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Title: Oliver October

Author: George Barr McCutcheon

Release date: December 14, 2022 [eBook #69545]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Dodd, Mead and Company

Credits: Al Haines, John Routh & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVER OCTOBER ***






                                 OLIVER
                                OCTOBER


                                   BY
                         GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON

                               AUTHOR OF
                   “BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK,” “SHERRY,”
                           “VIOLA GWYN,” ETC.



                                NEW YORK
                         DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
                                  1923




                         COPYRIGHT, 1922, 1923,
                    BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.


                       PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY

                       The Quinn & Boden Company
                           BOOK MANUFACTURERS
                         RAHWAY      NEW JERSEY




                                 CONTENTS

 CHAPTER                                                              PAGE

       I OLIVER IS BORN IN OCTOBER                                       1
      II HIS RELATIVES AND HIS NEIGHBORS                                15
     III WOMEN IN RED SHAWLS                                            36
      IV HIS FORTUNE—GOOD AND BAD                                       46
       V OLIVER IS FOUND TO HAVE A TEMPER                               65
      VI A PASTOR PROMISES AID                                          85
     VII THE MINISTER’S WIFE                                            94
    VIII GLIDING OVER A FEW YEARS                                      109
      IX HOME FROM THE WAR                                             128
       X IDLE DAYS                                                     140
      XI OLD OLIVER DISAPPEARS                                         155
     XII ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT IT                                      166
    XIII THE GOOD SAMARITAN PAYS                                       174
     XIV JEALOUSY WITHOUT LOVE                                         185
      XV THE THIRD FAIR LADY                                           196
     XVI MR. JOSEPH SIKES INTERVENES                                   201
    XVII MR. GOOCH DECLARES HIMSELF                                    212
   XVIII JOSEPHINE AND HENRY THE EIGHTH                                228
     XIX OLIVER COMPLAINS                                              242
      XX DETECTIVE MALONE                                              252
     XXI LOVE WITHOUT JEALOUSY                                         265
    XXII THE CORPUS DELICTI                                            281
   XXIII THE BREWING OF THE STORM                                      294
    XXIV THE HANGING                                                   308
     XXV MR. GOOCH SEES THINGS AT NIGHT                                322




                             Oliver October




                               CHAPTER I


                       OLIVER IS BORN IN OCTOBER

Oliver Baxter, junior, was born on a vile October day in 1890—at seven
o’clock in the morning, to be exact. People were more concerned over the
plight of a band of gypsies, camped on the edge of the swamp below the
Baxter house, however, than they were over the birth of Oliver, although
he was a very important child.

The gypsies, journeying southward, had been overtaken by an unexampled
and unseasonable blizzard, and citizens of Rumley, in whom curiosity
rather than pity had been excited by the misfortunes of the shivering
nomads, neglected for the moment that civic pride which heretofore had
never failed to respond to any increase in population as provided solely
by nature.

First off, Rumley was a very small place at the beginning of the
’nineties. A birth or a death was a matter of profound importance. In
the case of the former, all Rumley knew about it months before it
happened, and rejoiced. A form of anticipatory interest, amounting
almost to impatience, centered upon any expectant mother who ultimately
was to add another inhabitant to the town. It was absolutely impossible
for a baby to be born in Rumley without the whole town knowing about it
within the hour. For that matter, it was equally impossible for any one
to die with any degree of privacy unless he went about it deliberately
as did Bob Cheever who stole off into the woods back in ’81 and hung
himself so cunningly that twenty-four hours passed before his body was
discovered.

But, on the whole, the births were what counted most, for, with a true
philosophy, the people of Rumley, anticipating that every one had to die
some time or other, depended on nature to do its part toward repairing
all losses in population by producing a brand-new citizen for every old
one who happened to drop put. With a scant five hundred inhabitants,
Rumley could ill afford to have its birth rate surpassed by its death
rate. The year in which Oliver Baxter, junior, was born had been a lean
one; there had been thirteen deaths up to October and only seven births.
The surprising mortality was due to the surrender of five old men and
three old women who had hung on well beyond the age of ninety, and then,
with unbecoming perversity, had combined upon an unusually barren year
in which to die.

In view of the fact that no one else could possibly be born in 1890, now
that October was at hand, it would seem that Oliver was entitled to a
great deal more consideration than he received on his natal day. But
when one considers the simultaneous arrival of a blizzard and a band of
wandering gypsies at a time of the year when neither was expected, and
offers in opposition the arrival of an infant that had been expected
ever since the preceding February, it is only fair to say that there
were extenuating circumstances and that Rumley was not entirely to blame
for its default in civic pride.

Oliver’s parents were prominent in the commercial, social and spiritual
life of the town. His father was the proprietor of the hardware store, a
prominent member of the Presbyterian church, and a leader in the local
lodge of Odd Fellows. He was well on to forty-five when his namesake,
was born, and as this son and heir was the first and only child born to
the Baxters it is easy to understand the interest and concern that
accompanied his approach and arrival into the world—that is to say, up
to the distracting intervention of the October cold snap which came
apparently out of nowhere and confounded everybody.

Baxter was a hard-cased bachelor of forty when he succumbed to the
charms of Mary Floyd, the daughter of the toll-gate keeper at the edge
of the village, and asked her to marry him. A full three years elapsed,
however, before they could be married. This was due to Mary’s stubborn
and somewhat questionable fidelity; her ancient father, it appears, was
irascibly certain that he could not manage the affairs of the toll-gate
without her assistance: how was he to keep house for himself, or get his
own meals, or do his own washing and ironing, or take care of the cow
and the pigs? In fact, he was the sort of man who did not believe in
trying to do anything for himself as long as there were able-bodied
women about the place to do it for him. For twenty years Mary had been
his right-hand woman, beginning at the tender age of ten, within fifteen
or twenty minutes after the death of her mother, who, by the way, had
taken care of Martin for a matter of twenty-five years without rest or
recompense. Two older brothers had exercised the masculine prerogative
and, having families of their own, left Mary to wither, so to speak, “on
the parent stem.”

Old Martin died when Mary was thirty-two. Instead of observing the
customary year of mourning, she married Oliver inside of three months
after the joyous bereavement, much to the surprise and passing grief of
her neighbors, who were unable, for the life of them, to understand how
she could do such a thing when her father was hardly cold in the grave.
Joseph Sikes, who ran a feed store in connection with and back of
Baxter’s hardware establishment, and was a Godless man, set a good many
people straight by sardonically observing that anybody as mean as Martin
Floyd never would be cold in his grave, owing to the heat that was
getting at him from below.

Now as for Oliver Baxter, the elder. He was a scrawny man with a
drooping sandy mustache and a thatch of straw-colored hair that always
appeared to be in need of trimming no matter how recently it had been
cut by Ves Bridges, the barber. In the matter of stature he was a trifle
above medium height on Sundays only, due to a studied regard for the
dignity that accrued to him as deacon in the church and passer of the
collection box at both services. Moreover, he wore a pair of Sabbath day
shoes that were not run down at the heel. On week days, in his well-worn
business suit and his comfortable old shoes, he was what you would call
a trifle under medium height. He was a shy, exceedingly bashful sort of
man, with a fiery complexion that cooled off only when he was asleep,
and he was given to laughing nervously—and kindly—at any and all
times, frequently with results that called for a confused apology on his
part and sometimes led to painful misunderstandings—for example, the
time he made tender and sympathetic inquiry concerning the health of
young Mrs. Hoxie’s mother and cackled cheerfully when informed that the
old lady was not expected to last the day out, she was that bad.

How he ever screwed up the courage to propose to Mary Floyd was always a
mystery to the entire population of Rumley, including Mary herself, who
in accepting him was obliged to overlook the two perfectly inane spasms
of laughter with which his bewildered plea was punctuated. She took him,
nevertheless, for she was a prudent spinster and had got to the age
where people not only were beginning to pity her but were talking of
putting her in charge of the public library as soon as old Miss Lowtower
died.

Mary at thirty-two was a comely, capable young woman, fairly well
educated in spite of Martin Floyd’s exactions, and was beloved by all.
If it had not been for the fact that Oliver Baxter was prosperous,
honest and a credit to the town, people no doubt would have said she was
throwing herself away on him, for it must be said that the Floyds,
despite their reduced circumstances, were of better stock than the
Baxters. Martin Floyd, in his younger days, had been a schoolmaster and
had studied for the law. Moreover, he had been thrice elected justice of
the peace and during Grant’s last administration was postmaster at
Rumley. Whereas, Oliver Baxter’s father had been a farmhand and Oliver
himself an itinerant tin-peddler before really getting on his feet. But
as the fortunes of the Floyds went down those of the frugal and
enterprising Baxter came up, so, on the whole, Mary was not making a bad
bargain when she got married—indeed, she was making a very good bargain
if one pauses to consider the somewhat astonishing fact that she really
loved the homely and unromantic little bachelor.

When, after two years, it became known that on or about the twentieth of
October Mary Baxter was going to have a baby, the town of Rumley and the
country for miles about experienced a thrill of interest that continued
without abatement up to the very eve of the new Oliver’s natal day,
when, as before mentioned, it was stifled by a sudden change in the
weather and the belated descent of the gypsies.

It must not be assumed that the gypsies were welcome. Far from it, they
were most unwelcome. Their appearance on the outskirts of Rumley was the
occasion of dire apprehensions and considerable uneasiness. The word
gypsy was synonymous with thievery, kidnaping, black magic and devilry.
More than one instance of curses being put upon respectable people by
these swarthy, black-eyed vagabonds could be mentioned, and no one felt
secure after foolishly subjecting herself to the dire influence of the
fortune-telling females of the tribe. Little children were kept indoors,
stables and cellars were locked, and backyards zealously watched during
the time the gypsies were in the neighborhood.

Small wonder then that the young and tender Oliver failed to hold his
own against such overwhelming odds. Nearly twenty-four hours elapsed
before the town as a whole took notice of him. By nightfall it was
pretty generally known that he was a boy and that his name,
provisionally selected, was to be Oliver and not Olivet, as it might
have been had his sex been what everybody prophesied it was bound to be.
Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, in the second year of their married life, had gone
to a nearby city to see a performance of the comic opera “Olivet,” and
were so delighted with it—especially the song “In the North Sea Lived a
Whale”—that they decided then and there if a girl should ever be born
to them they would call her Olivet, that being as near to Oliver as they
could possibly come.

They yearned for an Oliver, of course, but in the event he did not
materialize, it would be a rather satisfactory compromise to substitute
a “t” for the “r” which they would have preferred.

So they called him Oliver and added October to that, as a tribute to the
month in which he was born.

The Baxter residence, a two-story frame building, stood at the top of a
tree-covered knoll on the edge of the town, overlooking an extensive
swamp in the center of which lay a reed-encircled pond where at certain
seasons of the year migratory wild ducks and geese disported themselves
in perfect security, for so treacherous was the vast morass guarding
this little body of water that even the most daring and foolhardy of
hunters feared to cross it. These evil acres bore the name of Death
Swamp. They belonged to Oliver Baxter. He bought the whole tract, four
hundred acres or more, for twenty-five dollars, and with a droll sense
of humor described it as his back yard.

The wild October gale had been blowing all day long, a bleak legacy of
the blizzard that swept over the land during the night. There were high,
white drifts in sheltered nooks and corners; a fine, sleety snow cut
mercilessly through the air, beating against window panes like sweeps of
bird shot, scuttling through reluctantly opened doors, swirling in
restless fury across porches, all to the tune of a shrill wind that came
whistling out of the north. In an upstairs corner room, warmed by a big,
carefully tended sheet-iron stove, young Oliver first saw the light of
day. No finer “young-un” had ever been born, according to Mrs. Serepta
Grimes, and Serepta was an authority on babies. It was she who took
command of Oliver, his mother and his father, the house itself, and all
that therein was. She was there hours ahead of Dr. Robinson, and she was
still there hours after his departure. Throughout the town of Rumley,
Serepta was known as a “blessing and a comfort.” Her word was law. Fond
mothers and frightened fathers submitted to her gentle but arbitrary
regulations without a murmur of protest. Joe Sikes claimed—and no one
disputed him—that you couldn’t come into or go out of the world
properly without being assisted by Serepta Grimes. She was that kind of
a woman.

She saw to it that all the cracks around the window frames were securely
stuffed with paper to keep the wind from coming in; she kept Oliver’s
beaddled father from darting into the room every time he heard the baby
cry; she gave peremptory directions to neighbor-women who came in to see
what they could do; she kept the fire going, the kitchen running, and,
by virtue of her own vast experience and authority, she kept the doctor
in his place. Perhaps a hundred times during the day she had patiently
answered “Yes” to the senior Oliver’s tremulous question: “Is she going
to pull through, Serepty?”

In this cozy little room and in the presence of the doctor and Serepta
Grimes, young Oliver was weighed by his father. For this purpose, a
brand-new, perfectly balanced meat-scales, selected from stock, was
brought up from the hardware store by Mr. Sikes, who, while being denied
the privilege of witnessing the ceremony, subsequently was able to
collect fifty cents from another bosom friend of the family, Mr. Silas
Link, undertaker and upholsterer. The infant weighed nine and a quarter
pounds, Joseph winning his wager by a scant quarter of a pound. The two
worthies also had made another bet as to the sex of the infant, Mr.
Sikes giving odds of two to one that it would be a boy. Up to seven
o’clock in the evening, fully twelve hours after the baby was born,
neither Mr. Sikes nor Mr. Link had the slightest idea who had won the
bet, for, try as they would, there seemed to be absolutely no way of
getting any authentic information from upstairs, owing to the speechless
condition of Oliver senior and the drastic reticence of Serepta Grimes.

