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Title: The Beneficent Burglar

Author: Charles Neville Buck

Release date: December 3, 2021 [eBook #66872]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Ridgway Company

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BENEFICENT BURGLAR ***


[Illustration]

                        THE BENEFICENT BURGLAR

                       by Charles Neville Buck




                              CHAPTER I

                           A CALL FOR HELP


The agitated transit of Mr. Lewis Copewell through the anteroom of the
Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow created a certain stir. With all
the lawless magnificence of a comet that runs amuck through the
heavens, he burst upon the somewhat promiscuous assemblage already
seated there. The assemblage sat in dumb and patient expectancy. Quite
obviously it was a waiting-list, already weary with enforced
procrastination. Its many eyes were anxiously focussed on the door
that sequestered the great man in the aloofness of his sanctum.

A young woman gazed across her typewriter at the supplicants seeking
audience, with a calm hauteur which seemed to say, “Wait, varlets,
wait! The great do not hurry.”

They returned her gaze sullenly but in silence. None ventured to
penetrate beyond her desk to the portal forbiddingly placarded,
“Private.” None, that is, until Mr. Copewell arrived.

“Where’s Aleck?” demanded that gentleman, mopping his perspiring brow
with a silk handkerchief. “I want to see him quick!”

The young woman looked up blankly. She knew that Mr. Copewell and her
employer were, in their private capacities, on terms of intimacy, but
duty is duty, and law is impartial. Many persons wanted to see him
quick. Since the triumph of civic reform had converted the attorney
who paid her salary from a mere Aleck, who was even as other Alecks,
into Alexander the Great, she felt that his friends in private life
must adapt themselves to the altered condition of affairs.

Accordingly her reply came with frigid dignity. “Mr. Burrow instructed
that he was not to be, on any account, interrupted.”

“Huh?” Into Mr. Copewell’s surprised voice crept the raucous note that
the poet describes as “like the growl of the fierce watch-dog.”

“Huh?”

The young woman became glacial. “Mr. Burrow can’t see you.”

The glance which Mr. Copewell bent on this deterring female for a
moment threatened to thaw her cold reserve into hot confusion. The
waiting assemblage shuffled its feet, scenting war.

At the same moment the private door swung open and Mr. Burrow himself
stood on the threshold. At the sight of him several gentlemen who were
patriotically willing to serve their city in the police and fire
departments came respectfully to their feet. One contractor, who had
for sale a new paving-block, saluted in military fashion. Mr. Lewis
Copewell took a belligerent stride toward the door as though he meant
to win through by force of assault.

But Mr. Burrow made violence unnecessary. His smile revealed a
welcoming row of teeth, which in modern America means “dee-lighted.”

“Trot right in, old chap,” he supplemented.

The young woman looked crestfallen. She felt that her chief had failed
to hold up her hands in the stern requirements of discipline.

“Good morning, everybody!” rushed on Mr. Burrow, with a genial wave of
his hand and a smile of benediction for the waiting minions. This
second Alexander the Great knew that you can abuse a man’s patience if
you are a person of importance and smile blandly enough. Some of the
Cæsars could even massacre and remain popular—but they had to smile
very winningly. “Terribly busy! Must make all interviews brief this
morning,” went on the new dictator. “Must get over to the City Hall!”
Then in view of congealing acidity on the visages of three newspaper
men, he added, since no man is great enough to offend a reporter:
“I’ll have a big story for you boys to-morrow. You know I’m your
friend.” He swept Mr. Copewell into the private office and the door
slammed on his smile.

“I haf been sedding here for an hour alretty,” confided Alderman Grotz
to his next neighbor. The Alderman’s heavy lids blinked with a stolid,
bovine disapproval. “Der more I vait, der more I do not see him. Id
iss nod right!” Alderman Grotz was reported to carry the lager and
bratwurst vote about in the pocket of his ample, plaid waistcoat. Such
discrimination against him was venturesome politics.

“That guy that went in there ain’t like us,” explained Tommy Deveran,
whose florid oratory had been the machine’s prized asset until the
drift of political straws had guided him toward reform. “He wears silk
half-hose where you an’ me wears cotton socks. This here is a classy,
high-brow administration. Myself not bein’ no cotillion-leader, I’m
goin’ to beat it!” The Hon. Thomas rose and beat it in all the majesty
of affronted dignity.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Inside, Mr. Copewell threw his hat and stick on the desk and himself
into a chair. He commenced to speak and suddenly stopped. A fine flow
of high-pressure language was arrested by the sight of Chief-of-Police
Swager, sitting just across the room. The Chief rose and took up his
gold-trimmed cap. The new administration had added to the pulchritude
of its police officials by more jaunty uniforms. The Colonel felt
conscious of a distinguished and military bearing.

“I’m going to shift Captain McGarvey from the Tenderloin—if you don’t
object,” he announced.

Mr. Burrow did not object. He did not know who Captain McGarvey was,
but that fact he did not mention. “What for, Chief, what for?” he
inquired brightly. His air was that of a field-marshal for whom no
little thing is too small to merit consideration.

“Well,” thoughtfully pursued Colonel Swager, “I doubt if he’s on the
level, though I haven’t got him dead to rights yet—can’t prefer
charges. McGarvey’s a machine hold-over and he’s likely to be a little
blind in one eye where some of the thieves and yeggs that used to buy
protection are concerned. ‘Rat’ Connors was seen last night, down at
Corkhill’s place. You know ‘Rat’ Connors?”

Mr. Burrow had not that honor. The name was not on the membership
books of his clubs. “Let’s see—” he repeated carefully, “Rat Connors,
Rat Connors. I don’t, at the moment, seem to place him.”

“Second-story man, drum-snuffer, stone-pincher, porch-climber—general
all-round expert,” illuminatingly itemized the Chief, “variously
wanted for a large assortment of felonies. McGarvey ought to have
ditched him.”

“Ah, yes, quite so,” agreed Mr. Burrow. Mr. Copewell petulantly
shifted in his chair. These matters seemed to him extremely trivial in
view of his own more engrossing affairs.

“This Connors party,” enlarged the Chief, halting a moment by the door
and inspecting with pride the gold oak-leaves that went around his cap
like a garland of greatness, “he’s a solemn little runt with one front
tooth broke and one finger gone off the left hand. He’s got straight
black hair and a face like a rat. He looks like a half-witted kid, but
he’s there with the goods.”

Mr. Burrow nodded. “Go right after him, Chief,” he authorized, “I give
you _carte blanche_.”

Exit the Chief, and in his wake appears at the door the accusing face
of the young woman stenographer.

“Alderman Grotz insists——” she began.

“Impossible!” sighed Mr. Burrow dropping into an easy chair. “I’m
rushed to death just now.” He gazed off across the roofs and searched
his pockets for a cigarette. “Let him wait—let ’em all wait,” he
murmured restfully. “That’s good politics.” Then, turning to Copewell,
whose frantic pacing of the floor disturbed his composure, he
demanded:

“What’s your trouble?”

“Trouble!” exploded the visitor. “Trouble! Why it’s plural multiplied
by many, then squared and cubed and——”

“Well, just for a starter, give us one or two and build up from that,”
suggested Mr. Burrow placidly. “Another girl, I’ll bet.”

“Another girl!” snorted Mr. Copewell. “There isn’t any other girl! All
the rest are counterfeits! There never was but one girl, and I’m going
to lose her!” This with deep stress of tragedy. “You must help me.”

“Certainly, I’ll help you.” Mr. Burrow waved his cigarette with airy
assurance. “But what’s the matter? Can’t you lose her yourself?”

On the facetious and Honorable Alexander Mr. Copewell permitted the
withering blight of his scorn to beat for one awful moment in silence,
then he proceeded to enlighten. “I’ve got to steal this girl, or it’s
all off. You’ve got to help steal her!”

Mr. Burrow appeared shocked. “But my dear lad,” he demurred, “I’m
supervising a police force and a city administration in the interests
of Righteousness with a large R. I doubt if it would be just exactly
appropriate for me to go into the girl-stealing business on the side.”

“All politicians steal,” dogmatized Mr. Copewell, who had failed to be
properly impressed with the piety of the new administration. “It’s
time you were learning your new trade.”

“If it comes to that,” explained Mr. Burrow with a smile, “I have
subordinates who——”

“I tell you this is serious!” interrupted the other tempestuously.
“It’s desperate!”

“I’m very —— busy,” evasively suggested the new political power.

“If you’re too —— busy to help an old friend who needs you,” stormed
Mr. Copewell, “you can eternally go to ——”

“Hold on! Hold on!” placated the other before Mr. Copewell had enjoyed
the opportunity of designating the locality to which Mr. Burrow had
his permission to go. “I merely meant to point out that when you want
something done, it is well to go to a busy man. The other kind never
have time.”




                              CHAPTER II

                       THE PLOT OF AN ELOPEMENT


Mr. Copewell crossed and stood tensely before Mr. Burrow. When he
spoke it was with the hushed voice of a man who divulges an
unthinkable conspiracy:

“They are going to send her to Europe!”

“You don’t tell me?” observed Mr. Burrow pleasantly. “Well, what’s the
matter with Europe?”

Mr. Copewell looked as much astonished as though he had been suddenly
called on for proof that Purgatory is not pleasant in August. His
voice almost broke.

“They are sending her—so that she may forget me!”

“You can send a girl to Europe,” reassured his friend, “but you can’t
make her—sane.”

“They don’t have to make her sane—she is perfectly sane now!” retorted
Lewis with commendable heat.

“Then why,” inquired the lawyer logically, “should it be necessary to
send her to Europe?”

“It’s not necessary. It’s hideous!” Emotion strangled Mr. Copewell.
“They are packing her off—because she loves _me_!”

“Oh!” Mr. Burrow’s voice was apologetic. “I thought you said she was
sane.”

Mr. Copewell’s reply may be omitted. In fact the Editor insists upon
its being omitted. The following is an inadequate indication of its
tenor: “——!——!!——!!!——!!!!——!!!!!”

“Going to send her to Europe,” mused Mr. Burrow as though he had not
heard. Then he inquiringly raised his brows and added, “Who?”

“Who? What?” repeated Mr. Copewell, bewildered.

“Who are they going to send to Europe?”

“You are insufferable! That’s precisely what I’ve been telling you—the
One Girl—Mary, of course—Mary Asheton.”

The Honorable Alexander Hamilton spoke soothingly: “You just said the
only lady in the world. You didn’t say which only one. Statistics show
that in America alone there are perhaps twenty millions.”

