CHAPTER VIDEALING WITH THE OGRE
Major Bates lived in a big, brick house, made gloomy and forbidding by tall evergreen trees growing close to its walls. It had been, in its day, one of the noted mansions of the town, and still maintained much of its former state. Its hedges were trimmed to a nicety; its graveled walks were straight of edge and free of encroaching grass; its lawn was the smoothest to be found for miles around; the brass rails beside the steps shone with frequent polishing. Yet, with all this care, there was something cheerless about the place, something suggesting an institution rather than a home. To his few cronies the Major admitted that he liked to keep his premises “well policed,” as he termed it, in memory of his army days; but the townspeople generally were of opinion that the verdict of a clever woman hit the case perfectly.
“Wonderfully kept up; marvelously wellordered; excellent for everything—except comfortable living.”
Such was her summary. Perhaps nobody but the Major would have taken serious objection to it. He was quite sure that things were as he wished to have them; and it did not occur to him that anybody else was called upon to consider the matter.
This evening he was sitting alone in the big room he called his den, a room whose walls were lined with bookcases, gun racks and cabinets, and decorated with antlered heads of moose and deer. The pictures were few but good. Each hung as if its top had been adjusted with the aid of a spirit-level. The books on the shelves were like soldiers on parade.
The master of the house, seated before his open fire, curiously matched the room. He was very neat and precise in dress; he held himself stiffly, and after a fashion which caused careless observers to credit him with greater height than he possessed. As a matter of fact, he was rather short in stature and thin to gauntness; though it seldom occurred to anybody to speak of him as a little man.Perhaps this was due to his domineering manner and striking face. The Major was a person to attract attention in any company. He had a shock of iron-gray hair, bushy eyebrows, a fiercely beaked nose, and a bristling moustache and goatee. His eyes were keen and piercing, and not often inclined to friendliness.
It need hardly be said that he was not on terms of intimacy with the youth of Plainville. Not that they ventured to annoy him—far from it! Two-thirds of the boys in town would cross the street to avoid meeting him, no matter how clear might be their consciences of recent offense against him. But the Major, striding along, swinging his cane and grumbling to himself as he advanced, was just the sort of figure to which peaceful folk involuntarily yield the crown of the way. And this evening, though he was not marching belligerently through the town, but was sitting before his cheery fire, he looked even more warlike—and war-worn—than in his public appearances. There was a patch of court-plaster on his cheek, and his left hand was wrapped in a bandage.
There was a deferential knock, and the door of the room opened. In stepped a man servant, severe of countenance. He advanced to the Major, and halting, stood at attention.
“Mr. Parker—to see you, sir,” he reported. “Yes, sir; Mr. Parker and Master Parker.”
The Major scowled. “What! Parker and that boy of his? What’s he here for? But show Parker in, of course. If the boy doesn’t want to come, don’t urge him. Perhaps he’ll wait in the parlor.”
But Master Parker, albeit he gladly would have lingered behind, was not to be permitted to escape his ordeal. With dragging foot he entered the den at his father’s heels, and stood unhappily clutching his cap, while his elders shook hands somewhat formally.
“Ah, Mr. Parker, glad to see you!” said the Major. “Be seated, I beg you. And come up to the fire. Chilly evening, sir; chilly, though seasonable.”
“Major Bates, permit me to present my son, Samuel,” said Mr. Parker.
Sam stepped forward with a resigned hopelessness like that of a condemned criminal. He felt himself quailing before the Major’seye; but felt a surprising—and vaguely encouraging—heartiness in the grip the old soldier gave his timidly extended hand.
“Samuel, I trust you are well,” quoth the Major, courteously enough. Then, not being impressed with the importance of minors in the scheme of the universe, he turned to the boy’s father, after suggesting to his youthful caller that he, too, take a chair near the fire.
Mr. Parker cleared his throat. “Ahem, ahem! Major, I have been given to understand that you have been the victim of an unfortunate accident.”
“Accident!” The Major sat straighter in the chair in which he had just seated himself. “Sir, that’s misuse of English. What I was victim of was a most cowardly and scoundrelly attack. Thank heaven, though, the perpetrator of the outrage was at once apprehended and taken into custody.”
“You’re sure of the identity of the——”
The Major’s eyes flashed; he was guilty of the discourtesy of interrupting a guest.