And so, as the story of Oliver October really begins at seven o’clock in
the evening, regardless of all that may have transpired in the preceding
twelve hours of his life, we will open the narrative with Mr. Joseph
Sikes hovering in solitary gloom over the base-burner in the
sitting-room to the right of the small vestibule hall whose door opened
upon the snow-covered, wind-swept front porch. For the better part of an
hour he had been sitting there, listening with tense, apprehensive ears
to the brisk footsteps in the room overhead. The sitting-room was cold,
for Joseph had neglected to close the front door tightly on entering the
house and the wind had blown it ajar, permitting quite an accumulation
of snow to carpet the hall. He had purposely left the sitting-room door
open in order to hear the better what was going on at the top of the
stairs. His attention was called to this almost criminal act some
fifteen or twenty minutes after its commission by the sound of a man’s
voice in the upper hall. It was an agitated voice and it was raised
considerably in the effort to make itself heard by some one on the other
side of a closed, intervening door.

“Say, Serepty, I—I think the front door is open,” the voice was saying.
Joseph wasn’t sure, but he thought it belonged to Oliver Baxter. At any
rate, the speaker was in the upper hall. After a moment it continued.
“Like as not Mary and the baby will ketch cold and die if—”

A door squeaked upstairs and then came the voice of Serepta Grimes.

“My goodness! Of course, it’s open. Haven’t you got sense enough to go
down and shut it? Who left it open anyway? You?”

“I thought I heard somebody come in a little while ago. Must have
been—”

“Go down and shut it this instant. And stay downstairs, you goose.”

The door closed sharply and Mr. Sikes, recovering from a temporary
paralysis, clumsily got to his feet and hurried into the hall.

“Never mind, Ollie,” he whispered hoarsely to the figure descending the
stairs. “I’ll shut it. Some darned fool must have forgot to close it.”

“Isn’t that snow on the floor?” demanded Mr. Baxter, pausing midway on
the stairs. The light from the sitting-room door fell upon his pinched,
worried face as he peered, blinking, over the banister.

“Must have blowed in,” mumbled Joseph guiltily. “You don’t suppose she’s
taken cold, do you, Ollie?”

“She probably has,” groaned Mr. Baxter. “She’s—she’s dying anyhow,
Joe—she hasn’t got more than half an hour to live. I—”

“Is the doctor up there?”

“No. He ain’t been here since five o’clock. Oh, the poor—”

“I guess she’s all right or he wouldn’t have gone off and left her,”
said Mr. Sikes consolingly. “I guess it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sweep
all this snow out. Where’ll I find a broom?”

“In the kitchen—in the kitchen, Joe. My God, what have I ever done that
we should have a blizzard like this on the one day that—”

“Come on down, Ollie, and let me give you a swig at this bottle I
brought along with me. I can hear your teeth chatterin’ from here.”

“I haven’t got any shoes on,” protested Mr. Baxter. “I’m trying not to
make any more noise than I can help. Besides I don’t want Mary to smell
liquor on me. No, I can’t come down. I’d never forgive myself if she was
to die and me not up here where I could hear her calling for me. Yes,
sir—she’s not going to pull through, Joe—she’s not going to get well.
I—”

“What does Serepty say?”

“Serepty? Oh, she says she’s all right and as fit as a fiddle—but I
know better. She’s just saying that to brace me up. She—”

The door squeaked above him and Mrs. Grimes spoke.

“Didn’t I tell you to close that door, Oliver Baxter? Who is that you’re
talking to?”

“Don’t tell her,” whispered Mr. Sikes, springing nimbly to the door.
“She don’t like me anyhow, and—Oh, the danged thing’s stuck! I’ll have
to get the broom.”

Mr. Sikes hurried to the kitchen and returned with the broom. Baxter was
still standing on the stairs, in a listening attitude.

“Sh!” he hissed. “Don’t do that? I thought I heard—” He turned and
darted up the stairs, leaving Mr. Sikes to his task. Presently he came
half way down again and addressed the sweeper, who had just completed
his job and was closing the door against the pressing wind. “I’m up here
in the spare bedroom, Joe, if you need me for anything. I’ve just been
thinking that the house might catch fire with all these stoves going and
the wind blowing so hard. If you smell anything burning come up and let
me know.”

“Just a second, Ollie,” whispered Joseph, from the bottom of the steps.
“Is it a boy or a girl?”

But Oliver failed to answer. He had disappeared, tiptoeing in his
stocking feet past the closed and guarded door at the bend in the hall.

His friend went back to his place by the base-burner and sat down. In
skirting the table in the center of the room he paused long enough to
take a cigar from the box of “Old Jim Crows” that Oliver had purchased
for distribution among congratulatory friends. He hesitated a long time
before lighting it, however. He knew from past experience that Serepta
Grimes objected to men smoking in the house, and, while this was not her
house, nevertheless for the time being she was complete mistress of it.

To look at Joseph Sikes you would never believe that he could be afraid
of anything or anybody. He was a burly, rugged, middle-aged man with
broad shoulders, a battling face and a thick shock of black hair that
might well have supplied you with a corporeal picture of what Samson
must have looked like before he was shorn. He looked somewhat ill at
ease and uncomfortable in his Sunday suit of clothes and his starched
shirt and the bothersome collar that appeared to be giving him a great
deal of trouble, judging by the frequency with which he ran his
forefinger around the inside of it and twisted his puckered, uplifted
chin from time to time as if in dire need of help. Mr. Sikes was an
unmarried man. He was not used to tight collars.

The combination sitting-and dining-room was on the side of the house
facing the main thoroughfare of the town. Its windows looked out across
the porch and down the wooded slope to the street, a hundred yards away.
Mr. Sikes on his arrival after a scant supper at his boarding-house in
Shiveley’s Lane had found the entire lower part of the house in darkness
except the kitchen. He took it upon himself to light the two kerosene
lamps in the sitting-room and subsequently—in some dismay—to draw down
the window shades. He replenished the fire from a scuttle of coal and
then, on second thought, went down into the cellar and replenished the
scuttle. After performing these small chores, he removed his overcoat
and hat and hung them over the back of a chair alongside the stove. He
forgot to remove his goloshes, and it was not until he became aware of
the smell of scorching rubber that he remembered where he had put them
on sitting down for the second time in front of the stove. He had put
them on the bright nickel-plated railing at the bottom of the
base-burner with only one thought in mind: to get his feet warm.

He was aghast. That odor of calamity was bound to ransack the house from
bottom to top, with desolating consequences. Mary would think the house
was afire, Oliver would lose his head completely, Serepta would—and the
child? It didn’t take much to suffocate a baby. Mr. Sikes was not long
in deciding what to do. He opened a window, jerked off the offending
goloshes, and hurled them far out into the snowdrifts.

It was while he was in the act of disposing of the damning evidence that
he heard the kitchen door slam with a bang. Somewhere back in his mind
lurked an impression that some one had been knocking at the front door
during the tail end of his profound cogitation. He had a faint, dim
recollection of muttering something like this to himself:

“You can knock your fool head off, far as I’m concerned.”

The slamming of the kitchen door irritated Mr. Sikes. His brow grew
dark. This was no time to be slamming doors. He strode over to
investigate. If the offender should happen to be Maggie Smith, Baxter’s
hired girl, she’d hear from him. What business had she to be away from
the house for more than an hour, just at supper time, and probably
catching cold or—




                               CHAPTER II


                    HIS RELATIVES AND HIS NEIGHBORS

He opened the door and was confronted by a pair of total strangers—a
man and a woman, bundled up to the ears and tracking snow all over the
kitchen floor. A tall man with short black whiskers and a frail little
woman with red, wind-smitten cheeks and a nose from which depended a
globular bit of moisture.

Mr. Sikes stared at the couple and they stared at him.

“I’ve been knocking at the front door for ten minutes,” said the man,
thickly.

“So we finally had to come to the kitchen door,” added the woman, eyeing
Mr. Sikes accusingly.

“Isn’t there anybody here to answer the front door?” demanded her
companion.

“I don’t seem to recollect locking it,” said Mr. Sikes, stiffening
perceptibly. He did not like the tone or the manner of these strangers.
“There wasn’t anything to stop you from turning the knob, was there, and
walkin’ right in—same as you did out here?”

“We are not in the habit of walking into people’s houses like that,”
said the black-whiskered man, somewhat tartly. “Come on, Ida; let’s go
into the sitting-room.”

“Just a second,” interposed Mr. Sikes. “I’m sort of in charge here and I
guess I’ll have to ask who you are.”

“I am Oliver Baxter’s sister,” said the red-nosed woman, “and this is my
husband, Mr. Gooch. We drove all the way over here to take charge of
things for my brother during his—”

“Seems to me I smell rubber burning,” broke in Mr. Gooch, sniffing
vigorously. His eye fell upon the cigar that Mr. Sikes was holding
between his thumb and forefinger.

Mr. Sikes took umbrage. He stepped forward and held the cigar close to
Mr. Gooch’s nose.

“Smell it,” he said, as the other jerked his head back in surprise.
“That’s as good a cigar as you can get anywhere on earth for ten
cents—and it only costs five.”

“I—I am not a smoker,” Mr. Gooch made haste to explain, being a trifle
overcome by Joseph’s far from ingratiating manner.

“Well, I’m just telling you,” announced Joseph, inserting the cigar
between his back teeth with a somewhat challenging abruptness. “You say
you’re Ollie’s relations?”

“Yes; I am his sister. I want to see him at once. Where is he?”

“Well, I guess if you are his sister you’d better come into the
sitting-room and take your things off,” said Mr. Sikes grudgingly. “I’ve
heard him speak of some folks of his living over in Hopkinsville.” He
led the way into the sitting-room. “Make yourselves to home. I guess
maybe Ollie will be down after while, unless he’s gone to bed. He’s all
wore out. And I might as well tell you first as last,” he went on
pointedly, “he’s occupying the only spare bedroom they’ve got in the
house, so I don’t see how I can ask you to stay the night.”

Mrs. Gooch paused in the act of unwinding a thick scarf from her neck.
She gave Mr. Sikes a “look.”

“Are you the undertaker?” she demanded.

“The—the _what_? Good gosh, no!”

“Well, how do you happen to be running things if you are not? You act as
if—”

“When did Mary die?” asked Mr. Gooch, throwing his great ulster upon the
dining-table.

“She ain’t dead,” was all the astonished Mr. Sikes could say. “Not by a
long sight.”

“Well, of all the—” began Mr. Gooch, compressing his lips. “And we
drove nearly eighteen miles through all this dodgasted weather to be a
support and a comfort to Ollie Baxter in his trouble. You say she
_ain’t_ dead?”

“Certainly not. Whatever put that notion in your head?”

“We had a telegram along about noon signed by Oliver, saying his wife
was not expected to live through the day. All hope had been given up,”
said Mrs. Gooch, beginning to cry.

“That’s just like the derned fool,” said Mr. Sikes. “He can’t believe
his own eyes, he’s so excited. Why, Mary and the baby are both as lively
as crickets. I heard—”

“The _baby_?” fell simultaneously from the lips of Mr. and Mrs. Gooch.
Both mouths remained open.

“What baby?” added Mrs. Gooch, spreading her tear-drenched eyes.

“Why, her’s and Ollie’s—Say, didn’t you know they had a baby this
morning?”

“A _baby_?” gasped the lady, incredulously.

“But we didn’t know they were expecting one,” said her husband,
scowling. “Mighty strange Oliver never even mentioned—”

“Are you telling the truth?” demanded Mrs. Gooch. “Or are you just
trying to be funny?”

Mr. Sikes removed the cigar from his jaws. “It’s nothing to me, ma’am,
whether you believe it or not,” said he.

Baxter’s brother-in-law allowed his gaze to roam around the room. “Maybe
we’re in the wrong house, Ida,” he said. “We haven’t been in Rumley
since Oliver set up housekeeping. Like as not, that feller down at the
drug store gave us the wrong—”

“This is Oliver Baxter’s house,” said Sikes shortly. “He moved in here
the day after the wedding, and he ain’t moved out of it since, far as I
know.”

“And who are you?” inquired Mr. Gooch.

“Me? My name is Sikes, Joseph Sikes. I’m Ollie’s best friend, if you
want to know. I stood up with him when he was married, and I’ve been
standin’ up for him ever since. If you’ve got anything nasty to say
about Oliver Baxter, I guess you’d better not say it in my hearin’, Mr.
Gooch.”

“I have no intention of saying anything nasty about my wife’s brother,”
retorted Mr. Gooch.

“I know all about you,” said Mr. Sikes, replacing his cigar and scowling
darkly. “I’ve heard Ollie speak of you a hundred times. He ain’t got any
use for you.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Gooch.

“Well, I don’t mind telling you,” said Mr. Gooch, bridling, “I haven’t
any use for him. I never did take any stock in brother-in-laws, anyhow,
and that’s why I’ve never had anything to do with Baxter. You can tell
him—”

“I guess you’re forgettin’ that you are a brother-in-law yourself, ain’t
you?” interrupted Mr. Sikes, with a most offensive snigger.

“Are you trying to pick a quarrel with my husband?”