“Mary!” breathed Mr. Copewell with fervor.

“‘Mary is a grand old name,’” recitatively acknowledged Mr. Burrow.
“Who objects to this match between you and this young person, Mary?”

“Her family—fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts—everybody like that.”

“Then I gather from your somewhat disjointed statement,” Mr. Burrow
summarized with concise, court-room clarity, “that the situation is
this: It is _practically_ a unanimous verdict that the marriage is
undesirable, ill-advised and impossible.”

“On the contrary, both Mary and I know——”

Mr. Burrow raised a deprecating hand and interrupted. “I said
practically unanimous. I admit, of course, that you and the young
woman hold dissenting opinions. There is always a minority report.”

“I’m not trying to marry the majority. I’m not a Turk.”

“How long have you known this particular Only One?”

“A year.”

“How long an interval elapsed between introduction and proposal?”

“A month.”

Mr. Burrow groaned.

“Abject surrender! No brave defense of your heart, no decently stern
resistance! Why, Stoessel held Port Arthur a hundred days and
more—though he was hungry!” After a momentary pause he inquired
sternly, “If you proposed eleven months ago, why in thunder are you
just now planning this abduction?”

Mr. Copewell blushed. “It took her some time to decide.”

“It didn’t take you long, poor creature!” Mr. Burrow studied a stick
of sealing-wax with a judicially wrinkled brow. “Mind you,” he
generously acceded, “I’m not censuring the young woman. It’s the
female vocation to lure men. Can’t blame ’em. Can’t blame spiders for
weaving filmy traps, but I am very, very sorry for flies and fools
that rush in where angels fear the web.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“I don’t need your sympathy. It’s merely crass ignorance,” snapped Mr.
Copewell. “If you only knew her!”

“I don’t,” snapped Mr. Burrow back at him, “but I know her sex. I know
that women differ from other birds of prey in only one particular and
the distinction is in favor of the other birds of prey.”

“That’s a lie, of course, but I haven’t time to argue it.”

“The difference is,” calmly pursued Mr. Burrow, “that the others wear
their own feathers. Women wear those of the others.”

The office door opened. The head of the young woman stenographer
appeared. Her voice was chilling. “Alderman Grotz says——”

“Say to Mr. Grotz,” replied the Hon. Alexander Hamilton in a voice
loud enough to carry, “that it is very good of him to wait. If he’ll
indulge me—just ten minutes longer——” His voice trailed off
ingratiatingly as the door closed, and he turned again on his visitor.
“No woman in the world could reduce me to so maudlin a condition in a
month! No, nor in a century. Now, having warned you in behalf of
friendship, I’m entirely ready to help you ruin yourself. What’s the
idea?”

This was the moment for which Mr. Copewell had waited. He began with
promptness.

“Mary has telephoned me. She lives in Perryville, two hundred and
fifty miles away. They won’t let me see her.”

“They won’t let him see her!” commiserated Mr. Burrow with melancholy.

“This trip to Europe was planned on the spur of the moment. It was
meant to surprise us. It did. She starts to-morrow, unless——”

“Unless you interfere to-day,” prompted Mr. Burrow. Mr. Copewell
became intense. “She slipped away from home when she learned it, and
we planned it all by ’phone. I can’t go to Perryville—they would watch
us both. I must stay here till the last minute and establish an alibi.
Mary leaves there this evening on the train that reaches here about
midnight, which makes no regular stops between. She starts
unaccompanied, but is to be met at the station here in Mercerville by
her aunt, Mrs. Stone, who is to chaperone the European trip. It is to
be strictly and personally conducted.”

“I know Mrs. Stone,” grinned Mr. Burrow. “I can recommend her as a
reliable duenna.”

“But I leave here on a train that starts west at the same time hers
starts east. Those trains pass each other about half-way. Both are
through expresses and neither makes any regular stop between
Mercerville and Perryville.”

“I am following you.” Once the plan involved action, the Hon.
Alexander Hamilton Burrow became interested.

“I have got, quite secretly of course, an order from the
train-despatcher’s office. In pursuance, my train stops at Jaffa
Junction, which it reaches at ten o’clock to-night. Her train also
stops at Jaffa Junction, forty minutes later. We both disembark. When
aunty goes to the Mercerville station there will be no Mary there!”

“Almost you had persuaded me,” said Mr. Burrow sadly, “but if any
additional shred of evidence were necessary to establish the lunacy of
this enterprise, it is the selection of Jaffa Junction as an objective
point for elopement. Were you ever in Jaffa Junction? A tank, a
post-office and a streak of mud!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“It may lack certain advantages,” defended Mr. Copewell, “but it is a
strategic position. You don’t seem to grasp the strenuousness of this
undertaking—or the peril. Mary is sent across the ocean on twenty-four
hours’ notice. She is put on the train at Perryville by her family.
The train does not, so it is presumed, stop till it reaches here. Here
a grim relentless aunt catches her on the fly and keeps her bouncing!
Good Heavens, man, the only chance I have is train-robbery in
between—and Jaffa Junction is gloriously in between!”

“What part do I play in this praiseworthy enterprise? Do you want my
police to lock aunty up, so that she can’t telephone to mama?”

“Worse than that. When we drop off that train at Jaffa Junction,
unless we have some way to beat it quick, our last predicament will be
worse than our first. We will need an automobile and a trustworthy
chauffeur. He can also be best man, and officiate at swearing to
things when we get the license. You and your six-cylinder car have
been elected.”

“Are you quite sure,” inquired Mr. Burrow in a chastened voice, “that
you don’t overestimate my merits?”

“I am willing to give you a try,” was the generous response. “It would
be nice and considerate if we could get it all finished up in time to
wire aunty that we are perfectly well married before she grows
hysterical about Mary. Mary is very fond of her family and would
appreciate a little attention like that.”

“And have you considered the time it takes to drive one hundred and
twenty miles over those infernal, hog-backed roads?” queried Mr.
Burrow with suspicious politeness.

“Really, I can’t say, but it’s only ten o’clock now. You can start as
soon as you’re ready, you know. You have about thirteen hours.”

“I salaam before your unparalleled nerve! Do you realize that I have
public duties to perform?”

Mr. Copewell shrugged his shoulders.

The stenographer’s brown head was thrust into the door.

“Alderman Grotz says——” she began.

“Send him right in,” exclaimed Mr. Burrow energetically. “Ah, Mr.
Grotz, I’m very sorry indeed to have kept you waiting! Miss Farrish,
tell the other gentlemen I have just received urgent news that will
call me out of town until to-morrow. ’Phone over to the City Hall and
make my apologies to the Mayor. Call up the garage and have my car
ready for a long trip in a half-hour; telephone to my rooms and have
my man pack a suit-case and rush it over to the garage. Let’s see—yes,
I believe that’s all, thank you.”




                             CHAPTER III

                     ON THE WAY TO JAFFA JUNCTION


The allegation that Love laughs at locksmiths has become more
generally accepted than verity warrants. In point of fact the
locksmith has never been altogether without the honors of war, and
during the last century or two he has made commendable progress in the
matter of bolts and tumblers and burglar-proof devices.

Love was supervising the packing of Mary Asheton’s steamer-trunks and
was particularly interested in the single suit-case surreptiously
intended for the Jaffa Junction trousseau. Love giggled as he looked
on, but the giggle was rather hysterical. “_He_ likes that black
gown,” said Mary, alone in her room with Love. “I wore it the evening
he proposed the last time—no, it was the third from the last time.”

The small god, Love, approved of Mary. Her red-brown hair, hanging in
braids, was very thick and long. About her temples were soft,
tendril-like curls of the variety that is most valuable to Love in his
business, because they are more enmeshing and binding than some of the
other links he is supposed to forge with the aid of his stout smith,
Hymen. He approved of her deep violet eyes, liquid with the electric
potency of personality. He approved of her willowy slenderness and the
grace of her carriage.

Love made an inventory of these assets, for like Napoleon Bonaparte he
was arraying his forces against all Europe. As he realized the
enormity of the proposition he sternly set his chubby features and
clasped his hands at his back in a truly Corsican attitude. There was
no room in the suit-case for his favorite gown! Mary Asheton sighed
deeply as she acknowledged it. She felt that, in the unfortunate
matter of paucity of raiment, the late Miss Flora McFlimsy of Madison
Square had nothing on her.

There was a hazardous point ahead which the god was gravely
considering. Mary would be entrusted to the personal care of the
conductor, and that functionary might feel warranted in asking
questions when his fair young charge desired to leave the train late
at night, unchaperoned and unescorted. Mary was thinking of that, too.
Now if “Captain” McDonald was in command of this run, all might yet be
well. “Captain” McDonald knew her very well and liked her very well
and was gifted with susceptibility and kindliness. But if “Captain”
Fallow was in charge, peril loomed large ahead.

“Captain” Fallow spelled Duty with heavy, black, capital letters. Had
he lived in the old Salem days, his hymn-singing basso would have
boomed loud and devout over all lesser sounds whensoever there was a
scold-ducking or a witch-burning. Mary had never run away with a man
before. She felt poignantly sensible of her inexperience. The fact
that she was running away with an absent man made it even harder.

Finally, she was on the train. Looking through dark windows she found
herself taking a dark view of life. She was frightened. If a woman is
not frightened on her first elopement, she is likely to be unfeminine.
Presently the conductor came and dropped to the arm of the next chair.
Providentially it was “Captain” McDonald.

“So you’re going to take a tour, Miss Mary?” was his original remark.

Mary smiled. She wanted to cry, but she had to win the “Captain,” and
she had found that her smile was usually an effective way to begin. If
that failed, she could cry later.

“You know, Miss Mary,” the conductor’s eyes grew reflective, “I’ve
thought now and again it’s strange you don’t get married.” He hastened
to add with gallantry, “I’m sure it ain’t for lack of opportunity.”

Mary gasped, then she leaned forward and laid her hand on the
conductor’s arm.

“Are you a really-truly friend of mine?” she demanded in a catchy,
half-sobbing voice.

“Any time you ain’t got a ticket you can ride with me,” the official
assured her. “But I guess you’ll marry one of them markeeses or dooks
and after that you’ll ride on them dinky European trains with tin
engines.”

There are times when good men swear, merely because polite language
fails of forcefulness. At such crises vigorous young women, being
denied that form of superlative, have recourse to slang.

“You’ve got another guess coming,” said Mary stoutly.

“I’m pleased to hear you say so,” commended “Captain” McDonald.
“There’s plenty of good young men in America.”

