dignity of a starched shirt front, occupied a front seat, “get up and let Miss Colton set down.”
She looked in Sim's direction and saw me, standing beside him. I had no opportunity to avoid her look now, as I had done when we met in the street. She saw me and I could not turn away. I bowed. She did not acknowledge the bow. She looked calmly past me, through me. I saw, or fancied that I saw, astonishment on the faces of those watching us. Captain Jed stepped forward to greet her and I went into the adjoining room, where George was anxiously awaiting me.
“Good land, Ros!” he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, “I was beginning to be afraid you'd skipped out and left me to go through it all alone. Say something to brace me up, won't you; I'm scared to death. Say,” with a wondering glance at my face, “what's struck YOU? You look more upset than I feel.”
I believe I ordered him not to be an idiot. I know I did not “brace him up” to any extent.
It was a very pretty wedding. At least every one said it was, although they say the same of all weddings, I am told. Personally I was very glad when it was over. Nellie whispered in my ear as I offered her my congratulations, “We owe it all to you, Roscoe.” George said nothing, but the look he gave me as he wrung my hand was significant. For a moment I forgot myself, forgot to be envious of those to whom the door for happiness was not shut. After all I had opened the door for these two, and that was something.
I walked as far as the corner with Lute and Dorinda. Dorinda's eyes were red and her husband commented upon it.
“I thought a weddin' was supposed to be a joyful sort of thing,” he said, disgustedly. “It's usually cal'lated to be. Yet you and the rest of the women folks set and cried through the whole of it. What in time was there to cry about?”
“Oh, I don't know, Luther,” replied Dorinda in, for her, an unusually tolerant tone. “Perhaps it's because we've all been young once and can't forget it.”
“I don't forget, no more'n you do. I ain't so old that I can't remember that fur back, I hope. But it don't make me feel like cryin'.”
“Well, all right. We won't argue about it. Let's be pleasant as we can, for once.”
Now that is where Lute should have taken the hint and remained silent. At least he should have changed the subject. But he was hot and uncomfortable and, I suspect, his Sunday shoes were tight. He persisted.
“Huh!” he sniffed; “I don't see's you've given me no sensible reason for cryin'. If I recollect right you didn't cry at your own weddin'.”
His wife turned on him. She looked him over from head to foot.
“Didn't I?” she said, tartly. “Well, maybe not. But if I'd realized what was happenin' to me, I should.”
“Lute,” said I, as I parted from them at the corner, “I am going to the bank for a little while. Then I think I shall take a short run down the bay in the Comfort. Did you fill her tank with gasolene as I asked you to?”
Lute stopped short. “There!” he exclaimed, “I knew there was somethin' I forgot. I'll do it soon's ever I get home.”