“As I said before,” explained Mr. Sikes, “I am Ollie Baxter’s best
friend, and I certainly ain’t going to allow anybody like a
brother-in-law to come in here at a time like this and get off any
insinuations. This is the happiest day of Ollie Baxter’s life—that is,
it will be when he gets his right senses back—and it ain’t going to be
spoiled, not even behind his back, if I can help it. Especially by a
brother-in-law.”

“The man has been drinking,” said Mrs. Gooch, sniffing the air.

“You’re right,” confessed Joseph promptly. “I’ve had a couple of good
swigs out of this pint, and I’m proud of it. It helps me to say what I
think about people that Ollie Baxter don’t like. I’ve been waitin’ for
nearly ten years to tell you what I think of you, Mr. Gooch, for the way
you acted toward Ollie when he tried to get his sister here to help pay
for a tombstone for their father’s grave, and you—”

“I’ll thank you to mind your own business,” exclaimed Mr. Gooch loudly.

“I don’t want to be thanked for it,” shouted Mr. Sikes. “It’s my
business to tell you a few things about yourself, so don’t thank me.”

“Oh, my goodness!” wailed Mrs. Gooch. “In my own brother’s house, too. I
never was so insulted in all my life. Oliver! Oliver, where are you?
Come down here and order this man out of your house.”

“No use yellin’ for Oliver,” said Mr. Sikes. “He won’t hear you.” Then
he swallowed hard. “Come to think of it, I guess I ought to apologize,
ma’am. Which I hereby do. I haven’t had much sleep lately, worrying over
this joyous occasion, and I guess I’m a bit crusty. I hereby welcome you
to Ollie’s house, speaking in his place, and ask you to have a chair
over here by the stove. You can sit down too if you want to, Mr. Gooch.
To show you there’s no hard feelings on this joyous occasion, I’ll even
go so far as to ask you to have a drink out of this bottle. It’s—”

“My husband does not drink,” said Mrs. Gooch, stiffly.

“You might let him off just this once,” pleaded Mr. Sikes, tactlessly.

Horace Gooch frowned. “I’ve never touched a drop of intoxicating liquid
in my life, sir.”

Sikes opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, choked
the words off, and then offered the following substitute: “Terrible
weather for this time of year, ain’t it?”

There was no response to this conciliating commonplace, nor to the
invitation to sit down. Mrs. Gooch, having divested herself of coat,
scarf, bonnet and overshoes, was straightening her hair before the
looking-glass, while her husband surveyed the room and its contents with
the disdainful air of one used to much better things.

You could tell by the expression on his face that the floor of his
parlor was covered by a gorgeous Brussels instead of the many-hued rag
carpet that served Oliver Baxter and his wife; and where they had
old-fashioned horse-hair chairs and a sofa, he possessed articles so
handsomely done in plush that it was almost a sin to occupy them. If he
had not come directly from contact with a biting wind, one might have
been justified in construing his frequent and audible sniffs as of scorn
rather than of necessity. He was a tall, lank man with narrow shoulders,
narrow face, and a pair of extremely narrow black eyes. He typified
prosperity of the meaner kind. Over in Hopkinsville, Horace Gooch was
considered the richest and the stingiest man in town. He was what is
commonly called a “tax shark,” deriving a lucrative and obnoxious income
through his practice of buying up real estate at tax-sales and holding
it until it was redeemed by the hard-pressed owner, or, as it happened
in many instances, acquiring the property under a provision of the state
law then in operation, whereby after a prescribed lapse of time he was
enabled to secure a tax deed in his own name. He also trafficked in
chattel mortgages.

No one, not even his fellow church members, had ever been known to get
the better of him. It must be said for him, however, he went to church
twice every Sunday and invariably did his share toward spreading the
gospel by dropping a noisy quarter into the collection plate at both
services. And so astute a business man was he that he never was without
the proper change. His brother-in-law called him a “blood-sucking
skinflint,” and it is not in the power of the teller of this tale to
improve upon that except by quoting from the unprintable opinions of his
victims.

Mrs. Gooch was Oliver’s only sister, and had married Horace Gooch when
in her teens. At thirty-eight she was still wondering if she was really
good enough for him and if he had not made a mistake in marrying her
when there were so many other girls he might have had for the asking.
Sometimes Horace made her feel that he could have done better. At any
rate, she was never allowed to be in doubt as to what he thought of all
the other Baxters, living or dead. They were as “common as dirt.” At
first it was difficult for her to be ashamed of Oliver without being
equally disgusted with herself, but as time went on and she became more
and more of a Gooch this irritating sensitiveness eased off into a state
of contemptuous pity for her insignificant brother. His marriage to a
toll-gate keeper’s daughter sent him down several pegs in her
estimation, notwithstanding Mr. Gooch’s sarcastic contention that Oliver
had wedded far above his station—indeed, he went on to say, he didn’t
believe it possible for Oliver to find any one beneath his station, no
matter how hard he tried or how far he looked.

And yet when word came by wire that there was to be a death in the
family, Ida Gooch overlooked everything and hastened to her brother’s
side, drawn not so much by sisterly affection as by the desire to take
an active and public part in any family sorrow or bereavement. Having
looked forward, over eighteen miles of wind-swept highways, to a house
of grief, she was not only shocked but secretly annoyed to find that
life instead of death had visited the humble home of her brother. She
knew she would never hear the last of it from Horace, who hated babies.
They had no children of their own.

But now that she was here, she was determined to make the most of the
situation.

“I shall take charge here,” she announced to Mr. Sikes. “Is this the way
upstairs?”

Mr. Sikes nodded. “But if I was you,” he said, “I’d hold my horses.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I guess you’d better ask Serepty Grimes before you begin to take charge
here,” said he grimly.

“Serepty who?”

“Grimes. She’s running this house at present. Her husband used to run
the Rumley sawmill before he died. Serepty’s running it now.”

“That doesn’t cut any figure with me,” announced Mrs. Gooch firmly. “I
am going up to Mary’s room—her name is Mary, isn’t it?—to see what
there is to do for—”

“Wait a minute, Ida,” interrupted her husband. “I wouldn’t go busting
into that room until I found out whether I was wanted or not.”

“Let her go, man,” cried Mr. Sikes, eagerly. “But if she was my
wife—and thank God, I’m a single man—I’d stand at the foot of the
stairs to ketch her when she comes down.”

“Do you mean to say that my own brother would lay violent hands—”

“Ollie Baxter? I should say not. He ain’t got anything more to do with
running this house than I have. Why, Serepty wouldn’t let Napoleon
Bonaparte into Mrs. Baxter’s room if he was to come here in full
uniform. But don’t take my word for it. Go ahead. You might as well get
it over with. I wouldn’t any more think of going up them steps, big as I
am, without receiving orders from her, than I’d think of sticking my
head in this stove.”

“I will soon get rid of Mrs. Grimes,” said she, tossing her head.

As she started to leave the room, a loud knocking at the front door rose
above the howl of the wind. Sikes resuming his office as master of
ceremonies, pushed his way past Mrs. Gooch and opened the door to admit
a woman and two men. The first to enter the sitting-room was a tall man
wearing a thin black overcoat and a high silk hat. The former was
buttoned close about his shivering frame, the latter jammed well down
upon his ears to meet the vagaries of the tempestuous wind. This was the
Reverend Herbert Sage, pastor of the Presbyterian Church of Rumley. The
lady was his wife.

The other member of the trio, a fat, red-faced, jolly looking man of
indeterminate age, was Silas Link, the undertaker, upholsterer and
livery-man of Rumley. We encounter him now in the last-mentioned
capacity, hence his cheery grin, his loud-checked trousers and his brown
derby set jauntily over his right ear. He wore a buffalo-skin overcoat.
In his capacity as upholsterer and furniture-repairer he affected a
dusty suit of overalls of a butternut hue and wore spectacles that gave
him a solemn, owl-like expression. As an undertaker he was
irreproachably lachrymose despite his rosy cheeks, and he never
“officiated” except in a tight-fitting Prince Albert coat, a plug hat, a
white cravat and a pair of black cotton gloves. In view of the fact that
he so rarely is called upon to appear in the character of undertaker,
owing to the infrequency of emergencies, and also that we are likely to
come in contact with him a dozen times a day as a livery-man, it is only
fair to introduce him here in the most cheerful of his three rôles,
especially as we may never have occasion to call upon him for repairs.

The “Reverend” Sage—he was always spoken of as the “Reverend”—was a
good-looking young man of thirty, threadbare and a trifle wan, with
kindly brown eyes set deep under a broad, intelligent brow. He had a
wide, generous mouth and a pleasant smile; a fine nose, a square chin,
and a deep, gentle voice. For three years he had been shepherd of the
Presbyterians in Rumley, and he was as poor if not actually poorer than
the day he came to the town from the theological institute in Chicago.
His salary was eight hundred dollars a year, exclusive of “pickings,” as
Mr. Baxter called the pitiful extras derived from weddings, funerals and
“pound parties.” Come November, there was always a “pound party” for the
minister, and it was on such occasions that he received from his flock
all sorts and manner of donations. His wife in one of her letters to a
girl friend in Chicago mentioned twenty-six pairs of carpet slippers
“standing in a row,” seventeen respectfully knitted mufflers, numberless
mittens and wristlets, and she couldn’t tell what else until she had
gone through all the drawers and closets in the parsonage.

Which brings us to the wife, and also to an absolutely unaccountable
anomaly. It is not difficult to explain how he came to fall in love with
her and why he married her. That might have happened to any man.
Likewise it is fairly easy to understand how she came to fall in love
with him, for he was dreamy-eyed and reluctant. But how she came to
marry him, knowing what it meant to be the wife of an impoverished
preacher, is past all understanding. She was a handsome, dashing young
woman of twenty-three: the type one meets on the streets of New York or
Chicago and is unable to decide whether she is rich or poor, good or
bad, idle or industrious, smart or common. Certainly one would never
find her counterpart in a town like Rumley except by the accident of
importation, and then only as a bird of passage. When she came to Rumley
as a bride in the June preceding the birth of Oliver October Baxter,
Rumley was aghast. It could not believe its thousand eyes. Small wonder,
then, that the precious Mrs. Gooch and her even more precious husband
gazed upon her as if their own slightly distended eyes were
untrustworthy.

She was tall, willowy, and startling. She wore a sealskin coat—at least
it looked like seal—with sleeves that ballooned grandly at the
shoulders; a picture hat that sat rakishly—(no doubt the wind had
something to do with its angle)—upon a crown of black hair neatly
banged in front and so extensively puffed behind that it looked for all
the world like an intricate mass of sausages in peril of being dislodged
at every step she took; rather stunning coral ear-rings made up of
graduated globes; a slinky satin skirt of black with a long, sweeping
train that, being released from her well-gloved hand, dragged swishily
across the cheap rag carpet with a sort of contemptuous hiss. A roomy
pair of rubber boots, undoubtedly the property of her husband, completed
her costume.

“Good evening, Mr. Sikes,” she drawled, as she scuffled past him into
the sitting-room. “Nice balmy weather to be born in, isn’t it?”

Mr. Sikes, taken unawares, forgot himself so far as to wink at the
parson, and then, in some confusion, stammered: “St-step right in, Mrs.
Sage, and have a chair. Evening, Mr. Sage. How are ye, Silas? Help
yourself to a cigar. Take off your things, Mrs. Sage. Oliver will be
mighty glad to see—”

“How is Mrs. Baxter, Joseph?” inquired the parson, removing his hat with
an effort. It had been jammed down rather low on his head.

“The thing is,” put in Mr. Link, cheerily, as he began to shed his coat,
“is old Ollie likely to pull through? I’ve been up here six or seven
times to-day and dogged if I know whether to hitch up the hearse or the
band wagon.”

Sikes scowled at the speaker and jerked his head significantly in the
direction of the Gooches. “Come right up to the stove, Mrs. Sage,” said
he, dragging a rocker forward. “You must be mighty chilly.”

“Only my legs,” announced the preacher’s wife.

Mrs. Gooch winced. In her circle, ladies never mentioned legs unless
alluding to dining-room tables, or fried chickens, or animate objects
such as dogs, horses, cows and sheep. And when she found out later on
that this startling person was a minister’s wife, she wondered what the
world was coming to. Somehow, it seemed to her, nothing could be so
incongruous or so disillusioning as the wife of a preacher having legs.

“This is Oliver’s sister,” introduced Mr. Sikes, awkwardly. “From
Hopkinsville. Reverend Sage, Mrs. Gooch. Mr. Link, Mrs. Gooch. And this
is Oliver’s brother-in-law, her husband, also of Hopkinsville.”

Everybody bowed. “I didn’t catch the lady’s name,” said Mrs. Gooch.

“Permit me to introduce my wife,” said the Reverend Sage, advancing to
the stove, rubbing his extended palms together. “A bitter night, is it
not?”

“Very,” said Mrs. Gooch.

“Very,” said Mr. Gooch.

“Tough on horses,” said Mr. Link.

“Very,” said Mr. Sikes.

General conversation, after this laconic start, died suddenly. Everybody
stood and looked at everybody else for a few moments, and then Mr. Sikes
had a happy inspiration. He began shoveling coal from the scuttle into
the already blushing stove, making a great deal of racket. The others
watched him intently, as if they never had seen anything so interesting
as a stove being stuffed with fuel.

“And all sorts of live stock,” added Mr. Link, apparently startled into
speech by the closing of the stove door.

“From Hopkinsville, did you say?” inquired Mr. Sage politely, turning to
Mr. Gooch.

“Yes,” said Mr. Gooch succinctly.