“I’m—I’m going to marry the best of them to-night,” confided Mary.
“I’m running away this very minute! He’s going to meet me at Jaffa
Junction!”

The trainman’s face clouded dubiously. The girl’s heart began beating
panic time. The dice of Fate were rolling.

“Your folks don’t know about this?” he inquired.

She shook her head. “They—they drove me to it!”

“Who’s your young man?” asked the “Captain.” She informed him.

“Captain” McDonald sat pondering inscrutably for a long while. The
girl’s breast heaved convulsively in suspense. The small god stood by
in Napoleonic posture, but whether it was the posture of Austerlitz or
Waterloo he did not himself know.

“I don’t see nothing the matter with Mr. Copewell, ma’am,” the man at
last adjudicated, “but I promised to see you safe to Mercerville. It’s
apt to look kind of careless-like to lose a young lady that’s put in
your charge.”

“But I’m of age!”

The conductor’s face brightened. It was a new situation and he was
willing to avail himself of technical defenses. “Then I guess you can
do what you like, but I wish you hadn’t told me in advance.”

“I was afraid,” naïvely explained Mary Asheton, “you wouldn’t let me
get off at Jaffa Junction.”

Again the train director thought deeply. Finally he announced himself.
“I’m ordered to stop my train at Jaffa Junction. I don’t know who gets
off there, see? But the brakeman will open up the vestibule door
and—may you never regret it, ma’am!”




                              CHAPTER IV

                         A TRAGEDY OF ERRORS


While these matters were transpiring, the sister express was rushing
west. On the west-bound train “Captain” Fallow chanced to be in
command, and “Captain” Fallow was peeved. Sundry irritating delays had
marred his run from Pittsburg. His firemen had been hefting coal into
the engine’s cavernous maw in a Titanic effort to mend the
time-losses. The locomotive had been roaring along with a streaming
wake of black smoke lying level from its stack. At Mercerville only
twenty minutes were left standing in the way of a perfect score, and
at Mercerville the conductor had received orders to stop at an ungodly
and forlorn tank-town in the midst of emptiness, known by the
opprobrious name of Jaffa Junction!

“Captain” Fallow was fully prepared to be irascible with the Jaffa
Junction party. Accordingly, when he discovered Mr. Lewis Copewell in
the last seat of the last coach he eyed him without enthusiasm.

“I believe, Captain,” commented Mr. Copewell pleasantly, “you have
instructions to drop me at Jaffa Junction?”

The “Captain’s” glance became flinty.

“So you are that Jaffa Junction party?” The manner of saying it
indicated that the designation carried black opprobrium. Mr. Copewell
nodded complacently. “Captain” Fallow’s stern visage became more
granite-like.

“My train is twenty minutes late now,” he accused, “and that jay town
is one of them places where a lot of lame old ladies tries to board
the train every time you stop there. It takes a Jaffa Junction
prominent citizen five minutes to climb into a coach!” Mr. Copewell
politely attempted to simulate an interest in the characteristics of
Jaffa Junction’s prominent citizens. “Indeed?” he said.

“Captain” Fallow went on curtly. “I ask you as a favor to hop off
quick when we get there. I’ll have the rear vestibule open and you can
fly out as soon as you feel the train slowing down. Your place will be
our only stop this side of Perryville, see? If you can jump down
without our coming to a dead stop, it will save time.”

Mr. Copewell smiled. “My dear Captain,” he reassured, “I hold various
championships for getting off trains. To-night I mean to break all my
past records. I’m in a hurry myself.”

“Captain” Fallow’s face softened. “Remember,” he emphasized, “first
stop is your destination.”

In view of the fact that he was on his way to meet the one lady of his
heart and to foil Fate and Family, Mr. Copewell might have been
presumed to be wide awake. In point of actuality, the reverse was
true.

Last night, anxiety and indignation had murdered sleep. To-day, action
and preparation had assaulted his vitality. Now, with success at his
elbow, a delightful languor stole upon him. Gradually his rosy dreams
became rosier, more somnolent! His head fell on his chest. Behold, the
bridegroom fell snoring!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Some time later the conductor passed through the train and, arriving
at the front vestibule of the front coach, made a discovery.

There, crouching very modestly in the shaded corner next to the rear
end of the baggage-car, was a somewhat undersized youth with straight,
black hair and an expression of innocence which somehow did not seem
to sit naturally on his rat-like countenance.

The conductor eyed him accusingly. “Where’s your ticket?” he inquired
without preamble.

The youth smiled with a disarming candor.

“Honest, pal,” he confided, “you kin search me! I was just goin’
through me clothes fer it when you come out. I was just sayin’ ter
meself, ‘Son,’ says I, ‘where in —— _is_ dat ducket?’”

“Ducket, eh!” repeated “Captain” Fallow. There was a pitiless,
inquisitorial note in his voice, which the young man construed as
ominous.

The young man bit his lip in annoyance. It was borne in upon him that
he had made a most unfortunate choice of words. In police glossaries
the term “ducket” is defined as thief and hobo vernacular for a
railroad-ticket.

“You come up front with me,” suggested the conductor, pushing the
youth ahead of him. In the baggage-coach ahead Mr. “Rat” Connors, for
it was none other than he, was treated to a very creditable amateur
production of the Third Degree. But Mr. Connors had made his one
mistake and they wrung from him no further self-incrimination. He was
unaccustomed to the ways of travel, he said, because he had to stay at
home and work very hard to support a widowed mother and several small
brothers and sisters. He had lost his ticket. He had no more money. He
was sorry, extremely sorry—but what could he do?

He could get off, the conductor assured him, and to emphasize the
suggestion he reached for the cord and signalled to the engineer. Mr.
Connors stood supinely near the open door of the baggage-coach while
the baggage-man and a brakeman ranged themselves at his back to assist
him in alighting.

The train slowed down with a jarring wrench which startled Mr.
Copewell out of a halcyon dream into a disturbed sense of being almost
too late. Wildly seizing his hat and grip, he made a lunge through the
open vestibule door. It was a highly creditable lunge. It carried him
from a flat-footed nap out into the darkness in something like two
seconds and a quarter.

He was not yet really awake. He acted subconsciously and in obedience
to a sense of imperative haste. When he landed, blinking, on the side
of the track and saw about him, instead of village lights, only inky
silhouettes of the forest primeval, he felt that he had made a
mistake. Already the tail-lights were receding. Mr. Copewell rubbed
his eyes and inquired of his subjective self whether he were still
dreaming. His subjective self said “No.” Thereupon Mr. Copewell
sprinted after the tail-lights. Mr. Copewell was going some, but the
shriek of the whistle drowned his shouting, and the rear-end lanterns
were whisked like runaway comets from before his outstretched hands.
He stumbled on a projecting tie—and the train was gone!

                  *       *       *       *       *

The wedding-guest who beat his breast because his journey to the
ceremony was interrupted had no valid cause of complaint as compared
with this would-be bridgeroom who stood bereft on the cinders.

He dropped limply to the ground and covered his face with his hands.
About him stretched the unbroken gloom of singular blackness. Nowhere
was the glimmer of a light. Nowhere, it seemed, was a human
habitation. Somewhere a girl was rushing on an express train toward a
broken tryst! No one would meet her save a woman-hating best man! What
could he do? For a time he did nothing but sit stunned in the
darkness, a hundred yards from his abandoned baggage.

It was in just such desperate exigencies as this that chagrined
warriors of antiquity were wont to fall upon their swords. Unhappily
he had no sword upon which to fall. In the midst of crisis and defeat
he sat and strove to evolve out of chaos some bright plan by which he,
stranded in juxtaposition to the murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
might, in the space of a few minutes, transport himself across an
unknown distance and be married at Jaffa Junction.

It has been commented that at the average wedding the bridgeroom has a
minor and insignificant rôle. Mr. Copewell had discovered a sure
method, in the parlance of theatrical folk, of fattening the part. The
male contracting party has only to stay away.

Suddenly he was aroused out of his apathy by the realization that he
was not the only living being in that section of rural America. The
discovery brought both surprise and comfort. There had drifted to his
ears a plaintive singing voice, evidently not far away. The voice was
a tenor and it floated through the thick night with the insistent
melancholy of a lone minstrel who sings in adversity. Mr. Copewell
could quite plainly distinguish the words of the ballad. They were
these:

    “Jay Gould’s daughter afore she died,
    Done signed a paper, so de bums can’t ride.”

There was a silence, then the voice swelled and grew more melancholy,
as though the singer were invoking verse and notes for the voicing of
his own piteous plight:

    “Or if they do ride, they must ride the rods,
    And trust their souls in the hands of Gawd!”

The voice dwelt lingeringly on the final chord, then broke off in a
deep-drawn sigh.

Suddenly it flashed on Mr. Copewell that there was need of quick
action. For a while the minutes could hardly be too full of action.




                              CHAPTER V

                     INTRODUCING MR. RAT CONNORS


The gentleman whose voice Mr. Copewell heard singing beside him in the
wilderness was not, himself, without his troubles. Trouble resembles
the star in the drama, who comes in various make-ups and reading
various lines, but always demanding the center of the stage and
claiming the white glare of the spotlight.

Mr. Copewell, longing for the soft voice of the lady of his heart,
believed in his soul that no misfortune could equal that of a marriage
ruthlessly interrupted by the chance hostility of Fate. Mr. Rat
Connors was equally certain that Destiny does her worst when she
thwarts a dash for freedom and fortune.

Mr. Rat Connors had more than a bowing acquaintance with Vicissitude,
the hope-scuttling Lord of Life. Vicissitude, in its latest guise, had
come wearing the mantle of Reform to the city of Mercerville, where
rich treasures had heretofore awaited enterprise and where the new
régime had blasted prospects. Mr. Connors wished most wishfully that
the gentlemen responsible for this spoil-sport amendment of régime
were, for two minutes, in his power and that he held in his right hand
a serviceable fragment of lead pipe.

Only last night a warning had been given him at Corkhill’s Exchange
that it would be most expedient for him to leave town. Corkhill’s
Exchange was, in the argot of such as Mr. Connors, “de dump w’ere de
woid is passed ter cut loose or lie low.” The word just now was not
merely to lie low but to fly far.

“Take it from me, Rat,” the bartender had confided, “an’ _beat_ it! De
new Chief ain’t goin’ ter run t’ings on de old plan. De bulls ain’t
goin’ ter take de divvy an’ keep d’eir faces shut no more. McGarvey’s
due ter get de ax. If you hangs round here, you’ll be ditched an’
settled an’ de key t’rowed away, see? McGarvey tipped dat off hisself,
an’ it’s straight. He said de best he could do fer youse guys was ter
warn youse ter make quick getaways, see?”