“Am I sure? Sir, I am as absolutely certain of the miscreant as I am of this”—he touched the court-plaster on his cheek—“andof this”—he waved the bandaged hand. “I’ve two good reasons to remember him, sir.”
“But, Major——”
“Pardon me a moment! You may not know, but it is the fact that the fellow has threatened, repeatedly, to do me harm. It’s an old grudge. Years ago I was fortunate enough to be active in sending him to jail, and he’s never forgotten my modest service to the general welfare. Only last week—on the public street, sir—he reviled me, and declared that he would have revenge. It was a fortunate warning, sir; for this morning, when he and I met in the woods—oh, yes; we passed within ten yards of each other—I took care to keep a weather eye open for just some such performance as he undertook. I’d kept his general bearings, and when he blazed away at me—why, sir, I rushed for him. And by Jove! I got him—as good as caught in the act, sir!”
“But not quite caught in the act, sir. There must have been an interval——”
The Major raised a hand. “Pardon me again! Sir, what you speak of is a trifle, a bagatelle. And there was plenty of circumstantialevidence—empty shell in the right-hand barrel of his gun—barrel fouled by the discharge. And he attempted no denial. Why, sir, he merely stood there and cursed me to my face, the scoundrel!”
“And yet,” said Mr. Parker evenly, “I fear you were—and are—in error.”
“Eh?” The Major bristled. “Eh? You fear I’m in error? Most extraordinary statement, sir! Do you mean to insinuate that nobody shot me?”
“I merely suggest that you may not have been shot by Peter Groche.”
“But who else under the canopy could it have been?”
“I am afraid, as I told you—afraid that it was my son.”
“What!” Up sprang the Major. “Man, what do you mean? This boy?” He whipped about, and peered at Sam. “Why, he’s a mere child! Preposterous, sir; utterly preposterous!”
“I wish that it were!” said Mr. Parker, with feeling. “But the fact remains that he insists he was gunning this morning in Marlow woods; and that he declares thathe mistook a man for a deer, and fired at him.”
“Tush, tush! That’s all a piece of boyish imagination. He’s been reading dime novels! Haven’t you, young man?” And the Major shook a bony forefinger in Sam’s face.
“No, sir; I haven’t.” Sam spoke firmly, and his eyes did not fall before the Major’s.
“Do you expect me to believe you were the fellow who winged me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Major went back to his chair. He dropped into it almost limply. “Out with your story, boy!” said he. “I’ll listen—I’ve got to, I suppose.”
The dreaded moment had arrived. Sam nerved himself to the task before him. The keen, old eyes under the bushy brows never left his face. He felt that they were penetrating every secret of his soul. But, after all, he had nothing but the truth to tell; and there was nothing he wished to conceal. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, if not more easily, he reviewed the events of the morning. He dealt with his hunt through the woods; described the twin ridges and the valleybetween. Then the Major broke in upon him.
“By Jove, boy, but you have the lay of the land pat!” he exclaimed. “Go over that again, please—about the bushes where you hid, and the others where you saw something move.”
Sam repeated this part of his story. The Major stalked to a closet, and stalked back, carrying a woolen cap, dark red in color.
“Was that what you saw?” he demanded grimly.
“It might have been—I’m not certain.”
The Major thrust a finger into a hole in the cap.
“That’s where one shot went through. But, by the great horn spoon, Parker! what’s a man to do to secure reasonable safety in the woods these times? I put on a red cap to warn gunners not to pot me for a deer. Have I got to wear sleigh-bells, or carry an automobile horn, to let ’em know it’s a human being that’s coming? I must say things are at a pretty pass, when anybody who wants venison has to take his life in his hand to get it!”
“Agreed!” said Mr. Parker. “That’s oneof the reasons why I’ve practically dropped hunting. But that cap, now—strikes me the red might not show very clearly among the dead leaves.”
“What I saw seemed to be dark rather than red,” Sam explained.
The Major pulled at his tuft of beard. “All most extraordinary and yet—queer how the thing might have happened, as the boy says. I’d half made up my mind that scoundrel was gunning for me; so, naturally enough, when that charge of buckshot came my way, I looked where I thought it probably came from. And the puff of smokeless powder isn’t much—it’d have been gone in a few seconds. And sound fools you on direction. Expecting attack from a certain quarter, I’d be pretty sure to place the sound there, whether or no. And the boy declares he was right across the gulch? Umph!”
Sam resumed his account. He made confession to his fright; to the moments which passed before he dared to look at the farther ridge, even though he heard the loud crackling of branches.