“Ah, a—er—very enterprising town—very enterprising. Ahem!”

“Where is it?” asked Mrs. Sage, who by this time had seated herself in a
rocking-chair, with her rubber boots well advanced toward the stove.

“I guess you haven’t lived in this part of the country very long,” said
Mr. Gooch condescendingly.

“Oh, haven’t I? I’ve been here nearly six months—one hundred and
thirty-two days, to be exact.” She glanced at the clock on the bracket
between the windows. “Lacking two hours and twelve minutes,” she went
on. “We came down on the local that’s due here at 9:14, but it was
twenty-eight minutes late.”

“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Sage, discreetly.

“Well, if you will excuse me,” began Mrs. Gooch, withdrawing her gaze
from the lady’s boots, “I guess I’ll run upstairs and see my
sister-in-law.”

“Ain’t Serepty up there?” asked Mr. Link quickly.

“Yep,” replied Mr. Sikes. “You needn’t worry, Silas,” he added
significantly.

“You stay right here, Ida,” ordered Mr. Gooch. “I’m not going to have
you insulted by this woman they’re talking so much about. You’d think
she was Queen Victoria or somebody like that.”

“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Sage, this time in a suave, conciliatory manner—if
it is possible to cough suavely. “It is my practice, no matter what the
weather may be, to call at the earliest opportunity upon any stranger
who may arrive in our little community. Your nephew is the latest
stranger in town, I should say—eh, Mrs. Goops?”

“My—my what?”

“Gooch is my name,” broke in her husband tartly. “G, double o, c, h.”

“I do wish, Herbert dear,” said Mrs. Sage languidly, “you would try to
remember Gooch.”

“I beg pardon. A slip of the tongue. I was about to inquire about your
dear brother, Mrs. Gooch. How is he?”

“I didn’t know there was anything the matter with Oliver.”

“There isn’t anything the matter with him,” said Mrs. Sage, “that a
good, stiff drink of whiskey won’t cure.” Then catching the look in the
other woman’s eye, she explained: “Oh, I’m not a native, you know. I
come from Chicago—God bless it!”

“Ahem!” coughed her husband. “I suppose Sister Grimes will be down in a
few minutes, Joseph?”

“Just depends,” replied Mr. Sikes, somewhat grimly.

“Wonderful woman, indeed. Quite indispensable at a time like this,”
continued the minister.

“She’s just as handy at a funeral,” supplemented Mr. Link, in the hushed
voice of an undertaker.

“We must remember how indispensable Mrs. Grimes is at a time like this,
Herbert,” said Mrs. Sage, with a yawn.

“You won’t have to remember,” blurted out Mr. Sikes. “Serepty’ll do the
remembering.”

“I adore babies, don’t you, Mrs. Gooch?”

“Yes, indeed. Ah—I—how many children have you, Mrs. Sage?”

“On pleasant Sundays I should say as many as twenty-five. They shrink
quite a bit if the weather’s bad.”

“Good gracious me!”

“She means her Sunday-school class,” explained Mr. Sage hurriedly. He
had the worried manner of one who never knows what is coming next.

His wife looked up into his face and smiled—a lovely, good-humored
smile that was slowly transformed into a mischievous grimace.

“I’m always making breaks, am I not, Herby dear? It’s a terrible strain,
Mr. Gooch, being a parson’s wife. I sometimes wish that Herbert—I mean
Mr. Sage—had been a policeman or a bartender or something like that.”

“Umph!” grunted Mr. Gooch.

“Well, I suppose it ain’t as hard to live up to a policeman or a
bartender as it is to live up to a minister of the gospel,” said Mrs.
Gooch, feeling of the tip of her nose as she turned away from the stove.

Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link, having something of a private nature to say to
each other, had retired to a position near the door, which by design or
accident was pretty thoroughly blocked by their heavy figures. Mrs.
Gooch sniffed unnecessarily.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sage over her shoulder; “you’re right, Mrs. Gooch. Live
and learn is my motto.” She winked at her husband.

“My dear Josephine!” exclaimed Mr. Sage reproachfully.

“Say, Ida,” burst out Mr. Gooch, who had been fretting almost audibly,
“I’m getting tired of hanging around here waiting for Oliver. Get your
things on. We’re going home.”

“Oh, my dear friend,” cried the pastor, “you surely are not going away
without saying good-by to Brother Baxter. He will—”

“I’m going away without even saying howdy-do to him,” rasped Mr. Gooch.
“Where are your overshoes, Ida?”

At this juncture the sitting-room door was opened, somewhat to the
confusion of the two citizens of Rumley, and a small, plump, middle-aged
woman, bearing a couple of blankets in her arms, entered the room.

“Hello, Serepty!” cried Mr. Link. “Everything all right?”

Mrs. Grimes surveyed the group. Her pleasant, wholesome face was
beaming. Her gaze rested upon the astonishing hat of Mrs. Sage.

“Why, how do you do, Sister Sage. How nice of you to come out on a night
like this. Mary will be pleased to hear you’ve been here. Oh, yes,
Silas, everything is all right. You can go home. Nobody is going to die.
How do you do, Mr. Sage. What a terrible night for you to be out, with
that wretched throat of yours. If you’ll wait till I take these blankets
out to warm them in the kitchen I will wrap a piece of flannel and a
strip of bacon around your throat. It’s the best—”

“Don’t think of it, Sister Grimes. I am quite all right. I thought
perhaps I might—ah—cheer Sister Baxter up with a little—ah—spiritual
encouragement—er—a prayer of rejoicing—er—a—”

“That’s all been attended to, thank you,” broke in Mrs. Grimes crisply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Poor Oliver has done nothing but pray since daybreak. He’s worn himself
out with prayer. I had to go out in the hall a while ago and tell him to
shut up. Make yourselves at home, everybody. I’ll be back in—my land!”

Mr. Baxter, coatless, disheveled and in a state of extreme anguish, came
plunging down the stairs and into the room.

“Whe-where’s the doctor?” he gasped. “My God, where’s Doc Robinson? He’s
dying! Hurry up, Serepty! My infant is dying! Oh me, oh my—oh me—”

“Where is your coat, Oliver Baxter?” demanded little Mrs. Grimes,
severely. “Do you want to catch your death of cold?”

“Coat? Say, can’t you hear him? He is calling for help. Listen! Sh!
Listen, everybody.” Then after a long period of silence in which
everybody frowned and listened intently, and no sound came from aloft,
he groaned: “Oh, Lord! He’s dead! Dead as a door nail!”

“I guess it was the wind you heard, Ollie,” said Mr. Link, brightly.

For the first time, Mr. Baxter allowed his gaze to concentrate upon some
definite object. He stared at the undertaker-livery man, and his jaw
dropped lower than ever.

“The—the undertaker,” he gulped. “How—how did you get here so soon,
Silas? He ain’t been dead more than thirty seconds. He didn’t die
till—”

“Calm yourself, Oliver,” admonished Mrs. Grimes, but soothingly. “Sit
down. It’s nothing but a pin. I’ll go up to him as soon as I’ve fixed
you.” She thrust the blankets into Mr. Gooch’s arms. “Hold these,” she
said. “Come over here by the stove, Oliver. Sit down. I’ll go fix a hot
mustard bath for you to stick your feet in. Give me one of those
blankets—oh, excuse me, I didn’t notice you were a stranger. Who—”

“This is Ollie’s brother-in-law, Serepty,” explained Mr. Sikes. “Say,
Ollie, I’ve got a great surprise for you. Your sister and her husband
have come over from Hopkinsville to wish you many happy returns of the
day.”

Mr. Baxter got up from the chair into which Serepty had forced him and
shook hands with his relatives.

“You’ve—you’ve been drinking, Oliver,” exclaimed Mrs. Gooch, horrified.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if I had,” admitted Oliver. “It isn’t every day
a feller has a—Why, good evening, Mrs. Sage. I didn’t see you come in.
Where’s Mr. Sage? Ain’t he—”

“Sit down in that chair, Oliver Baxter,” commanded Mrs. Grimes. “I’m
going to wrap this blanket around you.” She relieved Mr. Gooch of one of
the blankets and proceeded to tuck Mr. Baxter snugly into the rocking
chair. “Then I’ll get the mustard bath. Now, you sit still, do you hear
me? Mary and the baby are all right. Make yourselves at home, everybody.
And you, Joe Sikes, answer the door if anybody knocks.”

She snatched the other blanket away from Gooch and hurried to the
kitchen. After an awkward pause, rendered painful by the presence of the
two Gooches, the company made a simultaneous effort to break the ice
that suddenly had clogged the flow of conversation.

“Eighteen miles through all this—”

“From your telegram we thought a death had—”

“It’s an ill wind that blows no—”

“That’s a mighty fine pair of mares you—”

“Nobody likely to knock at the—”

Young Mrs. Sage came in at the end with the following question:

“What are you going to name it, Mr. Baxter?”

“Eh? It? It ain’t an it, Mrs. Sage. It’s a masculine gender. We’re going
to call him Oliver October. Sh! Isn’t that somebody on the porch, Joe?
Doc Robinson, like as not. Go to the door, will you?”

“It’s the wind,” said Mr. Sikes. Nevertheless he went over and looked
out of the window.

Another silence, broken at last by Mr. Baxter.

“He’s got the finest head you ever saw,” said he, with a beatific
expression on his face. “Got a head like a statesman.”

“Oh, that is good news,” said the Reverend Sage, jovially. “We’re sadly
in need of statesmen these days, Brother Baxter.”

“Statesmen, your granny,” exploded Mr. Gooch, now thoroughly out of
patience. “That’s the trouble with this country. It’s being run entirely
by statesmen. That’s what I’ve been saying since March ’89. What we need
is a good, sound business man in the White House. President Harrison is
a fine lawyer, but if ever we needed a good Democrat back in the
presidential chair it’s now. Get rid of the statesmen. That’s my motto.
They’ve been—”

Mrs. Gooch touched his arm and whispered in his ear: “You mean
politicians, Horace—politicians, _not_ statesmen.”

Mr. Gooch was flabbergasted. “Consarn it, I’m always getting those two
words mixed,” he snarled. “But anyhow, this country made the blamedest
fool mistake on earth when it turned Grover Cleveland out and put these
blood-sucking Republicans back in power.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mr. Link, witheringly.

A heated political argument ensued, Mr. Gooch holding out against the
Messrs. Link and Sikes, both of whom were what he finally succeeded in
characterizing as “black Republicans.” He also charged them with waving
the “bloody shirt,” and in return heard his party classified as “out and
out copperheads.”

Through it all, the anxious parent of Oliver October sat staring at the
bright red isinglass in the stove door, oblivious to the storm of words
that raged about him. Mrs. Sage, seated close beside him, finally
reached out and took one of his hands in hers and squeezed it
sympathetically.

“Don’t you worry,” she said gently.

He looked up, and a slow smile settled upon his homely features.

“You ought to see his feet,” he murmured. “Little bits of things about
that long. Cutest feet you ever saw.”

“I’ll bet they are,” said she warmly, and he was happier than he had
been in hours.




                              CHAPTER III


                          WOMEN IN RED SHAWLS

The Reverend Sage, withdrawing his hallowed cloth from contact with even
baser politics, had moved over to one of the windows, and was gazing out
between the curtains across the gale-swept porch into the blackness
beyond. Through the window-light the fine snow swirled in shadowy
clouds, like an ever-moving screen beyond which lay mystery. He shivered
a little, poor chap, at the thought of going out again into the bitter,
unbelievable night—at the thought of his cold little home at the
farther end of the village where the drifts were high and the wind blew
fiercely over the treeless, unsheltered tract known as Sharp’s Field. He
was thinking, too, of the girl he had brought down with him as a bride
in the sunny days of June, when all the land was green and the air was
soft and warm and there was the tang of fresh earth and the scent of
flowers for grateful nostrils.

He was thinking of her and the mile walk she would have to take with him
into the very teeth of the buffeting gale when this visit was over. He
sighed. She had come to this wretched little town from a great city
where there were horse-cars and cable-trains and hacks without number;
where houses and flats were warm and snug; where the shrieking storms
from off the lake were defied by staunch brick walls; where the nights
were short and the days were told by hours; where there were lights and
life, restaurants and theaters, music and dancing. He thought of the
cheap but respectable boarding-house on the cross-street just off
Lincoln Park and the warm little room on the third floor where he had
lived and studied for two full years. It was in this house that he had
met Josephine Judge. She was the daughter of the kindly widow who
conducted the boarding-house—a tall, slim girl who used slang and was
gay and blithesome, and had ambitions!

Ambitions? She wanted to become an actress. She was stage-struck. It was
quite wonderful, the way she could mimic people, and “recite,” and sing
the sprightly songs from “Pinafore,” “La Mascotte,” “Fra Diavolo,”
“Fatinitza,” “The Bohemian Girl,” and could quote with real unction the
choicest lines of “Rosalind,” “Viola,” “Juliet” and other rare young
women of a flowery age. And she had made him and all the rest of the
boarders laugh when she “took off” Pat Rooney, Joe Murphy, the Kernells,
Gus Williams, “Oofty Gooft” and the immortal “Colonel Mulberry Sellers.”