This advice, being interpreted, meant that an end had come to the old
régime under which Corkhill’s Exchange had operated as a neutral zone
where police and criminals maintained an _entente cordiale_ on a
monetary basis. That was the work of the Hon. Alexander Hamilton
Burrow and his confréres. It was very inconvenient for Mr. Rat
Connors.

So Mr. Connors, being just then short of funds, had planned a double
event in the way of a flight and a _coup_. There was a certain country
house near Perryville where the treasure was alluring, and if Mr.
Connors could reach it he thought he saw a way to mend his fortunes.
It was the journey thither which “Captain” Fallow had frustrated.

But to return to immediate conditions—Mr. Copewell wished to learn the
time. He struck a match to consult his watch. Then he groaned again.
His watch had stopped! Without knowledge of the hour he was a
storm-tossed mariner deprived of a compass. In a rudimentary fashion
the paralyzed brain of Mr. Copewell had begun to take up again the
task of thought.

Thought had carried him this far. Mary Asheton would necessarily take
one of the horns of her dilemma. She would either leave the train at
Jaffa Junction, as per program, to find herself at the mercy of a rude
and woman-hating man, or she would receive a quick and unsoftened
warning from the aforesaid brutal person, in which event she would
continue on her way, heartbroken, to aunty and Europe. If she were
indeed marooned at Jaffa Junction, the essential thing was to
establish communication with that point. Hence, the first step was to
find a telephone. If, on the other hand, Burrow had warned her, the
one indispensable step was to flag the east-bound train as it passed
his own isolated spot.

Without knowledge of time or place he could not risk leaving the
track, because he could have no idea when the train might pass.
Perhaps this minstrel, whose voice had come to him through the curtain
of darkness, might have a watch. Perhaps he might become an ally.
Without a lantern Mr. Copewell could not flag the train unless he
built a fire. Obviously, therefore, he must kindle a blaze and open
negotiations with the unknown singer. Under the sudden stimulus of
revivified hope Mr. Copewell became facetious. “Hello, you, Caruso!”
he shouted.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Even before Mr. Copewell hailed him Mr. Connors had noted that the man
who appeared in the night so near him was dressed too well to be a
fellow vagabond. His photographic eyes had recorded this fact when the
sputtering match had caught a red reflection on the watch-case with
the glint and color of gold. It might have been wiser, reflected Mr.
Connors, to have remained silent and slipped up on this gentleman in
the official capacity of a thief in the night. His tell-tale song had,
however, made that impossible, so he decided upon permitting events to
shape them selves. If it came to a crisis, Rat had, in his inside
pocket, his “cannister” which was of .38 caliber and dependable.

“Hello yourself, bo!” responded Mr. Connors with affability. “Did you
git t’rowed off de dangler, too?”

“I beg your pardon?” inquired Mr. Copewell. It began to dawn on him
that this person might after all be an undesirable companion.

“Did yer light on yer neck offen de hurry-up train?” elucidated the
other, coming amicably forward and striking a match. The two men
regarded each other in the temporary illumination.

“No,” said Mr. Copewell, “I got off by mistake.”

“Same here,” declared Mr. Connors. “De conductor guy made de mistake.
De brakeman helped him.”

For a moment Mr. Copewell stood hesitant. Mr. Connors was not just the
man he would have selected to assist in retrieving his disastrously
threatened life, but there was small choice of collaborators.

“Have you a watch?” he demanded. “Mine has stopped.”

“Sorry,” replied Mr. Connors with a grin. “I loaned me ticker ter a
pal.”

Mr. Copewell turned on his heel and began foraging for firewood. Mr.
Connors looked on without comment. When the blaze was at last glowing
prosperously, its radius of light revealed to him the suit-case which
lay near the track a short distance away.

“Now I don’t know you and you don’t know me,” tersely began Mr.
Copewell. “It is vitally important to me to telephone to Jaffa
Junction. When the Eastern express comes by, it is also important to
flag it. Do you know this country? Do you know where there’s a
farmhouse?”

Mr. Connors shook his head.

“Neither do I,” went on Mr. Copewell. “Now, whatever you do for me,
you get paid for. I can’t be in two places at once and I’m going to
hunt for a ’phone. I’ll be back shortly, but if I miss that train I
want you to flag it and ask whether Miss Asheton is on board. If she
is, you must give the conductor a note for her.”

Mr. Connors was eying the suit-case. He thought the absence of the
other man would afford him a better chance to investigate its possible
value. “Sure,” was his ready response. “I’d do most anyt’ing fer a
pal.”

Mr. Copewell tore a page from his notebook and hastily scribbled this
message:

    Dearest: Am caught in the Mill of the Inexorable. I can’t
    explain now. I’ll follow you to Europe and it will only
    mean a delay. I love you. Reserve judgment and you will
    understand.

He then plunged into the smothering tangle of the hills. Had he been
told that there existed in his State such void and unpeopled wastes,
he would, as a patriotic citizen, have resented the charge. He climbed
a tree, remembering that all the correspondence courses in woodcraft
advise survey from an eminence. The net results were a bark-scraped
face, bruised shins and spoiled wedding-clothes. But at last, with a
leap of joy, he descried a dim light off to the left. Where there are
lights there is humanity, and where there is humanity there may be
information—possibly even a telephone.

                  *       *       *       *       *

He had meant to remain close enough to the track to reach it if he
heard the train whistle, but this light lured him like a marsh-fire,
through briars and over deceptive distances. At last it grew steady
and Mr. Copewell went forward at an encouraged trot. A rise of ground
confronted him. He rushed across it as though he were charging Fate’s
artillery. He did not know that the ridge was in reality the
brush-cloaked edge of a steep river-bank, any more than he knew that
the light he sought was on the opposite side of the stream. He became
apprised of both facts, however, a half-second later, when the ground
dropped out from under him and he found himself floundering in cold,
deep water.

Handicapped by the weight of his clothes, he made the bank after two
or three highly problematical minutes, arriving in the unbeautiful
condition of a drenched rat. The ascent of the sticky acclivity
contributed a coating of mud. As he turned miserably back he heard the
approaching rumble of an express locomotive. Mr. Copewell broke wildly
through the thicket toward his fire, half a mile away.

Neither his exterior nor his rate of speed accorded with that staid
dignity which should characterize a man going to meet his fair young
bride. Mr. Copewell, however, had lost his sense of proportion. He did
not care. What he wanted was to get there.

The sound of the oncoming train grew louder. Mr. Copewell attained a
higher rate of speed. The sweat poured into his bulging eyes. The
rumble grew, gathering into a crescendo, then dropped down the scale
of sound with diminuendo. He knew the train had passed. It had not
stopped. It had not hesitated. The engineer was getting a good
forty-five miles an hour out of his boilers!

As a capstone to his arch of misfortune an outcropping root caught Mr.
Copewell’s toe and threw him headlong into a deep cut. It began to
look as though, in the question of his marriage, the nays had it. A
very definite pain in the chest and shoulder told him that something
had broken. He staggered to his feet and went more slowly. A torment
in one ankle retarded him—also, there was no further need of hurrying.
At the fire he discerned the peacefully recumbent figure of Mr.
Connors, his head pillowed on the suit-case.

“Why in —— didn’t you stop that train?” bawled Mr. Copewell in futile
frenzy.

“It’s like dis, pal,” confided Mr. Rat Connors placidly. “I just gets
t’rowed offen one dangler, see? I ain’t goin’ ter take chances
stoppin’ no fliers in places like dis. It ain’t healt’y. Meself, I
knows w’en I gets plenty.”

“Didn’t you agree to do it?” screamed Mr. Copewell, choking and
sputtering like a cataleptic maniac.

“Sure,” smiled Mr. Connors, “but I loses me noive, see?” He did not
add that he had accomplished his real object when he had rifled the
suit-case and that his promise had been purely strategic.

Mr. Copewell sank down by the fire. Perhaps it was the shock of the
wetting and a broken clavicle. Perhaps it was despair and pain
combined. The blood in his temples seemed to be cascading into his
eyeballs and flooding his sight with red. Slowly Mr. Copewell crumpled
forward in a senseless heap on the stone-ballasted right of way.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Connors, rolling a cigarette, was startled by the collapse of his
_vis-à-vis_. He rose and went over to investigate. He studied the face
and its pallor impressed him. Mr. Rat Connors stood indicted for
several dozen felonies. More cities claimed him living than ever
claimed Homer dead. The fact that he was at large was sufficient
evidence of his criminal efficiency. Yet at times he felt that a
career of great promise was seriously handicapped by a tendency toward
softheartedness.

Now his hands played over the prostrate body as deftly as though the
fingers were experimenting with the combination of a safe. The
diagnosis told him that a rib and a collar bone were broken. There
might be also other breakages, but these two were patent on a cursory
inventory.

“Now if dat ain’t ——,” snarled Mr. Connors, “I’ll eat a goat!”

He sat down and brooded bitterly. He had been booted off a train and
had dropped into the company of a stranger. By virtue of helplessness,
this stranger became an enforced trust upon the unwilling hands of Mr.
Connors until he could be turned over to some one else. Mutual
misfortune created a certain tie of brotherhood. Mr. Connors scorned
the quitter who abandoned even a chance pal in a state of wounded
disability. Every profession has its ethics. There was, however, no
ethical objection to robbing the invalid’s pockets. Mr. Connors was a
socialist. This man had money. Mr. Connors had none. It was equitable
that the extremes of wealth and poverty be leveled. Profound thinkers
have enunciated this principle.

Mr. Connors bent over and proceeded to carry into effect the
socialistic propaganda by the simple device of searching every pocket.
Mr. Copewell had drawn his check that day with a view to meeting the
requirements of honeymooning—and honeymooning is an expensive pastime.
The eyes of Mr. Rat Connors bulged and glittered in the firelight as
he counted bills and made transfers. Then Mr. Connors dragged the
prostrate figure farther back into the shadow and arranged it as
comfortably as possible on the grass. After that he piled fresh sticks
on the blaze.

“Now I’ve got ter find some hoosier ter look after dis guinea,”
soliloquized the unwilling custodian. “Gee, but it’s —— to be
soft-hearted!” He paused and felt through his coat the thick wad of
bills in his pocket. “An’ say, Rat, me son,” he added with deep
sorrow, “wid a bun like dat yer could beat it ter de North Pole, too!”