The Major nodded. “That fits, too. Soon asI could wrap a handkerchief about the bleeding paw I was off after Groche. But finally you crossed over to see what you’d bagged, eh? Umph! Why didn’t you run away?”
“I—I didn’t think I should.”
“Wanted to, didn’t you?”
“Indeed I did, sir!”
“Umph!” said the Major again. “Well, go on. What did you find?”
Sam described the trampled brush and the spots of blood on the leaves. Also he related his vain effort to follow the trail.
The Major was scowling fiercely. “That’s all, eh? Enough, too, I must say! No, it isn’t, either. Look here, young man! I suppose I must accept this story. You’ve just missed committing murder—yes, murder! Abominable recklessness, abominable! And criminal, highly criminal! You’ve rendered yourself liable to a heavy penalty. You’ll have to suffer——”
Mr. Parker spoke sharply and emphatically: “That is not at present under discussion. Our immediate interest is justice to a wrongly arrested man.”
Up went the Major’s warlike eyebrows.“Eh? What’s that? Justice, you say?” Then he whipped about to Sam. “Boy, do you understand the situation in which you’ve placed yourself? Want justice done, do you? That’ll mean trouble for you. Don’t quibble! Why didn’t you let well enough alone?”
“Why—why, sir——”
“Umph! Your father’s responsible, of course, for your telling the story.”
Again Mr. Parker intervened. “Not so fast, Major. Of his own volition Sam told me what had happened. The affair was a complete surprise to me. It was my suggestion that he repeat his statement to you rather than to the police—and there my responsibility begins. But I’ll add that, as it has begun, I shall regard it as continuing until this matter is settled.”
“Eh?” The Major looked more hostile than ever. “Am I to accept that as a declaration that you are backing the boy?”
“You may accept it as meaning that while I regret deeply his rashness and its results, now that he has made confession, I’m backing him, as you term it—and I shall continue to back him.”
There could be no mistaking Mr. Parker’s earnestness and determination. A thrill shot through Sam. He flashed a grateful glance at his father; then turned to face the Major.
The countenance of the grizzled warrior offered a rare study in conflicting emotions. It betrayed anger, but it also suggested chagrin. Moreover, there was a hint of admiration. There was an instant in which Sam believed that the Major was about to attempt personal chastisement on the spot; there was another in which he wondered if the old man were not struggling with a sense of helplessness. Then, of a sudden, the Major laughed explosively.
“Ha, ha! By the great horn spoon, Parker! I’d do the same, if I stood in your shoes! Blood’s thicker than water, every time. Ought to be, by Jove! when it’s good blood. And it’s good blood that’s made your boy own his mistake and step forward, like a man, to bear the consequences. I hate a sneak, but I take off my hat to a real man, no matter whether he’s young or old. There, there! Hear me out! This thing came near enough to being my funeral to justify me in attending to thearrangements. I’ll telephone to the police, and withdraw my charge against Groche; and I’ll keep my own counsel about why I withdraw it. That’s all right—accidents will happen, and when you’re satisfied a thing is an accident, there’s nothing to do but grin and bear it. Our young friend here can learn a lesson, and be more careful in future. No need for him to gossip about it, eh?”
Sam was speechless at this amazing turn for the better in his affairs; but his father came to the rescue.
“Major, you’re most kindly and generous. If there’s anything I can do, command me! If Groche threatens proceedings for illegal arrest you must permit me to guarantee you against loss in any way.”
The Major shook his head. “Very good of you, sir, but unnecessary—quite. Groche’s language was so abusive that a charge of noise and brawl would lie against him; and, no doubt, the officers will hold him overnight for safe-keeping, and turn him loose in the morning. And he’ll be content to drop the case, so far as the law goes; for he has no love for courts of any sort. But, young man”—heturned to Sam, and there was a wry grin curling his fierce moustache—“young man, you’ve robbed me of the consolation of being a public benefactor. If I could put that scoundrel behind the bars, at cost of a flesh wound or two, I’d count the pain as nothing compared with the service to the community.”
Sam found tongue. “I wish I could tell you, sir, how sorry I am for—for shooting you.”
Once more the Major laughed, and his hand fell, in friendly fashion, on Sam’s shoulder.
“Boy, I’ve been wounded four times,” he said, “but this is the first time the fellow who hit me has had the grace to apologize.”