He was not a theatre-going youth. He had been brought up with an
abhorrence for the stage and all its iniquities. So he devoted himself,
heart and soul, to the saving of the misguided maiden, with astonishing
results. They fell in love with each other and were married. He often
smiled—and he smiled even now as he gazed pensively out into the
night—when he recalled the alternative she proposed and continued to
defend up to within a day or two of the wedding. She wanted him to give
up the pulpit and go on the stage with her! She argued that he was so
good-looking and had such a wonderful voice, that nothing—absolutely
nothing!—could keep him from becoming one of the most popular “leading
men” in the profession. She went so far as to declare that he would make
a much better actor than a preacher anyhow—and, besides, the stage
needed clean, upright young men quite as badly as the church needed
them!

And now she was down here in this desolate little town, loyally doing
her best to be all that a country parson’s wife should be, working for
him, loving him,—and, if the truth must be told—surreptitiously
delighting him with frequent backslidings to Pat and Joe and Gus,
including occasional terpsichorean extravagances that would have got her
“churched” if any one else had witnessed them.

He was always wondering what the people of Rumley thought of her. He
knew, alas, what she thought of the people of Rumley. His heart swelled
a little as he glanced over his shoulder and saw her patting the hand of
the distracted Baxter. She was his Josephine, and she was a
warm-hearted, beautiful creature who was bound to be misunderstood by
these—He was conscious of a sudden, unchristian-like hardening of his
jaws, and was instantly ashamed of the hot little spasm of resentment
that caused it.

The political adversaries were now shouting at each other with all the
ridiculous intensity of mid-campaign lunatics, and there was a great
deal of finger-shaking and pounding of clenched fists upon open palms.
Young Mr. Sage cringed as he turned his face to the window again, and if
he had given utterance to his feelings he would have petrified the
arguers by roaring:

“Oh, shut up, you jackasses!”

He drew back with an exclamation. The light fell full upon a face close
to the window pane, a face so startling and so vivid that it did not
appear to be real. A pair of dark, gleaming eyes met his for a few
seconds; then swiftly the face was withdrawn, retreating mysteriously
into the shadowy wall beyond the circle of light. He leaned forward and
peered intently. Two indistinct figures took shape in the unrelieved
darkness at the corner of the porch—two women, he made out, huddled
close together, their faces barely discernible through the swirling veil
of snow.

He experienced a queer little sensation of alarm, a foreboding of evil.
The face—that of a person he had never seen before, some one strange to
Rumley—was swarthy and as clean-cut as if fashioned with a chisel. It
was framed in scarlet—a bright scarlet speckled with vanishing blotches
of white.

He turned quickly and spoke to Sikes.

“There are two women out on the porch, Joseph. Strangers. Perhaps you’d
better see what they want.”

“—and if Tilden _was_ elected, why in thunder did the majority of the
voters of this here United States allow the Republicans to—”

“—and what’s more, if Hayes wasn’t honestly elected, why did the people
turn in and elect a Republican, James A. Garfield, in 1880? That’s proof
enough for me—”

“—Tilden had nearly half a million more votes than—”

“—And if the niggers had been allowed to vote in the South—”

“Oh, cheese it!”

Now this undignified exclamation was not uttered by either of the
arguers; nevertheless it terminated the discussion so abruptly that for
a moment or two it seemed that all three had suffered a simultaneous
stroke of paralysis. They turned to confront and to stare open-mouthed
at the wife of the minister, who had risen and was facing them with
blazing eyes.

The horrified Mrs. Gooch, who had preserved a tremulous neutrality
throughout the windy discussion, believed—and continued to believe to
her dying day—that the brazen, overdressed young woman took the name of
the Savior in vain when she gave vent to that astonishing command. (In
witness whereof it is only necessary to record the declaration she made
to her husband, sotto voce, a little later on: “Horace, if I live to be
a thousand years old I’ll never get over the way that woman spoke the
Christian name of our Lord Jesus Christ. It was positively outrageous.”)

Young Mrs. Sage, having thus impulsively reverted to slang, proceeded to
amplify its effectiveness. She went on:

“Give us a rest, can’t you? Go chase yourselves! Where do you think you
are? In a beer saloon? If you want to shoot off your mouths about—”

“My _dear_ Josephine!” cried Mr. Sage, screwing up his face as if in
pain.

“Oh, Lord!” she breathed, staring bleakly at her husband.

A close observer might have noted the sudden quivering of her lower lip,
instantly lost, however, in the shamed and penitent smile that wiped
away every trace of the irritation aroused by the argument. “There I go
again! Backsliding almost to Grand Crossing. In another minute I would
have been in Chicago. Good thing you stopped me, Herbert. And I sha’n’t
in the least mind if you give me a good thrashing when you get me home.
It’s the only way to break me of—”

“Go for ’em—go for ’em, Mrs. Sage,” cried Mr. Baxter. “Give ’em hell!
They ain’t got any right to whoop and yell like that in this house.
They’ll wake the baby—if it ain’t dead—and—”

“They’d wake it if it _was_ dead,” said Mrs. Grimes, coming from the
kitchen at that moment with a steaming pail in her hand.

“Never mind, Josephine,” said Mr. Sage gently. “I am sure our good
friends will overlook—oh, by the by, Joseph, there are two strange
women on the porch. Perhaps you—”

“Go see who it is, Joe,” commanded Mrs. Grimes crisply. “You come
upstairs now, Oliver, and put your feet in this pail of mustard and
water. Come on, now. Say good night to—”

“But, doggone it, I don’t want to go upstairs. I don’t want to put my
feet in—”

“Do you want that boy of yours to be an orphan before he’s hardly had
his eyes open?” demanded Mrs. Grimes, severely. “Well, that’s what he’ll
be if you catch lung fever.”

“Better do what Serepty says, Ollie,” advised Mr. Link.

“That’s right, Ollie,” added Mr. Sikes. “You go on upstairs. I’ll say
good night to everybody for you.”

“You go and see who’s out there on the porch, Joe Sikes. Don’t let any
strangers in, do you hear? Oh, yes, Mr. Sage, I almost forgot. I fixed
up a nice gargle for you—salt and pepper and hot vinegar. It’s on the
kitchen table. There’s a strip of bacon laying there too. I’ll bring
down one of Mr. Baxter’s wool socks to tie around—For goodness’ sake,
Joe Sikes, shut that door before you open the front door. Do you want to
freeze us all to death?”

“Wonderful manager, ain’t she?” confided Mr. Link in an aside to the
minister.

“I see no reason why I should gargle a perfectly well throat and tie a
sock of Brother Baxter’s—”

“You’d better do it,” broke in the other hastily. “She knows what’s
best.”

“I tell you I’m not going upstairs, Serepty. I got a right to set here
and receive congratulations, and I’m going to do it. And I’m going to
set ’em up to cigars—and if anybody wants a drink of whiskey on me all
they got to do is to say so. You let me alone, Serepty. I’m all right.
You go up and see if everything’s all right with Mary and Oliver
October. I’m going to set right here and—”

“I’ll put this mustard bath in the spare room, Oliver,” interrupted Mrs.
Grimes sternly. “It will be ready for you when you come up—before
long.”

Mrs. Gooch whispered to her glowering husband: “I don’t see anything
about her to be afraid of. Why, she ain’t much bigger than a minute, is
she?”

Tall Mr. Gooch eyed little Mrs. Grimes dubiously. “I don’t know,” said
he in reply. “They say Napoleon was a little feller.”

“Did I spill the beans all over the shop, Herby dear?” murmured the
guilty Mrs. Sage, looking up at her husband much as a culprit looks up
at his judge.

“I do wish, Josephine, you would be a _little_ more careful what you
say,” said he, lowering his voice as he bent over her. “Please try to
remember your—our position here. It is—”

His mild admonition was interrupted by the abrupt return of Joseph
Sikes, who, in his excitement, neglected to close not only the
sitting-room door but the one opening on to the porch. Mrs. Gooch, as if
jumping at the opportunity, sneezed violently and transfixed him with an
accusing look.

“Say, Ollie,” burst out Mr. Sikes, “there’s a couple of women out here
from that gypsy camp. They claim to be fortune-tellers. What’ll I do
about ’em?”

“Fortune-tellers?” cried Mrs. Sage eagerly. “I adore fortune-tellers.”

“Frauds, my dear—unholy frauds,” remonstrated Mr. Sage.

“What do they want, Joe?” inquired Baxter.

“Well, one of ’em wants to tell the baby’s fortune. Says she heard about
him a couple of weeks ago and she’s been talking to the stars ever—”

“Good gracious! That proves what a liar she is,” cried Mrs. Grimes.

“Wait a minute,” exclaimed Mr. Sikes. “Hold your horses, Serepty. She
says she knowed a couple of weeks ago that he was going to be born
to-day, that’s what she says. And if that ain’t reading the future, I’d
like to know what it is. Now here’s what she says she can do. She says
she can tell exactly what an infant’s future life is going to be if she
can get at him before his first two sunrises. Guarantees it.”

“Well, I’m not going to allow any gypsy woman to go nigh that infant. I
never saw a gypsy in my life that looked as if she’d ever seen a cake of
soap. Send ’em away, Joe.”

“But, Serepty,” argued Sikes, “don’t you know what might happen if we
make ’em mad? They put a curse on you that won’t ever come off. Now, I
don’t think we ought to take a chance—”

“They sha’n’t go near that baby, so that settles it.”

“Well, I should say not,” exclaimed Mrs. Gooch loudly.

“Wait a minute,” said Sikes, struck by an idea. He hurried to the front
door. As he passed into the hall, Horace Gooch strode over and slammed
the sitting-room door after him.

“Say, Serepty,” began Mr. Baxter, a pleading note in his voice, “I’d
kind of like to know whether my son is going to be President of the
United States some day.”

“How would you like it if she was to tell you he’s going to turn out to
be a jail-bird or something like that, Oliver Baxter?”

“Oh, but they never tell you anything unpleasant, you know,” said Mrs.
Sage, nudging Mr. Baxter.

“My dear Josephine, please do not—”

Once more Mr. Sikes burst into the room—and again he left the door
open.

“She says it ain’t necessary to even see the baby. When they’re as young
as he is, it’s always her rule to tell their fortunes sight unseen.
What’s more, she says if all she says don’t come true she’ll refund the
money. Nothing could be fairer than that.”

“Nothing,” agreed Mr. Baxter enthusiastically.

“Absolutely fair,” put in Mr. Link.

“How can she tell a fortune without seeing the object of it?” demanded
Mrs. Gooch.

“Well,” began Mr. Sikes, and then was forced to scratch his head for
want of a convincing answer. “Wait a minute. I’ll see.” He hurried out
again.

“Old Bob Hawkins that used to drive the hearse for me had his fortune
told just about two weeks after he got married, and every word of it
came true,” said Mr. Link. “He always claimed if he’d had it told two or
three weeks sooner he might have had enough sense to skip out or
something.”

“It is all poppycock,” announced Mr. Sage. “The veriest poppycock.”

“I had mine told,” said his wife, “when I was nineteen. It said I was
going to marry a dark-complexioned man and go on a long journey.”

“Well, there you are,” said Mr. Baxter triumphantly. “The Reverend Sage
is a brunette and it’s considerably over a hundred miles from Chicago to
Rumley. There’s something in it, Serepty. Here’s proof that can’t be
denied.”

“It’s all as simple as falling off a log,” announced Mr. Sikes, from the
door. “She says the only reliable and genuine way to tell a baby’s
fortune is by reading its father’s hand. That’s the way it’s been done
ever since—er—astronomy was invented.”

Mr. Baxter arose. “Bring her in, Joe. Now, don’t kick, Serepty. My
mind’s made up. I’m going to have my way for once.”

“Like as not she’ll tell you bad news, Oliver,” protested his sister. “I
wish you wouldn’t.”

“Anyhow,” said Mr. Gooch surlily, “it’s a good way to get the door
closed.”




                               CHAPTER IV


                        HIS FORTUNE—GOOD AND BAD

Mr. Sikes, taking no chance on having Baxter’s order vetoed by Serepta,
rushed from the room. A moment later he returned, followed by two
shivering women who stopped just inside the door and apologetically
smirked upon the waiting group. One of them, evidently the leader, was a
woman of middle-age—swarthy, keen-eyed, sardonic of expression. A thick
red shawl covered her hair, drawn close under the chin by a brown,
claw-like hand. She wore a man’s overcoat; the tips of a pair of heavy
boots peeped out from beneath the bottom of her dirty yellow petticoat.
Her companion, much younger and quite handsome in a bold, sullen way,
also wore a scarlet shawl about her head; she was dressed very much
after the pattern of her senior.

“Here we are,” announced Mr. Sikes, with a wave of his hand.

“Shut the door,” ordered Mrs. Grimes.

The host, with a nervous sort of geniality, beckoned to the strangers.
“Better come down to the fire, Queen,” he said.

They did not move. The elder woman fixed a curious look upon Mr. Baxter.

“I am the queen of the gypsies, Mister, but how came you to know it?”
she asked in a hoarse, not unmusical voice.

“Always best to be on the safe side,” said Baxter, with his jolliest
laugh. “There are so blamed many gypsy queens running around loose these
days that—”

The gypsy silenced him with an imperious gesture. “There is but one true
queen of the gypsies. I am the true queen of all the Romanies. And you,
Mister, are the father of a noble, handsome son—a prince.”

“Well, by gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Link in astonishment. “That does beat
all!”

“Don’t tell me there’s nothing in fortune-telling,” said Mr. Baxter,
cackling again. “Come up by the fire, Queen. Warm yourself. And you too,
Miss.”

The two women, after a glance at each other, slowly advanced to the
stove and held out their hands to the warmth. The younger of the two
fastened her gaze upon Mrs. Sage. A covetous light gleamed in her black
eyes as she took in the fur coat and the wondrous hat.