Mr. Connors struck off at random into the night, singing mournfully as
he went:

    “Jay Gould’s daughter, afore she died,
    Done signed a paper so de bums can’t ride.”




                              CHAPTER VI

                     MR. BURROW SUGGESTS A REMEDY


The Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow had been something like two
hours in Jaffa Junction. Two hours in Jaffa Junction is more than
sufficient for any man. For the Hon. Alexander the night held nothing
save the melancholy prospect of seeing a friend abandon himself to the
emotional insanity of marriage. For marriage Mr. Burrow had no
tolerance. For women he had a supreme contempt. When the train which
should have borne his friend whisked through and brought no Copewell,
the best man became testy.

Mr. Burrow reflected that this development left him to take charge of
an unclaimed lady, whom he did not want. He found the idea
disconcerting. Decidedly he must devise some escape. Then an
inspirational idea dawned. He would rush up to her Pullman when it
arrived. He would shout warningly, “On your way! Your lunatic didn’t
come!” That ought to solve the situation very nicely. First, though,
he would call up Mercerville and find out what had happened.

Calling up Mercerville from Jaffa Junction proved an undertaking of
such magnitude that Mr. Burrow’s grouch ripened slowly into
misanthropy before it was accomplished. The telephone exchange,
instead of being central in location, seemed to have been placed on
the principle of an eruptive hospital in far-away isolation. When at
last he got Copewell’s lodgings it was to learn that Copewell had left
on the west-bound express.

As the Honorable Mr. Burrow came down the stairs of the telephone
exchange the shriek of a train whistle smote discordantly on his ears.
The motor proved balky and required a singular amount of cranking. The
cranking required a superlative amount of profanity. Altogether the
series of petty annoyances spelled delay. The station was quite a
distance away and Mr. Burrow proceeded to desecrate the speed-limit,
rehearsing as he went, “On your way, young woman! He didn’t come!”

And Miss Asheton, alighting on the station platform, was startled to
find it empty. She had expected it to be filled with the welcoming
presence of Mr. Copewell.

Her alarm was at once dissipated, however, by the glare of acetylene
headlights whirling around the curve of the road some distance away.

The mad speed of the approaching car indicated that it was her own
private reception-committee. She set down her suit-case and waited.

“Captain” McDonald also saw the automobile headlights. He knew that
automobiles were not indigenous to Jaffa Junction. This one could mean
only that Miss Asheton was being properly and enthusiastically met.

A moment later the best man alighted at the station and looked
regretfully after the train. He had been too late. Mr. Burrow had not
considered the possible effect on Miss Asheton of his contemplated
bluntness. It had not mattered. Mr. Burrow had the military mind. The
military mind can not pause to consider the feelings of the enemy.
Decimation is painful to an army but desirable to the attacking
general. The military mind sees and pursues one object. Mr. Burrow’s
one object was to rid himself of a superfluous young female. It was
the same thing that makes some warriors slay prisoners rather than be
burdened with them on the march.

For an appreciable space of time the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow
eyed Miss Asheton with icy politeness. She looked back at him
inquiringly. There was nothing ardent in the tableau.

“I take it you are the bride-elect?” hazarded the Hon. Alexander.

“Yes.” The man had no idea the monosyllable could be so short. Her
voice was so musical that it was altogether too short.

“I’m A. H. Burrow. I’m the best man.”

“Yes, but where is Lewis?” Miss Asheton put the question with a
pardonable eagerness. Conversely, her voice conveyed an entire absence
of interest in the best man.

“All the weddings I have ever attended,” said Mr. Burrow
sententiously, “were marred by some slight hitch or omission. At this
one the missing detail seems to be the bridegroom.” Having spoken, he
awaited her hysterics.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It happened that Miss Asheton was not the hysterical sort. She merely
looked at Mr. Burrow, and Mr. Burrow suddenly felt himself grow
microscopic. Also, he was puzzled. This young woman had planned to
elope with Mr. Lewis Copewell. That indicated that she must consider
Mr. Lewis Copewell a desirable possession. He had just announced, with
studied bluntness, that she could not have Mr. Copewell. Why did she
not take the cue and weep? He regarded it as axiomatic that women and
children cry for what they want.

Yet here before him, in the full glare of the acetylene lamps, she
stood eying him like an offended young goddess, precisely as though he
were responsible and she meant to punish him. Mr. Burrow had not
arranged his battle-front to receive that type of enemy. It dawned
upon him that this was a very brave young woman and, although he
admitted it reluctantly, a very beautiful young woman.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” she suggested icily, “you might
explain more fully. On the whole, I think I have the right to
understand.”

Mr. Burrow shrugged his shoulders.

“My dear Miss Asheton,” he began with weak defiance, yet feeling that
she had put him on the defensive, “might I remind you that this is not
my funer—that is to say, my wedding? All I can learn is that he left
Mercerville, and did _not_ arrive here. The question which now
suggests itself to me, is this: What are the functions of a best man
when there is no marriage?”

The young woman turned away and marched scornfully toward the far end
of the platform. It was revealed to Mr. Burrow that if all women could
walk like that, and take punishment like that, there would be no room
in the world for woman-haters. His objections to marriage could not
apply to a union with a deity!

He turned and went over very humbly. “Miss Asheton——” he began.

The girl wheeled with her chin in the air and an angry gleam flashed
through the mortified tearfulness of her eyes.

“Will you kindly go away?” she said in a peremptory voice. “I want to
think.”

Mr. Burrow skulked back, crestfallen. He sat dismally on the step of
his automobile and fanned himself with his cap. He was very busy
hating himself.

Afterward she came over, walking very straight, and halted rigidly
before him.

“Will you be good enough to take me to a telephone?” she asked.

Mr. Burrow rose with a new alacrity and put out his hand to assist
her. She drew carefully away from his touch and opened the tonneau
door for herself. Into Mr. Burrow’s self-hatred crept a note of
self-pity.

“Won’t you—won’t you sit in front?” he timidly suggested. “It will be
easier to talk.”

“It’s not necessary to talk,” the young lady informed him.

The run to the telephone exchange was made in heavy and depressing
silence.

“Can’t get Mercerville any more before to-morrow,” enlightened the
operator briefly. “Line’s in trouble—somethin’s just busted.”

“Any trains out to-night?” demanded Mr. Burrow.

“All out. Long way out. Nothin’ doin’ until ten-thirty to-morrow
mornin’.” Mr. Burrow thought it inconceivably strange that any one
could be facetious at such a time.

“Where’s the telegraph operator?” he inquired coldly.

“Gone to the country. Office closed till to-morrow.”

“I suppose there is some sort of hotel,” suggested the even voice of
the girl at his elbow. “If you will take me there I sha’n’t trouble
you any farther.”

“But—but——” began Mr. Burrow, then he began again. “But—but——”

The girl threw up her head. She even managed to laugh a little. “Yes?”
she questioned sweetly. “You’ve said that four times.”

“But—but——” stammered Mr. Burrow again. The Hon. Alexander was usually
regarded as a loquacious man.

“I suppose some day—when I get the perspective on it, it will all be
rather humorous,” mused Miss Asheton. “It would make a good farce,
wouldn’t it? Only now it doesn’t seem exactly funny.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Burrow gave up the problem of articulation. He raised the hood of
the car and adjusted something. When he came back he appeared to have
regained the power of speech.

“Wait a minute,” he said. His hands were greasy, so he procured a
bunch of waste from the tool-box and carefully wiped each digit.
Having accomplished this task to his satisfaction, he boldly returned
and thrust his right out to Miss Asheton.

“I know,” he said, “that I don’t deserve quarter, but you are the
gamest sport I ever saw and I want to be able to tell my grandchildren
that I once shook hands with you. After which,” he added, “I am going
down on my marrow-bones and make my most contrite obeisances.”

Miss Asheton did not this time repudiate the amenities. She smiled
forgiveness.

“Why were you so atrociously horrid?” she asked, as though the
psychology of his behavior mildly piqued her interest.

“You see, I was a woman-hater,” he explained.

“Oh, are you? How interesting!”

“I am not!” hotly denied Mr. Burrow.

“But you just said——”

“I just said I _was_. There’s a big difference between saying you were
something and saying you are something. Life is a matter of tenses.”

“Oh!”

“Do you know what a woman-hater is?” inquired Mr. Burrow, as the car
nosed its way deliberately along Jaffa Junction’s principal esplanade.

“Certainly,” replied Miss Asheton. “It’s a man who thinks he’s a
little wiser than other men, and who is, in fact——” she hesitated
politely, “—who may be mistaken.”

“It’s a man,” savagely supplemented Mr. Burrow, “who’s such a
blank-dashed fool that he glories in his folly! Until ten minutes ago
I was one of them.”

Miss Asheton said nothing. It occurred to the Honorable Alexander that
she might be thinking of Lewis Copewell. The thought filled him with
hot indignation. Who was Lewis Copewell that a goddess, playing truant
from Olympus, should trouble her decorative head about him? Thinking
of the decorative head, Mr. Burrow turned in his seat to contemplate
it. The car veered into the ditch but without casualty. Houses sit
along Jaffa Junction’s thoroughfares as Chinese beads are strung—at
extended intervals. Illumination is yet in the future. The ways are
dark.

Besides, ran Mr. Burrow’s train of thought, if Lewis Copewell wanted
her, why wasn’t he on hand to claim her? If he, the Honorable
Alexander Hamilton Burrow, was to be dragged scores of miles to act as
a human dead-letter office for unclaimed girls, surely he was
justified in taking possession in his own distinguished person. The
circumstances emancipated him from any Quixotic ideas of loyalty to
Lewis Copewell. He turned again to the passenger in the tonneau.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll ditch your car if you keep turning around?”
quietly inquired Miss Asheton.

“It’s quite probable,” acknowledged Mr. Burrow. “Perhaps it would be
safer for you to sit in front. I’m effervescing with
repartee—scintillating with epigram. You need to be amused. It will
take your thoughts off of your temporary annoyances and prevent
brooding. Brooding is bad.”

“Possibly even that wouldn’t distract my mind,” she ventured.

“Then run the car,” suggested the Honorable Alexander, surrendering
his place. “The more you have to do just now, the better for you. The
less I have to do, the better I can talk.”

Miss Asheton took the wheel.

The arrangement gave Mr. Burrow the opportunity to study her profile
as she watched the road. It occurred to Mr. Burrow that he had
hitherto lost much out of life by neglecting to study profiles. Then
came the realization that after all this was the only profile in the
world.

“Now,” began that gentleman cheerfully, “this little hitch in your
plans is not really so fatal as it seems.”

“It’s funny that he didn’t get off the train,” said the girl.

“Yes, it’s so funny that there’s no use trying to explain it,” Mr.
Burrow assured her.

“And I don’t know what to do,” she continued.

“I have a perfectly rational and logical plan,” confided her escort.
“One, in fact, which I regard as an improvement on the original.”

“What is it?” This somewhat doubtfully. Miss Asheton saw no fault with
the previous arrangement.

“Now you came here to get married, didn’t you?”

“That,” she admitted, “was the idea, but——”

“Never give up a purpose,” interrupted Mr. Burrow with a note of
steadfast resolve. “You came to get married. Do it!”

“But,” her voice trembled just a little, “but I can’t. How can I?”

“Nothing simpler. Just do as I say.”

She turned her face from the wheel and gazed at him in wonderment.
“How? I was on hand. _I’m_ ready—but where’s Lewis?”

“You came here to get married,” insistently repeated Mr. Burrow. “You
passed up a trip to Europe and left aunty waiting in Mercerville. I
came here to get you married, and passed up a Ninth Ward meeting in
Mercerville. That wedding _must_ take place!”

Her eyes gazed out at the road, under brows wrinkled with
bewilderment.

Mr. Burrow looked at her a moment in silence, then spoke with great
impressiveness.

“A woman owes it to herself to marry the best man obtainable. I am, in
my official capacity, the best man. Marry me. I am very much at your
service, and it may not be irrelevant to add that I love you.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The immediate effect of this announcement was that the girl at the
wheel threw on the brakes and stopped the car with a jolt which almost
sent her suitor carroming through the windshield. Next she turned and
sat staring at Mr. Burrow, with an expression of absolute and
paralyzed incredulity.

Mr. Burrow felt that he had failed to make himself quite clear. “I
concede that it’s a trifle abrupt,” he acknowledged, “but I am
essentially a man of action. Some dilatory fools might take a month to
discover that without you life is a superfluous by-product.” The
Honorable Alexander thought contemptuously of Mr. Copewell. “It is
enough for me to see you. Besides, Europe yawns for you, and it’s bad
luck to postpone a marriage. Possibly when you know me you’ll like me.
If you don’t, I’ll remodel myself according to your specifications.”
Phraseology notwithstanding, there was sincerity in Mr. Burrow’s
voice.

“It’s very good of you,” said the girl at last, speaking a trifle
vaguely. “Your courteous proposal seems to cover every possible
point—except one. The one is Lewis Copewell. Really, you know, I
didn’t just come here to get married at random!” She started the
machine forward again.

“I assure you there’s nothing random about me!” argued the Honorable
Alexander with dignity.

She shook her head. “In matrimonial matters,” she told him, “one can’t
eliminate the element of personal preference. I still prefer Lewis.”

Mr. Burrows sighed. Even deities, it seemed, had undiscriminating
tastes. “This is the hotel,” he said wearily.

The girl looked at the uninviting facade of the building indicated. It
suggested the kennel of a dog in very modest circumstances.

“This—a hotel!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said the man. “It isn’t a very good hotel. The County Judge
lives on the next square. He can perform the marriage ceremony, you
know, and his house is much nicer. Shall we go on?”

“We will get out here,” said Miss Asheton firmly.

Though it was midnight, it chanced that the hotel office was not
completely deserted. Through the open door struggled the yellow
glimmer of a coal-oil lamp, and its reek hung offensively on the
sultriness. Two drummers, with loosened neck-bands and hanging
suspenders, were beguiling the heavy hours with a deck of greasy
cards. Dozing in dishabille, sat mine host, his chair propped on two
legs against the wall and his snore proclaiming him in the shadow. The
arrival of a beautiful woman and a man in motor-togs brought the
drummers to their feet with an exclamation which aroused the
innkeeper.

That worthy rubbed his eyes and began in a wheezing voice: “I’m afraid
it’s goin’ ter be kinder onhandy to take keer of you folks. The house
is mighty nigh full up.”

Before Mr. Burrow could reply, one of the drummers rose chivalrously
to the occasion.

“The gent and his wife can take my room, if Mr. Sellers, here, don’t
mind my doubling up with him.” The drummer had been marooned an entire
day in Jaffa Junction. For a glimpse of that face at the breakfast
table he would gladly have slept on the roof. Mr. Burrow cleared his
throat, but before he could find words, Mr. Sellers graciously
declared that he would be much pleased to oblige.

Then, while Miss Asheton stood painfully impersonating the aurora
borealis, the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow astounded her with
these composed words: “I am sure you gentlemen are both very kind, but
if you will pardon me a moment I will consult with—er—with my wife.”

Since the space of the hotel office was limited in scope to something
like ten by twenty feet, partly preëmpted by a cigar-counter, the two
drummers exchanged glances and rose, with innate delicacy,
disappearing into the street. Mine host, prompted by the same latent
courtesy, disappeared up the stairs.

Then Miss Asheton turned a whitely angry face on the Honorable
Alexander. She could hardly have confronted him more belligerently had
she really been his spouse.

“How dared you!”

“My dear young lady,” expostulated Mr. Burrow humbly, “you don’t know
Jaffa Junction. You arrive unchaperoned. If I had corrected our
Calvinistic host, he would have turned us both out like pariahs.”

“Will you please drive me to Mercerville?”

“Certainly. Direct or—via the County Judge’s?”

“Direct—and fast!” said Miss Asheton with decision.

“Please consider,” urged the Honorable Alexander. “It is now past
midnight. Mercerville is ten hours away either by motor or train. It
will be a trifle difficult to explain to aunty.”

“It will be a trifle difficult in any event,” sighed Miss Asheton.

“On the contrary. I should not feel called upon to make any
explanation whatsoever as to the movements of myself and my wife.” Mr.
Burrow spoke with some hauteur.

The young woman ignored the suggestion. “We will go on,” she said.

“The roads are very bad, and one tire is a little weak.”

“We will go on.”

“You are spoiling the most improved elopement that was ever devised,”
sighed the Honorable Alexander mournfully. “It breaks my heart to
witness such iconoclasm.”

“We will go on,” murmured Miss Asheton mechanically.

One hour and a half later, as the car turned a sharp curve, there came
a loud report, a sudden jolt and a long-suffering sigh from Mr.
Burrow.

“That,” he said in a voice of deep resignation, “was the rear,
left-hand tire, and I should say that as a blow-out there was some
class to it.”




                             CHAPTER VII

                      MR. RAT CONNORS, SAMARITAN


When Mr. Rat Connors dropped out of sight over the railroad embankment
his ideas of procedure had been somewhat vague. In the United States
were some eighty million people. It seemed a fair sporting
proposition, and one worth a small bet, that out of that number at
least a single individual must have residence in this neighborhood. If
he sought hard enough he might find that habitation. Himself, he would
have preferred a night’s lodging under the broad and starry skies to a
quest of the sort he had undertaken. But the other gentlemen was “in
bad” and the tenets of Mr. Rat Connors’ primitive knighthood precluded
the possibility of “leavin’ him lay” suffering and unsuccored.

The search was, for a while, futile. The timbered hills stretched
unbroken in lines of ragged shadow. It was a knob country,
surrendered, even in the narrow valleys, to the crawfish and the crow,
save for a few scattered cabin-dwellers who cultivated peach orchards
on the sterile slopes of the hills. But at last Mr. Connors came upon
a sort of trail which seemed to be the poor relation to a road. Mr.
Connors set his feet therein and trudged on with what comfort and
companionship he could derive from Jay Gould’s Daughter personified in
song.

At last he came upon a point where, through a gap in the timber-line,
he saw a dilapidated and almost shapeless bulk etched darkly against
the star-punctured sky. Now, disclaiming any intention to speak with
aspersion of Mr. Connors, it must be said that his profession made his
habits largely nocturnal. Men who operate in darkness share with the
cat the power to use their eyes where the honest householder would
find himself blind.

To Mr. Connors the well-nigh shapeless mass defined itself into a
building, and the erect projection at its top into a modest steeple,
proclaiming it a “meeting-house.” A church on a hill, in the middle of
the night, offers little encouragement to a man seeking living aid.
Toppling smudges of lighter gray flanked its walls, telling of men and
women who slept in the enclosure, but these men and women were all
dead. The smudges were their gravestones.

The eyes of Mr. Connors went farther back, penetrating the darkness,
and discovered a second and more indistinct pile. That might be the
parsonage! Mr. Connors halted for reflection. Churches were
establishments distinctly out of his line. Parsons were gentlemen
engaged in a different, even a hostile, profession. On the other hand,
churchmen might be expected to lend an attentive ear to tales of
distress.

Mr. Rat Connors turned into the churchyard, shivering instinctively as
he passed among the graves. Mr. Connors was a simple soul easily awed
by the Great Phenomenon of death. No lights shone from the windows or
doors of the house in the rear. At this hour honest folk slept, in
that vicinity. Before the house hung a rickety gate, and Mr. Connors
had his hand on the latch, when his entire plan of campaign underwent
sudden revision.

He had intended entering the gate, proceeding up the grass-grown walk
and hammering at the front door. Instead, he went fleetly up the
fence, paused on its top only long enough to grasp an over-arching
branch, then swung himself precipitately into a convenient tree.

The cause of this sudden change of itinerary remained below, since it
is the wise dispensation of Providence that dogs can not climb trees.
The Cause, however, in his sudden heat and passion, did not seem
willing to admit that Providence had acted wisely in the matter. He
gave evidence of a desire to pursue Mr. Connors into the upper
branches. It was clear that the Cause was given to violent and hasty
prejudices and that Mr. Connors had aroused such a prejudice.

The dog squatted below and leaped into the air. When he alighted he
leaped again. Mr. Connors, straddling a limb, the strength of which
was not guaranteed, was ready to admit without cavil that the animal
was jumping some. The brute seemed gifted with an almost Rooseveltian
strenuousness and sincerity. Even in his moments of resting between
efforts there was a grim determination in his pose which indicated his
intention of remaining until Mr. Connors came down.

For a time he was silent, save for an occasional snarl; then he sent
his voice echoing belligerently across the hills. Lord Byron says,
“’tis sweet to hear the honest watch-dog’s bay.” Lord Byron was, no
doubt, quite sincere in the assertion. It all depends on the point of
view. It is safe to assume that Lord B. did not compose that line
while clinging to a bending tree-limb with the honest watch-dog baying
at the exact spot upon which he would fall if the branch broke.