“Bring in a couple of chairs from the kitchen, Joe,” ordered the host.
“Set down, everybody. Put on a little more coal, will you, Horace? How
did you know about me, Queen?” He seemed to expand a little with his own
rather vicarious importance.

The gypsy waited impressively until the chairs were produced.

“The stars brought me the news,” she said, and sat down, signaling her
companion that it was now permissible for her to do the same. “They make
no mistakes. I am the chosen mouthpiece of the stars. I speak only of
the things they tell me.”

“Umph!” from Mr. Gooch.

The two women looked at him so piercingly that he turned away, conscious
of a most uncomfortable feeling.

“The stars, Mister, witnessed the birth of your son a hundred thousand
years ago—his birth and also his death,” said the “queen,” satisfied
with the squelching of the scoffer. “They also looked down upon your own
deathbed, Mister, a hundred thousand years ago.”

There was an awed silence while the company sought mentally for a
solution to this tremendous and incomprehensible enigma.

“Look here, Ollie,” said Mr. Link, blatantly jocular; “if you’ve been
dead as long as all that you ought to be buried. You stop in at my
office in the morning.”

This remark properly was ignored by the gypsy queen. She paid no
attention to the strained laugh that followed the undertaker’s sally.
She sat hunched forward in the chair, her chin in her hands.

“The stars travel through space at the rate of a million miles a
minute,” she said oracularly. “How long, Mister, would it take mortal
man to travel a million miles?”

The question, addressed abruptly to Mr. Baxter, found him at a loss for
an answer. All he could do was to shake his head helplessly.

“I see it is beyond you,” she went on. “So fast travel the stars that in
one day, such as ours, they have put behind them a hundred thousand of
the tiny things we call years.”

No one present was prepared to dispute the statement.

“Even as I speak to you now, Mister, my words are as ancient history to
the stars. So! I lift my hand. The stars are a thousand years older than
they were before I lifted it. Do you understand, Mister? Is it not clear
to you?”

“Not very,” confessed Mr. Baxter, humbly.

“See. I snap my fingers. Not in scorn for your ignorance, but to
illustrate. While I was snapping my fingers, some of the stars shot
through a million miles of space, taking thousands of our years to do
it.”

“Mathematically—” began Mr. Sage, but got no further. The gypsy
proceeded, impressively:

“They have witnessed all that is to transpire on this earth of ours
during the next thousand years or two.”

“By gosh—it sounds reasonable,” said Mr. Link. “I never thought of it
in that way before.”

“Will you permit me to inquire, my good woman, what college—what great
seat of learning—you attended?” inquired Mr. Sage ironically.

“College?” she inquired, a trifle blankly.

“You speak the language of a cultivated woman. You use good English. You
have colossal figures on the tip of your tongue. You—”

“I speak many languages,” she broke in. “The language of the stars is
older than any of them. There were stars in the East when the Savior was
born. They were there when this world was made and peopled with ignorant
men and women. They saw from afar the birth of your Savior a million
years before he was—”

“My dear Brother Baxter,” cried the parson, “this is perfect nonsense.
Have you the impudence, Madam, to imply that we mortals are so far
behind the times as all this?”

“I know of nothing, Reverend Sir, that proves the fact more clearly than
the institution you represent,” said the gypsy, with a rare smile.

“Goodness, what beautiful teeth!” murmured Mrs. Sage admiringly.

“The best I can say for you, Madam,” said Mr. Sage, returning the smile,
“is that right or wrong, honest or dishonest, you are nobody’s fool.”

“I can see beyond the end of my nose,” rejoined the woman cryptically.

The parson laughed. “And so, according to your gospel, I am now treading
the streets of the Celestial City, and have been doing so for a million
years without knowing it?”

With the utmost seriousness the gypsy replied: “If you will cross my
palm with a piece of silver, good Pastor, I may be able to state
positively whether you are there—or in the other place.”

The parson’s wife clapped her hands. “Give her a quarter, Herbert,” she
cried, mischievously. “It certainly is worth that much to find out
whether we’re wasting our youth trying to—”

“Ahem! My dear Josephine! In the first place, I do not have to be told
that I am going to heaven when I die. I live in faith. I have no doubt
as to the future.”

At this point Mr. Baxter’s interest in the project got the better of his
politeness.

“We’re wasting time. Let’s get down to business. Do you mean to say,
Queen, that you can look at my hand and tell what’s ahead of my boy
upstairs?”

“First, you must cross my palm with silver. It is a bitter night,
Mister. I have come far through the storm to serve you. You are poor,
but so am I. I have earned more than one piece of silver, but I will be
content with what you may give.”

“I believe I’ll take a chance on it,” said Baxter, with a defiant glance
at Mrs. Grimes and the supercilious Gooches.

Mrs. Grimes was deeply though secretly impressed by the words and manner
of the gypsy. She nodded her head and Baxter brightened. Mr. Gooch,
however, exclaimed:

“Don’t be a fool, Baxter. Money don’t grow on bushes.”

Young Mrs. Sage jumped up from her chair. “I’ve got an idea,” she cried
briskly. “Suppose we all chip in a silver piece toward the fortune of
Oliver October. It’s his birthday, so let’s start him off right. You
pass the hat, Mr. Sikes. Chip in for me, Herbert. I left my purse on the
piano.”

“I didn’t know you had a piano,” said Mrs. Grimes, pricking up her ears.

“Figure of speech,” said Mrs. Sage, airily. “If I had a piano I would
have left my purse upon it if I had a purse.”

There was a jingling of small coins in several pockets. The swarthy
faces of the two gypsies brightened. Horace Gooch glanced at his big
watch—a silver one—and said sharply:

“Didn’t I tell you to get your things on, Ida? We’ve got a long, cold
drive ahead of us.” Then, somewhat defiantly: “Besides, I haven’t got
anything smaller than a silver dollar. No baby’s fortune is worth a
dollar.”

“I guess the queen can change a dollar for you, Mr. Gooch,” said Mrs.
Grimes. “Joe, if you have a spare quarter, put it in for me. I’ll hand
it back to-morrow.”

Sikes picked up the parson’s stove-pipe hat and, fishing some coins out
of his pocket, dropped two of them into the hollow depths of the “tile.”

“That’s for me and Serepty. Come on, Silas. Shell out.”

Link flipped a coin into the hat. “There’s a quarter. Now you can change
that dollar for—er—for Ollie’s brother-in-law.”

“After all, it is a harmless experiment,” announced Mr. Sage, but
dubiously, “and it may prove diverting. In any case, my dear, we will
not miss the—er—the—the thirty-five cents.” As he dropped the coins
into the hat, he leaned over and whispered in her ear: “There goes the
jar of cold cream you were wanting, my dear.”

Oliver October’s parent was embarrassed. “It ain’t right for you folks
to be squandering all this money on account of little Oliver October.
You can’t afford it. ’Specially Horace.”

“What’s that?” snapped Mr. Gooch, reddening. “What do you think I am? A
pauper?” With that he tossed a silver dollar into the hat. “That’s the
kind of a sport I am.”

“Oh, Horace!” cried his wife, starting. “That was a dollar.”

“I know it was. Why?”

“Oh—nothing. Only—only you acted as if it was a dime.”

“How much you got, Joe?” inquired Silas.

“Two-ten. Put your money back in your pocket, Ollie. She ought to tell
all our fortunes for two-ten.”

But Baxter, ignoring him, dropped a dollar into the hat, an act of
vanity which drew from Mrs. Grimes a little squeak of dismay.

“Goodness, Oliver Baxter! The child’s got to have clothes.”

“How do you know it has to have clothes?” demanded Baxter. “Wait till
the queen gets through telling what’s going to happen to him before you
go to prophesying on your own account.”

“I wish I’d put you to bed when I started to awhile ago,” was her
retort.

Mrs. Gooch, who had been a silent and disapproving witness to all this
prodigality, piped up: “I was fool enough to have my fortune told at the
county fair once. By a trained canary bird. For ten cents only.”

“You never told me about it, Ida,” said Mr. Gooch sourly.

Sikes turned the money over to Baxter. “Cross her palm with it, Ollie,”
said he.

“What guarantee is there that we get our money’s worth?” demanded Mr.
Gooch, crinkling his eyes a little as he listened to the jingle of the
coins which Baxter shifted noisily from one hand to the other while
Sikes was arranging the chairs in a semi-circle about the central
figures.

The “queen” looked hard at the speaker. “We all come into the world by
chance, Mister,” she said. “We exist by chance and we are destroyed by
chance. The child’s future depends on chance. I can give no guarantee.
Who shall say whether I speak truly or falsely until time has given its
testimony?”

“A remarkably clever woman,” murmured Mr. Sage, as he seated himself.

“I’d hate to hear any bad news about little Oliver October,” said Baxter
anxiously.

“You must accept the bad with the good, Mister. Our fortunes run over a
road of many turnings, through many snares and pitfalls. Fate directs
us. Each of us has a guiding star. We travel by the light it sheds. Your
baby was born under his own star. His fate is known to that star.”

“Hold out your hand. I’ll say in advance that I don’t believe in
fortune-telling, so if you tell me anything bad it won’t make any
difference. Before you begin, I guess I’ll run upstairs and see if he is
still all right.”

“You stay away from that baby, Oliver Baxter,” exclaimed Mrs. Grimes.
“Like as not these gypsies carry all sorts of awful diseases around with
’em. Sit down, I say. I won’t have any strangers busting in and
frightening that child.”

“Great Scott, Serepty! You don’t call _me_ a stranger, do you?”

“He don’t know you from Adam,” was the stern reply.

“Or Eve, for that matter,” added Mrs. Sage, with a snicker.

“I do wish, Josephine, you would remember—”

“Sh! She’s ready to begin,” interrupted Baxter.

The company drew their chairs closer as the coins were dropped one by
one into the gypsy’s palm. She deliberately drew up her thick skirt and
slipped them into a pocket of her petticoat. Then she seized one of
Baxter’s hands in her own and fixed him with her brilliant, searching
eyes. Silence pervaded the room. Every eye was on the dark, impassive
face of the fortune-teller. Presently, after a few strange passes with
her free hand, she lowered her eyes and began to study the creases in
the Baxter palm.

A particularly violent blast of wind roared and whistled about the
corners of the house, rattling the windows in their frames and peppering
the panes with a fusillade of sleet. The younger gypsy drew her shawl
closer about her chin and slunk a little deeper into the chair.

“A tough night on horses,” said Mr. Link, and then cleared his throat
hastily.

“Maybe you’d sooner be alone, Ollie,” said Mr. Sikes, considerately.

“I wouldn’t be left alone with her for anything, Joe.”

The gypsy began, in a deep, monotonous, rather awesome tone.

“I see a wonderful child. He is strong and sturdy. In the hand of his
father the stars have laid their prophecy. It is very clear. This babe
will grow up to be a fine—Ah, wait! Yes, a very remarkable man.”

Another long silence, broken sacrilegiously by Mr. Sikes.

“I could have told you that, Ollie, for nothing,” he said.

“Sh!”

“I can see this son of yours, Mister, as a leader of men. Great honor is
in store for him, and great wealth.”

“They invariably say that,” said Mr. Sage, smiling.

“Sh!” hissed Baxter fiercely.

“He is in uniform. Of the military, I believe, although the vision is
not yet entirely clear. I do not recognize the uniform.”

“Have you ever seen a general?” inquired Mr. Baxter, wistfully.

Mr. Link interposed. “I know what it is. Many’s the time that infant’s
father has marched in a funeral procession wearing a Knights of Pythias
uniform. Does the hat appear to have a long white plume on it, Queen?”

“There will be wars, Mister, bloody wars,” went on the gypsy, paying not
the slightest attention to the obliging undertaker. “I see men in
uniform following your son—many men, Mister, and all of them armed.”

“Sounds like the police to me,” observed Mrs. Sage.

“Do they catch him?” cried Mrs. Grimes breathlessly.

“He puts away the trappings of war,” continued the imperturbable
seeress. “I see him as a successful man, at the head of great
undertakings. He is still young. He has been out of college but a few
years.”

“That will please his mother,” said Baxter, sniffling. “She has always
wanted that boy to go to college.”

“Sh!” put in Mr. Sikes testily.

“Alas! He will have a great sorrow before he is ten. I can see death
standing beside him. He will lose some one who is very dear to him.”

“Aha!” ejaculated Mr. Gooch, as if here was something to relish.

Mr. Baxter laughed shrilly but mirthlessly. “Look close, Queen,” he
said. “I bet it’s me he’s going to lose.”

“Nay. Some one nearer to him than his father.”

“Stop!” said he soberly, trying to withdraw his hand. “I don’t want to
hear any more. If you mean his—his mother, why, you’ll have to stop.”

Some coaxing and a little ridicule on the part of the spectators decided
Baxter. He laughed and, edging forward on his chair, ordered the gypsy
to continue.

“Let me go back a little,” she droned. “The vision is clearer. He will
come out of college at the top of his class, with great honors. Then,
soon after, will come the wars. He will fight in foreign lands.”

“That bears out what I’ve claimed for years,” said Mr. Link. “We’ve got
to lick England again.”

“Your son will have many narrow escapes, Mister, but he will come home
to his mother, safe and sound.”

“I thought you said she was going to die before he was ten,” said Mr.
Gooch.

Covert glances passed between the two gypsies, the younger now being
wide awake. The fortune-teller bent low over the Baxter palm and studied
it more carefully.