Something must be done. The force of habit is strong. So often had Mr.
Connors found it necessary to cover his movements with a cloak of
silence when approaching a dwelling-house in the night time that it
did not occur to him for some minutes to shout for help from within.
Then he remembered that this time he was not on burglary bent. He
lifted his voice in competition with that of the dog and shouted
madly.

                  *       *       *       *       *

At last the door of the house opened and a timid female voice inquired
who was calling and why he was calling.

“It’s me,” explained Mr. Connors from his perch in the tree. The
explanation was candid yet it seemed insufficient.

“Who are you and what are you doing up my tree?” demanded the voice a
shade more boldly.

“Is dis your tree?” apologized Mr. Connors with some irony. “I didn’t
get no time to ask whose tree it was.”

“What are you doing up there?”

“Ask your dawg,” replied Mr. Connors. “He put me here.”

From the dog came a growl which entirely corroborated Mr. Connors on
the point in question.

The slit of light in the door remained just wide enough to permit a
shawl-wrapped head to protrude. The dog fell silent. He appeared to
recognize that his was now a thinking part, but he relaxed nothing in
vigilance of pose. As the parley proceeded he squatted below,
ominously alert, a beast couchant waiting his cue to take again the
center of the stage. There was a painful pause.

“Say,” suggested Mr. Connors at last, “if you’re skeered ter talk ter
me, send out some of the men-folks. I ain’t dangerous. I won’t hurt
’em.”

“The men-folks are all away,” replied the voice, growing timid once
more, “and I guess you had better stay where you are till they get
home.”

“When are you lookin’ fer ’em back?” inquired Mr. Connors courteously.
The branch was made of hard wood and it was a very knotty bit of
timber; the length of time he might be required to occupy it was
interesting.

The rustic mind runs to loquacity. The woman found herself explaining
in more detail than the circumstances required.

“My husband is the minister. My son is the justice of the peace. They
have both gone up the river, but the boat is due at the landing in an
hour or so—unless it is late. You might as well wait a while and see
them.”

Mr. Connors groaned from the depths of his soul. In an hour or so,
unless the boat was late!

“Lady,” pleaded Mr. Connors in his most ingratiating voice, “I come
here lookin’ fer a doctor, see? W’en a guy goes ter git a doctor, it
ain’t right ter butt in an’ stop him. Dat’s de way it looks ter a man
up a tree, lady.”

The woman ventured no opinion. She merely closed the door.

“Lady!” shouted Mr. Connors in his most humble and winning manner.
“Lady!”

The door opened again.

“Well, what is it?”

“Lady, I come here to git help fer a guy dat’s lyin’ on de railroad
track wid a busted slat. He ain’t got nobody ter look after him. If
you keeps me up here dere ain’t no tellin’ what’ll happen ter de pore
afflicted feller.”

“A man with a busted what?” inquired the lady suspiciously.

“A busted slat,” repeated Mr. Connors. “Dis guy falls down a clift and
caves in a few spare-ribs. Dat’s on de level, lady. I ain’t kiddin’
wid yer.”

“You mean the man is wounded?”

“Dat’s it. He’s all in an’ down an’ out.”

“Where—where is this person?” The minister’s wife put the question
with preliminary symptoms of relenting. If some one were genuinely in
distress, she must probe the facts.

“Right up de railroad about three-quarters of a mile from here.”

The lady was considering. While she did so the beast below made a
sound as if licking his chops with the relish of keen anticipation.

“When my husband and son come home,” ruled the woman at last, “they
will investigate your story. Of course they may not get home
to-night—the boat is usually a few hours late.”

Once more Mr. Connors groaned.

“Meanwhile,” added the lady, “I’ll call off the dog. You can vamoose.”

“T’anks, lady.” Mr. Connors voice was eager.

“But,” continued the warning voice, “the dog will be about all
evening, and if you come back——”

“_Me_ come back, lady!” Mr. Connors’ voice trembled with emotion.
“Ferget it! Dis is me farewell appearance!”

The lady opened the door a little wider.

“Fido,” she commanded, “come here! Here, Fido! That’s a good little
doggie!”

Thirty seconds later Mr. Connors dropped to the ground and
disappeared.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Lewis Copewell resumed consciousness to find himself apparently
deserted. With the reawakening of his mental activities came a renewed
horror of the situation which engulfed him. He must find a telephone.
He struggled to his feet, but while he slept his injuries had been
multiplying and his joints stiffening. He breathed with difficulty.
Also, he could not walk. One ankle had swollen until his shoe bound it
like a vise, and when he stepped forward he fell, with nauseating
pain, to the broken rocks.

The following is a true capitulation of the casualties suffered by Mr.
Copewell: one broken collar bone; one broken rib; one sprained ankle.
Mr. Copewell was not a man of flimsy courage. In order to send a
single reassuring word to the lady he loved, he would gladly have
waded through blood, but one can not wade successfully through blood
on one foot. He could not even walk along a railroad track on one
foot. He tried hopping and found it, on the whole, an unsatisfactory
means of locomotion. Then Mr. Copewell crawled back to his suit-case
and sat down again in despair.

Mr. Lewis Copewell was not astonished that his chance companion
should, as it seemed, have abandoned him in his adversity. His meeting
with Mr. Connors had been merely casual. Finding himself converted
without warning from a voyager bound for the Enchanted Isles where a
beauteous maiden awaited him into a wrecked and battered derelict, his
course had drifted across that of a second derelict. The second
derelict had stood by for a time and offered him some slight aid, then
had drifted on, abandoning him to the mercy of winds and tides.

As Mr. Copewell’s harrowed mind dwelt on the analogy of his
shipwrecked life he realized that instead of being a friend this
black-haired youth was in fact his Nemesis, his evil genius. In the
waste places of the sea float dangerous, half-sunken craft that menace
the traffic of the ocean lanes. Good ships bear down on these
submerged hulks and yawning holes are driven into seaworthy prows.
Such a drifting peril was the black-haired youth.

But for him the train would have gone on uninterruptedly to Jaffa
Junction, and the hope-laden argosy of Mr. Copewell’s existence would
have made its happy port! But for this creature’s perfidy, Mr.
Copewell himself would have remained by his fire and flagged the
eastern train, at least establishing communication with the civilized
world. So he might have snatched victory out of defeat. But now! Now
there loomed before him only the ignominy and bitterness of a life
spoiled in the making.

In all maritime law it is meet and proper, when a sea-faring man
encounters a drifting derelict, to destroy it. Mr. Copewell wished
whole-heartedly for an opportunity to dispose of Mr. Connors. Yet,
even as he brooded vengefully, Mr. Connors was parleying in his behalf
with a clergyman’s wife, while a clergyman’s dog, of unchristian
temper, licked his fangs beneath.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                       A PISTOL AND A PUNCTURE


Having, by soft speech, won his way out of that parlous plight, Mr.
Connors was still wearily trudging the abandoned roads of the vicinity
in search of succor. His own state of mind was not joyous. Thanks to
Mr. Copewell’s wedding funds the financial phase of the case had been
satisfactorily adjusted, but he was still anchored by responsibility
until the man whom Fate had thrust upon him could be transferred to
other and competent hands. And he was anchored, too close for safety,
to the reform-infested city of Mercerville.

With these drear reflections he tramped along until he came upon
another road. It seemed a somewhat more traveled way than the one he
had left. Possibly it was the almost abandoned stage-road which in
ancient days had linked Perryville with the east.

Mr. Connors extracted from his pocket a five-cent piece. Prior to the
rifling of Mr. Copewell’s wallet it had been the only buffer between
himself and destitution. He could go but one way at once. Heads should
guide him east, tails west. Tails it was.

A turn in the highway brought him upon quick discovery. Confronting
him at some distance glared twin eyes of bright light, throwing broad,
luminous shafts along the road. “Oh, me mother!” ejaculated Mr.
Connors in astonishment. “If it ain’t a benzine-buggy!”

Caution being the very soul-breath of Mr. Rat Connors’ policy, he did
not approach the stationary motor-car conspicuously by the center of
the road. Instead, he dropped into the deep shadow of over-hanging
trees and made his way forward with the noiselessness of an Indian on
a war-trail. He meant to see what manner of person piloted the car
before he presented his demand for first aid to the injured. He
advanced on his toes.

The automobile was empty. One of its tail-lights had been removed and
placed on the ground. There it blinked, lighting the work of a
solitary man who knelt on a folded robe, swearing—also mending a
punctured tire. This man was coatless, smeared with grease, covered
with dust and panting laboriously. His profanity was voluminous and
capable as he struggled with the task of replacing an outer casing on
a jacked-up wheel.

Mr. Connors did not at once emerge from the shadow. He knew that this
car could not possibly proceed until that tire was replaced and
inflated. He meant to ask a favor, and asking a favor carried with it
a certain obligation to reciprocate. Mr. Connors had an idea that
pumping up the tire of an automobile which looked like a baby
battle-ship would involve a distasteful element of manual labor. The
evening was hot and, on the whole, it might be as well not to
interrupt this gentleman until he was through.

It pleased Mr. Connors to discover, after a careful reconnoiter, that
the gentleman was absolutely alone. If he proved obdurate, and a
gun-play became necessary, one man would cause less trouble than
several. The frayed condition of the gentleman’s temper indicated that
he might prove obdurate.

Mr. Connors cautiously drew his “cannister” from his pocket and tested
trigger and hammer. If the lone wayfarer quietly accepted the charge
of the “guy wid de busted slat” there need be no friction. If he
lacked that large sympathy which should make him a willing rescuer,
then he must have philanthropy thrust upon him. Mr. Connors meant to
thrust it with the pistol. So he gave thanks that this was not a
party, nor a couple, but only an unaccompanied chauffeur.

When the injured man should be safely stowed in the tonneau the
trusteeship of Mr. Connors would terminate.

Then what? Life has its business exigencies even for those of us who
are not materialists. Men who tour in motor-cars may be assumed to
carry money. Why not first impress the gentleman into service and then
relieve him of his valuables? Why should the doctrine of socialism
apply as to the man who lay wounded and not as to this one who drove
an automobile?

The man in the road rose with a sigh of relief. He stretched himself,
adjusted the pump and bent to his labor again. Mr. Connors sat
watching. At last that too was done. The lone motorist put away his
tools and turned wearily. Apparently the sight of the car fatigued
him.

As he did this Mr. Connors stepped out of the shadow and placed the
muzzle of his revolver in impressive juxtaposition with the
gentleman’s face. The gentleman had fancied himself alone. The
discovery that he had been mistaken surprised him. It startled him.