“I—I seem to see a strange woman,” she muttered. “Perhaps it is his
step-mother. It is possible that you will marry again, Mister.”

“You’re off your base there, Queen,” said Mr. Baxter firmly. “It _ain’t_
possible.”

“This is all humbug, Brother Baxter.”

“A great deal more is being revealed to me by the light of the star,
Mister,” urged the gypsy, now eager to give good measure. “Shall I go
on?”

“After what you said about me being likely to get married again, all I
got to say is that I don’t believe a derned word of anything you’ve told
me. That boy’s never going to have a step-mother unless he has a
step-father first.”

“You feel the same way about step-mothers that I do about
brother-in-laws,” put in Mr. Sikes.

“Go on, Queen,” commanded Mr. Baxter.

“I see a great white house and a building with a huge dome upon it. Your
son will sit in the halls of state, in the councils of his land. Ah, the
vision grows dim again. It may mean that he will decline the greatest
honor the people of this land could confer upon him.”

“Oh, dear,” gulped Mrs. Grimes. “You don’t mean to say he will refuse to
be President?”

“It’s more likely he’ll be running on the Republican ticket,” said Mr.
Gooch, grinning at Mr. Link.

“Sh! How old is little Oliver by this time, Queen?” inquired Baxter. “I
mean how far have you got him by now?”

“He is nearing thirty. Rich, respected and admired. He will have many
affairs of the heart. I see two dark women and—one, two—yes, three
fair women.”

Mrs. Sage sighed. “At last it begins to look like real trouble.”

“That would seem to show that he’s going to be a purty good-looking sort
of a feller, wouldn’t it?” said Baxter, proudly.

“He will grow up to be the image of his father, Mister.”

“Now she’s telling you the unpleasant things you were dreading, Oliver,”
said Gooch.

The gypsy leaned back in her chair, spreading her hands in a gesture of
finality.

“I see no more,” she said. “The light of the star has faded out. So! Are
you not pleased?”

“Is that all? Well, all I got to say is that you got a good deal of
money for telling me something that I’ve been dreaming about for I don’t
know how long.”

Mrs. Gooch sniffed. “She’s just like all the rest of these thieving
gypsies. They’re all frauds and liars. Telling fortunes and stealing
children is all they know how to do. If I had my way, they’d all be
locked up.”

The two gypsies leaned forward, their hands close to the stove, their
heads almost touching. There was nothing in their actions or manner to
indicate that they heard the foregoing remarks. Nevertheless, they
scowled unseen and there was evil in their black eyes.

“Anybody could have told you all that she did, Oliver,” complained Mrs.
Grimes, “but that wouldn’t make it true, would it? Three dollars and ten
cents for all that rubbish!”

“And they’ll be robbing your hen roost before morning, Baxter,” said Mr.
Gooch.

“Well,” mused Baxter, “the only really unpleasant thing that’s going to
happen to Oliver October, far as I can make out, is that he’s going to
look exactly like me. That _is_ purty rough, ain’t it, Mrs. Sage?”

“At any rate,” said she, “he will have the satisfaction of being
unmistakably recognized as a wise son.”

The gypsies were preparing to depart. Their shifty eyes wandered over
the heads of the company, taking in the meager contents of the room.
There was a pleased leer on the lips of the younger of the two. Mr.
Baxter arose.

“Taking it by and large, Queen,” he said, “I guess you took us all in
purty neatly. I ain’t blaming you. It’s your business to pick out the
easiest kind of fools and then soak it to ’em.”

The “queen” drew herself erect and gave him a look that would have done
credit to the most regal personage in the world.

“Would you offer insult to the queen of the gypsies?” she demanded
coldly.

“It ain’t insulting you, is it, to call ourselves fools?”

For answer, outraged royalty reached into her pocket and drew out the
silver.

“I could throw your accursed silver into your face,” she almost shouted.
As she drew back her arm as if to carry out the threat, her wrist was
seized by her companion, who whispered fiercely in her ear. “No, no!”
the “queen” answered, “I will not do as you say, Magda. I will not be
cruel. Let the fool be happy while he may. I have been kind to him. He
jeers at me because I have stopped when I might have gone on and told
him the dreadful things—”

“Tell him!” cried the other. “Tell him everything.”

“Open the door, Joe!” commanded Baxter. “Get out, both of you.”

The “queen” turned on him furiously. “Stay! I am about to tell you all
that I saw in the hand of that baby’s father.” Her eyes were hard and
cruel, her voice raised in anger. “You scoff at me. For that you shall
have the truth. All that I have told you will come true. But I did not
tell you of the end that I saw for him. Hark ye! This son of yours will
go to the gallows. He will swing from the end of a rope.” She was now
speaking in a high shrill voice; her hearers sat open-mouthed, as if
under a spell that could not be shaken off. “It is all as plain as the
noonday sun. He will never reach the age of thirty. All good fortune
will desert him in the last year of his life. The very first vision I
had when I took your hand was the sight of a young man swinging in the
air with a rope around his neck. A solemn group of men look on. They
watch him swing to and fro. He jerks and writhes and then at last is
still. That is all. That is the end. I have spoken the truth. You forced
me to do so. I go. Come, Magda!”

They were nearing the door before the silence caused by this staggering
revelation was shattered by Mr. Sikes, who was the first to recover from
the momentary paralysis that had gripped the entire company. The burly
feed store proprietor, superstitious but far from sentimental, sprang
forward and intercepted the two women.

“Hold on, there! I don’t believe a damn’ word of it—and neither does
Mr. Baxter, no matter if he does look white about the gills. You’re
sore, and you’re saying all this for spite.”

The queen lifted her chin haughtily. “You will see,” she proclaimed.
“Wait till the end of his twenty-ninth year before you say it is spite.”

“Say,” broke in Mr. Link shrewdly, “he’s got to commit murder before
they can hang him, ain’t he?”

“I have not said that he would be a murderer,” was the reply, but not
until after she had taken the time to deliberately button her coat and
readjust her headgear.

“Did you not say you saw him swinging to and fro at the end of a rope?”
demanded Silas, accusingly.

“Yes—I—I—that is what I said,” she stammered, and sent a malevolent,
challenging look at the smiling churchman.

“The woman is a fraud,” said the latter, shrugging his shoulders. “Cheer
up, Brother Baxter. No such fate awaits your son.”

“Well, what I was about to say,” went on Mr. Link, “is this. All we got
to do is to bring that boy up not to commit murder. We simply got to
educate him so’s he won’t ever think of doing anything like that. Learn
him to hold his temper down. Soon as he’s old enough to understand,
we’ll begin talking to him about the—er—wages of sin, and so forth.
That’ll fix it all right, Ollie. So don’t you believe a derned word she
said to you.”

But Mr. Baxter was not so much dismayed as he was dejected. He stared
bleakly before him. “The trouble is,” said he, shaking his head
mournfully, “there’s a lot of it I want to believe. And if I believe any
of it, I’ve got to believe all of it. So what’s the sense of little
Oliver being one of the grandest men in the United States if he’s got to
be hung before the United States finds it out? Here! Where are you
going, Serepty? Don’t leave me.”

“I am going out to get a kettle of boiling water and then I’m going to
make that woman wish she’d stayed out where it’s cold. The idea of that
poor little innocent baby being a bloodthirsty murderer! If you’re here
when I get back, I’ll scald you—”

The gypsy made haste to intercept the bristling Serepta.

“He will not be guilty of the crime for which he is to suffer,” was her
sententious conclusion. “Have I not said he would grow up to be a noble
and righteous man? He will never do evil. He will be unjustly accused of
slaying a fellow man. He will die on the gallows an innocent victim of
the law. That is all. I have spoken. I have told you his fate as the
stars have revealed it to me. You may believe me or not, as you like.
Hold! You need not bother, Mister. Magda will open the door.”

It was a speechless, unsmiling group that watched the vagabond women
pass from the room. No one spoke until the front door closed with a
bang. The crunching of snow on the porch followed, and then for a brief
space, the loud ticking of the clock on the shelf. The sophisticated
Mrs. Sage was bereft of all inclination to banter; she was wide-eyed and
solemn. Even her husband was impressed; as for Baxter and the others one
might have been justified in suspecting that they were already
witnessing the horrible execution of the infant Oliver.

A wild, prolonged shriek of the wind, yowling up from the black
stretches of Death Swamp, caused more than one person in the room to
shudder. The humane Mr. Link closed his eyes but opened them
immediately, and said, with less conviction however than on former
occasions:

“It’s a tough night for horses.”

Mr. Sikes bethought himself to poke up the fire. He did it with such
vigor that every one was grateful to him; the prodigious noise and
clatter he was making relieved the tension.

Baxter screwed his face up into a wry grin, but for once forebore
cackling. He drew a singularly boisterous and unanimous laugh by
remarking dryly:

“I wish we had a canary bird here, Ida, to cheer us up a bit.”

“Keep that blanket up close around your neck and shoulders, Oliver
Baxter,” ordered Serepta Grimes briskly. “You’ll be having croup if you
ain’t careful. Mrs. Gooch, you and your husband can sleep in the spare
room to-night. Mr. Baxter will take the back bedroom over the kitchen.
It’s warmer than any other room in the house. Good night, everybody.
I’ll go up the back way with the warm blanket for Oliver October.”

With her departure, Mr. Baxter seemed suddenly to realize that something
was expected of him as host.

“Sit down, everybody,” he invited, and that was the extent of his
hospitality. He lapsed into a brooding silence, pulling feebly at the
drooping ends of his mustache. His mood was contagious. The company, one
and all, appeared to be thinking profoundly. At last the Reverend Sage
spoke.

“There’s nothing in it—absolutely nothing.”

Mrs. Sage came out of a dark reverie to inquire blandly of Mrs. Gooch if
she was intending to spend the night.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Baxter’s sister. “I’ve had my things on
and off three times.”

Mr. Link pondered aloud. “If little Oliver grows up to be as wise as
Solomon, as she seems to think, I’ll bet my last cent he’ll be able to
get around any law that ever was made.”

Suddenly Baxter startled them all by slapping his leg resoundingly. His
face was beaming.

“By ginger, I’ve thought of a way to upset that doggoned prophecy. I’ll
wait till little Oliver is purty well grown up and then I’ll up and move
to a state where they don’t have capital punishment. Gosh! I wish I’d
thought of that before she got away. It would have taken a lot of wind
out of her sails, wouldn’t it?”

Mr. Gooch put a dampener on this. “I don’t see how that would help any
if a mob took him out of jail and lynched him. They say lynching is
getting worse all the time in this part of the country.”

Whereupon Mr. Sikes arose and said something under his breath, adding an
instant later:

“Don’t let me hear anything about Solomon being so dodgasted wise. Look
at all the brother-in-laws he must have taken unto himself—and with his
eyes open, too.”




                               CHAPTER V


                    OLIVER IS FOUND TO HAVE A TEMPER

Ten years pass. The time has come when Oliver October Baxter is to be
told what is in store for him if he does not mend his ways. For, be it
here recorded, Oliver not only possesses a quick temper but a
surprisingly sanguinary way of making it felt. He is a rugged,
freckle-faced youngster with curly brown hair, a pair of stout legs, and
a couple of hard little fists. It is with these hard little fists that
he makes his temper felt. Ordinarily he retires behind a barn or down
into the grove back of the school-house to settle his quarrels, not
through any sense of delicacy but because both he and his adversary of
the moment realize that if they are caught at it the pride of victory or
the gloom of defeat would soon be forgotten in the sound thrashings
administered by teacher or parent, justice monstrously untempered by
mercy.

But there came a day when Oliver’s valor got the better of his
discretion, and, sad to relate, Joseph Sikes and Silas Link took that
very day to accompany each other to the north end of town, where, just
beyond the school-house, was situated the home of a vacillating
Republican who had made up his mind to vote the Democratic ticket at the
coming county election. They were on their way, as a committee of two,
to convince him that he couldn’t commit a crime like that and still go
on enjoying the respect, the confidence, and to some extent, the credit,
that had been his up to that time.

They arrived at the school-house just in time to witness a fierce but
bloodless fight between two panting, clawing youngsters. It was taking
place in the schoolyard, in plain view of passers-by, and was being
relished by a score or more of pupils of both sexes.

Now, Mr. Sikes was a man who enjoyed a good fight. He was getting to the
age where he had to think twice and study his adversary cautiously
before engaging in one himself, for, notwithstanding his strength and
his pugnacity, he was not the man he used to be—witness: the awful
beating he sustained in his fifty-second year at the hands of Joe Fox,
the twenty-one year old shortstop on the Rumley base ball team. It was
he, therefore, who stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and gleefully
yelled “sic-em” to the battling youngsters.

Mr. Link, nothing loth, turned back to join him at the fence. The broad
grins suddenly froze on their faces. The surge of battle caused the ring
of spectators to open up a little, exposing the combatants to plain view
from the excellent vantage point held by the Messrs. Sikes and Link.
They recognized Oliver October—but never had they seen him look like
this! His chubby face was white and set, his teeth were bared, his eyes
were blazing. He was the embodiment of fury. And he was fighting like a
demon!

“Gosh!” fell from the lips of Joseph Sikes, and his cigar would have
done likewise had it not been so deeply inserted.

“It’s—it’s little Oliver!” gasped Silas Link, gripping the top board of
the fence.

“Fi-fighting!” muttered Mr. Sikes, aghast.

“Like a wildcat,” groaned Mr. Link.