“Let’s see you stretch your arms up high,” suggested Mr. Connors. The
gentleman obligingly and promptly followed the suggestion.

“What is this, if I may ask?” he inquired. “Highway robbery?”

“Some of it is,” Mr. Connors assured him pleasantly, “an’ some of it’s
ambulance service.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” admitted the traveler.

“Dat’s all right. You will foller me in about t’ree minutes,” replied
Mr. Connors. “But before dat let’s see w’at youse got in yer clothes.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The motorist offered no verbal protest. When one looks down a
gun-barrel at one A. M. in a lonely road, silence is eighteen karat
fine. This highwayman was carefully keeping a position just too far
away for a clinch. At that distance the pistol gave him priority of
rank and entitled him to issue orders.

“Get over dere in de light an’ turn your pockets out!” directed Mr.
Connors. “T’row everyt’ing down here by me feet. If youse got a gun in
yer clothes I wants ter see it come out wid the muzzle pointed de oder
way! See?”

The gentleman saw. “I haven’t a gun,” he said.

“An’,” pursued Mr. Connors succinctly, “let’s be on de level wid each
oder. Don’t let’s have no holdin’ back. I wants ter see de linin’s of
dem pockets hangin’ outside. You looks prettier dat way.”

For a moment there was complete silence, while pocket contents
showered on the grass at Mr. Connors’ feet. Mr. Connors secured for
himself the gentleman’s coat, which hung over the tonneau door.

There is a distinction between tribute-levy and vandalism. Mr. Connors
left letters and papers undisturbed, taking only currency and articles
of intrinsic value.

Then, as they stood, with Mr. Connors unostentatiously in the shadow
and the other gentleman in the full glare of the acetylene lamps,
hands high and his pockets inverted, they heard a somewhat startled
exclamation in the road. A young woman emerged suddenly from behind
the car, carrying a bucket of water. The tableau had not greeted her
eyes until she reached a point where the screening framework ceased to
screen. Then it appeared to interest her greatly.

“Lady,” said Mr. Connors steadily, the pistol muzzle never wavering,
“or ladies an’ gents, if dere’s a bunch of youse—please come round
here an’ get in line an’ put your hands up. If anybody makes a false
move, I croaks dis gent, an’ dat goes, see?”

The lady came forward and took up her station by the side of the man.
In order to raise her hands she had to set down the canvas bucket with
which she was burdened.

Standing in the acetylene spotlight the young woman struck Mr. Connors
as supremely beautiful. He deplored the necessity of keeping her in a
prisoner’s attitude and he admired the calm with which she endured the
compulsion. Her eyes even seemed to be dancing a trifle as she looked
at the somewhat abject Mr. Burrow.

“Please, Mr. Highwayman,” she naïvely requested, “would you mind if I
poured some water into the radiator?” She added reassuringly: “It will
keep both hands quite busy. The machine can’t go on until we do that,
you know, and we’d like to get home—when you are entirely through with
us.”

Mr. Connors considered the proposition.

“Go as far as yer like, lady,” he assented at last. “But let dis gent
keep close ernuff fer me ter watch youse both. If his hands comes
down, I’m afraid I’ll have to hurt somebody, see?”

As the young woman lifted the full bucket with a surprising strength
for such slender arms, the gentleman assured her that he regretted his
inability to assist. The young lady laughed.

“Dat will be about all fer dis part of de job,” said Mr. Connors. “Now
fer the ambulance.”

“The what?” questioned the young woman.

“I’se sorry ter trouble yer, lady,” apologized Mr. Connors, “but it’s
like dis: Dere’s a guy up de railroad track w’at’s got a busted slat.
I’se got ter borrow your benzine-buggy ter take him ter a doctor.”

“Now see here, you infernal pirate!” The gentleman took one
belligerent step forward and halted abruptly as he recognized how
close it brought him to the ominous muzzle. “You’re asking too much!”

“Me?” questioned Mr. Connors in an injured tone. “I ain’t askin’
nothin’. I’m tellin’ yer w’at I wants done, an’ yer don’t need ter git
fresh about it, see?”

“Is there really an injured man? Is this true?” asked the lady.
Evidently she was willing to be reasonable.

“Honest ter Gawd, lady!” Mr. Connors spoke earnestly and his eyes wore
their frankest appeal. “Dis guy is liable ter croak if he don’t git a
doctor. He’s a pore skate. Meself, I don’t know him personally, but
I’se sorry fer him.”

“Some disreputable drunk!” growled the gentleman savagely. “Some
contemptible hobo like this man here.”

“It occurs to me,” suggested the young woman in a level voice, “that
up to this point you have been very obedient to this person you call a
contemptible hobo. At all events I’m not going to leave an injured man
by the roadside. I’m going with this person. Do you care to come
along?”

“Oh, he’ll come along all right,” Mr. Connors assured her. “I needs
him ter run de car.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The gentleman’s face went white with anger; then, as he turned his
eyes on Mr. Connors, his expression grew quizzical, even amused, and a
light of sudden recognition came to his pupils.

“Mr. Rat Connors,” he said with deliberate courtesy of address, “I
congratulate myself that I have fallen under the bow and spear of so
distinguished a crook as yourself. I retract the ‘contemptible hobo.’
I have just recognized you.”

“Mr. High-Brow Reformer Burrow,” replied Mr. Connors with instant
promptness, “t’anks fer dem kind woids.”

“May I inquire,” purred Mr. Burrow, “how you knew me?”

“After you, after you!” returned the young gentleman modestly. “How
did yer git hep ter me?”

“You see,” explained the Honorable Alexander suavely, “the Chief of
Police was speaking of you this morning. He had a good deal to say
about you.”

Mr. Connors grinned, as one whose greatness has been duly recognized.

“Will yer give me best ter de Chief? Will yer tell ’im I’m well an’
doin’ business an’ I hopes he’s de same?”

“I shall be honored to do so,” declared the Honorable Alexander
gravely. “I shall also look forward with pleasure to a meeting when
all three of us shall be present—you, the Chief and I. But you haven’t
told me how you came to recognize me.”

Mr. Connors smiled broadly.

“Yer name was printed in gold letters on yer pocket-book—an’ I kin
read.”

“Oh,” murmured Mr. Burrow.

Mr. Connors waved his weapon with a gesture of energy.

“Let’s beat it,” he suggested. “Dis busted-up guy’s liable ter git
homesick.”




                              CHAPTER IX

                        ON THE RAILROAD TRACK


Mr. Rat Connors superintended the arrangement of the car. The
Honorable Alexander was requested to take the wheel, and the lady to
sit at his side. Mr. Connors disposed himself in the tonneau, from
which vantage-point he issued orders after the fashion of an Admiral
from the bridge of his flag-ship.

Two hundred yards from the railroad track Mr. Connors gave the word to
halt.

Having disembarked, he marshalled his cavalcade in what he deemed the
most advisable formation.

“Let de lady go foist,” he suggested. “Dat’s de perlite system.” As
they took the indicated order of precedence Mr. Connors added, “An’
den if yer makes a break, I won’t haf ter shoot t’rough de lady ter
git yer, see?”

While they were picking their way through a bit of woods the Honorable
Alexander Hamilton Burrow was moved to speech.

“You see, Miss Asheton—Mary—I may call you Mary, mayn’t I? Life is
full of chances. You need a protector. You had better reconsider and
give me the right to act always——”

But Miss Asheton interrupted him with a clear peal of laughter.
Despite the guard at the rear, she halted in her tracks.

“Certainly you may call me Mary,” she said, “and you may protect me,
too. Protect me now. Take the gun away from this person.”

The halting of Miss Asheton forced the Honorable Alexander to halt,
and the halting of the Honorable Alexander brought the cold muzzle of
the revolver against the back of his neck.

“Move on dere!” ordered Mr. Connors. “Cut out de chin-music an’ keep
hikin’!”

The march was resumed.

“Of course,” said Mr. Burrow, in a less jaunty voice, “there are times
when we are at a disadvantage. The protection I alluded to——”

“Cut it out!” suggested Mr. Connors. “Less of dat comedy! Less of it!”

Mr. Burrow fell silent. To have one’s tenderest declarations
pronounced comedy by a critic one is not at liberty to contradict, is
disconcerting.

Then they came to the embankment and were instructed to climb up. On
the railroad track they saw three men. One was an elderly gentleman in
rusty clerical garb. One was a tall man of a younger generation, but
the salient feature of the situation was that between them they
supported a third person. Despite mud-smeared clothes and demoralized
personal appearance, this third person was clearly recognizable to
bride-elect and best man as Mr. Lewis Copewell.

Mr. Lewis Copewell raised his head and saw standing at the edge of the
embankment a rare and radiant maiden whom mortals called Mary Asheton.
For an hour Mr. Lewis Copewell had been demanding of the smoldering
logs whether he should ever again clasp this rare and radiant maiden.
It was upon this reverie that the Minister and his son, the Justice of
the Peace, had arrived. And now—miracle of miracles!—there seemed to
stand the lady in the flesh!

He tore himself from the supporting arms of the minister and the
justice of the peace with an inarticulate roar. Then he proceeded to
hop on one foot across the track, to find out whether this were a true
vision or merely a brain mirage.

Miss Mary Asheton took a swift inventory of his injuries and went to
meet him. Miss Mary Asheton did not have to hop, and a man can stand
quite well on one foot when he has both arms around the only girl in
the world. If you don’t believe it, try it.

It dawned quite suddenly on the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow
that the party was quite complete. Bride, groom, best man, minister,
witness and—how should he classify Mr. Connors? He swept a
comprehensive glance about—but there was no Mr. Connors. Mr. Connors
had vanished into the night as suddenly as he had arisen out of the
night. He had played his part and passed.

In point of fact, Mr. Connors was looking on from the shadow of a
not-too-distant sycamore. Sitting at the foot of this sycamore he drew
from one pocket the gold timepiece that had formerly reposed in the
pocket of Mr. Lewis Copewell. Then he abstracted from another pocket
the watch that had been, until a short time ago, worn by the Honorable
Alexander Hamilton Burrow. Then he affectionately patted the rolls of
greenbacks in his breast pocket.

“Oh, dat ain’t so bad!” he optimistically told himself.

For a moment there was silence on the railroad track. Then Mr.
Copewell, feeling quite assured that the vision was genuine, managed
to say, “_Mary!_”

Miss Asheton said, “_Lewis!_”

The Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow, thinking of nothing witty or
timely to say, touched the minister on the arm and began feeling in
his pockets for the marriage license.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 1911
issue of Adventure magazine.]



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