“Why, he’s a reg’lar little devil.”

“Looks as if he’d like to kill that boy of Sam Parr’s. We got to stop
’em, Joe—Hey, there! You boys quit that! Hear what I say? Quit it
this—”

Suddenly there was a cry of “teacher,” and then a wild scattering of
spectators. The schoolmaster, Mr. Elwell, was advancing upon the
belligerents. The Parr boy, in no fear of Oliver, was stricken by the
most abject terror in the presence of an on-rushing doom, for well he
knew the sting of Mr. Elwell’s hand when punitively applied to the seat
of his breeches whilst he reposed in ungainly disorder across the
pedagogic knee. It was the Parr boy’s luck to be facing the teacher as
he swooped down upon them. He took advantage of that gracious bit of
luck, and, turning tail, sped swiftly away, leaving the astonished
Oliver to his fate.

A firm hand fell upon the Baxter boy’s shoulder and closed in a grip
that brought a stifled yelp from the lips of the unvanquished warrior.
Then something happened that drew a simultaneous groan of dismay from
the elderly onlookers. Oliver October, still in a state of baffled fury
and wriggling in the clutch of the common enemy of all schoolboys,
delivered a vicious kick at an Elwell shin. So faultless was his aim
that Mr. Elwell’s grunt of pain was loud enough to be heard by timid
schoolgirls some twenty yards away—and as it was an articulate grunt
those who heard it plainly were shocked, as good little girls ought to
be. Oliver, blubbering with rage, kicked again and again, efforts
rendered futile by the length of the teacher’s arm.

A little girl of six, in a brown coat and a red tam o’ shanter, stood
near by, shrieking with terror. She alone of all the scholars had failed
to leave the field of battle.

The two lifelong friends of the Baxter family looked at each other.
Speech was unnecessary. Their expressions spoke plainer than words. They
faced calamity—desolating calamity. Oliver October had a temper, and it
was ungovernable! He was ferocious! He was a regular little devil! They
watched the teacher as he yanked the struggling lad across the yard and
into the school-house, and a great dread took possession of their souls.

Said Mr. Sikes: “Don’t you think we’d better go in there and rescue him
while there’s time to—”

“Not a bit of it,” protested Mr. Link. “Let him take his medicine.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Oliver October. Who did you think I was talking about?”

“Arthur Elwell, of course. That boy’s got a knife. I gave it to him last
Christmas—darn my fool soul! Chances are he’ll stick it into Arthur—”

“Listen!” hissed Mr. Link. A series of sharp, staccato howls in the
shrill voice of a boy came from the interior of the school-house. “That
don’t sound much like Oliver was sticking a knife into anybody, does
it?”

“But the way he kicked Arthur on the shin,” began Mr. Sikes forcibly.
“Why, that boy’s got murder in his heart, Silas. And the way he fought
that Parr boy. Gee whiz! He’s got a lot of hell in him and it’s just
beginning to break loose. I tell you, Silas, that gypsy was right. No
use trying to laugh it off. Now maybe you and Reverend Sage will pay
some attention to me. I’ve been saying for two or three years we ought
to take that boy in hand and train him to keep—”

“Why, darn it, ain’t we been training him since he first began to walk?
Ain’t we been making him go to Sunday-school, and—”

“Yes, but we never told him to fight or kick his teacher, did we?”

“Certainly _not_.”

“Well, he’s doing it, ain’t he? Going to Sunday-school ain’t helped him
a damn’ bit. I said it wouldn’t. It’s been a waste of money, that’s what
it’s been.”

“Waste of—how do you make that out? Sunday-school’s free, ain’t it?”

“Every Sunday for the last five years,” proceeded Mr. Sikes, “I’ve been
giving that boy a nickel to put in the collection box—and here he is,
behaving as bad as any boy in town. I—Gee whiz! Listen to him yell!
Say, we’d ought to go in there and put a stop to that dodgasted idiot.
He’ll kill the poor boy.”

The wails indoors ceased abruptly, but, to the astonishment of the
highly exercised pair, they were taken up almost directly under their
noses. That is to say, their attention was drawn for the first time to
the little six-year-old girl, whose heart-rending squeals were now
piercing the silence that followed the awful uproar in which Oliver
October had been taking part.

“Hello!” cried Mr. Sikes. “What are _you_ crying about, Janie?”

“You ain’t been spanked,” supplemented Mr. Link. He reached over the
fence and put his hands under the arms of the weeping child. Lifting her
over, he held her close to his expansive breast. She buried her face on
his shoulder and sobbed. “There, there, now,” he whispered soothingly.
“Your Uncle Silas won’t let anybody hurt you.”

“Your Uncle Joe will just everlastingly slaughter anybody that touches
you,” added Mr. Sikes fiercely.

They waited, their eyes fixed on the school-house door. Presently they
were rewarded. A small figure, with tousled hair and a face screwed up
into a mask of pain and mortification, came slinking down the steps—a
thoroughly chastened gladiator who sniffled and was without glory. His
streaming eyes swept the yard and took in the staring group of pupils
clustered at the upper corner; and then the two “Uncles” at the fence.
He stopped short in his tracks—but only for an instant. His degradation
was complete. With an explosive sob, wrenched from his very soul, he
whirled and darted around the corner of the building and disappeared
from view.

Mr. Link, bearing the sobbing Jane in his arms, turned and started back
in the direction from which he had come, his companion trailing close
behind. They had changed their minds about seeing the recalcitrant
Republican. As they strode swiftly away they heard the stern voice of
the schoolmaster calling out:

“Where is Sammy Parr?”

But Sammy was far, far away, streaking it for home; a chorus of treble
voices answered for him:

“He ain’t here, teacher.”

Now, the incident just related may appear to be of very small
consequence as viewed from the standpoint of the disinterested
spectator—who, it so happens, must be the reader of this narrative. As
a matter of fact, it has a great deal to do with the history of Oliver
October Baxter. It was that gallant afternoon’s engagement between the
supposedly pacific Oliver and his bosom friend, Sammy Parr, that aroused
the town as nothing else had stirred it in years. Certainly nothing had
stirred it in quite the same way.

For nearly ten years every adult citizen of Rumley had looked upon
Oliver October as a sort of public liability. Within twenty-four hours
after it was uttered on that fierce October night, the sinister prophecy
of the gypsy queen was known from one end of the town to the other, and
while many scoffed and made light of it, not one was there among them
who felt confident that Oliver would be absolutely safe until he had
passed his thirtieth birthday. And now, after ten years of complacent
trust in Oliver October, the town was to discover that he had an
outlandish temper and a decided inclination to commit murder—in a small
way, to be sure, but none the less instinctive.

If Oliver and Sammy had retired—as was the custom—to some secluded
battlefield, no doubt the crisis would have been delayed. But inasmuch
as Sammy had taken it into his head to torment little Jane Sage in so
public a place as the playground it was only natural that her champion
should offer battle on the spot. Moreover, he scorned Sammy’s invitation
to “come on down back of the warehouse,” and likewise was indifferent to
the warnings of peacemakers who urged them not to fight until they were
safely out of all danger of being interfered with by the teacher. It is
probable—aye, more than that, it is absolutely certain—that young
Oliver wished to “lick” the offender in the presence of the offended,
and that would have been quite out of the question had they repaired to
some familiar jousting-ground. At any rate, he valiantly pitched into
Sammy and was getting the better of him under the very eyes of his
“ladye faire” when the not unexpected catastrophe occurred.

Juvenile Rumley knew him far better than its seniors. It had seen him
fight on more than one occasion—which was more than grown-up Rumley had
seen or even suspected—but so loyal is youth that not a word of his or
any other boy’s fistic exploits ever reached the ears of the blissfully
ignorant.

Messrs. Sikes and Link, having abandoned their original mission, were
bent upon a new one. They were filled with a deep concern, and spoke but
few words to each other in the course of the half-mile walk to the home
of the Reverend Herbert Sage. Their reticence may have been due to the
presence of little Jane Sage, who walked between them; or, it may have
been due to the seriousness of their reflections. The statement that
Jane walked between them is not an accurate one. It is true that Mr.
Sikes held one of her hands while Mr. Link held the other, but her legs
were short and theirs were long, and so there were times when her feet
failed to touch the ground at all, or, in touching it, were sadly
without sustained purpose.

Shortly before seven o’clock that evening, Oliver October, fearing the
worst, remarked three well-known figures coming up the path to the
Baxter house. He had just finished his supper and was on the point of
departing for the home of Sammy Parr down the road for a few minutes’
play before darkness fell. Seeing the three visitors and sensing the
nature of their descent upon the home of his father, he stole out the
back way, and, even as a dog retreats with his tail between his legs,
made tracks toward the barn and its friendly hayloft. Something told him
that Sammy’s parents already had received a call from the dread
Committee of Three and perhaps were even now making it hot for Sammy—in
which case that bosom friend of his would be in no mood for play.

“Where’s Oliver October?” inquired Mr. Sikes of Mr. Baxter, who opened
the door to admit his callers.

Mr. Baxter is scrawnier than he was at forty-five, which is saying
something that challenges the credulity. He is still strong, and active,
and wiry, but he is a thing of knobs and joints and wrinkles. The
passing years seem deliberately to have neglected the rest of his person
in a shameless endeavor to develop for him a prize Adam’s apple; it has
become quite a fascinating though bewildering product, scarce what you
would call an adornment and yet not without its own peculiar charm.

It is a shifting, unstable hump that appears to have no definite place
of lodgment; no sooner does it settle into a momentary state of repose
than something comes up—or down—to disturb its serenity and, in a
charmed sort of way, you watch it resume its spasmodic titillations. It
grips you. You can’t help wondering what it is going to do next. And as
it happens to be placed in the scrawniest part of Mr. Baxter’s
person—his neck—it is always visible. He makes a practice of removing
his collar the instant he reaches home of an evening, a provision that
affords great relief not only to himself but also to the vagrant
protuberance.

Which accounts for his being quite collarless when he faced his three
visitors. He blinked at them uneasily, for their faces were long and
joyless.

“He was here a minute ago,” he replied. “Why?”

“Before we proceed any farther, Brother Baxter,” announced the Reverend
Sage, “I wish to state that I do not agree with our friends here.”

“You never do agree with us,” said Mr. Link, but without a trace of
resentment.

“I wouldn’t go quite so far as that if I were you, Silas,” protested the
minister affably. “It is only in the case of Oliver October that I
disagree with you. We heartily agree on almost everything else, I am
sure.”

“But the time has come when we got to agree about Oliver October,”
declared Mr. Sikes dictatorially. “I said it would come, and here it is.
I only hope we ain’t too late. It seems to be the style not to pay a
damn’ bit of attention to anything I say nowadays. It’s a hell of a—”

“My dear Brother Sikes,” broke in the parson, lifting his eyebrows.

Joseph Sikes swallowed hard before speaking again. “It ain’t always my
fault when I cuss and blaspheme like this,” he muttered defensively.

“The thing is,” began Mr. Link, compressing his lips and squinting
earnestly; “what is the best way to go about it?”

“Go about what?” demanded the mystified Mr. Baxter.

“Have you licked him yet?” inquired Sikes darkly.

“Licked who?”

“Oliver October.”

“Not in the last three years. I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Ollie Baxter, that you don’t know what that
boy’s been up to to-day?”

Oliver’s parent regarded Mr. Sikes coldly. “Yes, I _do_ know,” he
snapped.

“Well, what _has_ he been up to, if you know so much about it?”

“None of your derned business. I’m not obliged to consult you or
anybody—”

“Calm yourself, Brother Baxter,” admonished the parson gently. “As I was
saying before, I do not agree with Joe and Silas. They are making a
mountain out of a mole hill. The boy is all right. He is high-spirited,
he is mischievous—as all boys are if they’re any good at all—and he is
not a coward. Of course, it would be most reprehensible—er—and quite
unpardonable in me if I were to say that I approve of fighting, but when
I look back upon my own boyhood and recall the—er—rather barbarous joy
I took in bloodying some other boy’s nose, I—ahem!—well, I believe I
can understand why Oliver October preferred to stand up and fight rather
than run away. Ahem! Yes, in spite of my calling, I think I can
understand that in any real boy.”

Mr. Baxter’s face lengthened. “Oh, Lordy! Has Oliver been fighting?”

“Like a wildcat,” said Mr. Sikes sententiously. “Everybody in town knows
about it. Everybody but you, I mean.”

The father groaned. “I thought he looked as if he’d done something he’d
oughtn’t—Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t tell me he used a knife or—”

“Nothing but his fists, my dear Baxter—from all reports. I did not
witness the—”

“How about the hide he peeled off of Arthur Elwell’s shin?” demanded Mr.
Sikes. “He didn’t do that with his fists, did he? Why, I’ve knowed blood
poisoning to set in on a feller’s shin bone from a scratch you couldn’t
hardly see. It’s almost sure to happen if you wear green socks like
Arthur does. The dye or something gets into the—”

“Jeemes’s River! Has that fool boy been trying to lick Arthur Elwell?”
gasped Mr. Baxter, blinking rapidly. “Ain’t he got any more sense than
to tackle a six-foot man like—”

“It seems that Oliver, in his rage, kicked Mr. Elwell after he had
separated—er—that is, when he took him in hand for fighting in the
playground after school,” said Mr. Sage. “That is something that
frequently happens to peacemakers, Joseph.”

“The thing is,” said Mr. Link, “we got to do something about Oliver
October’s temper. We got to make him realize the awfulness of being hung
by the neck—”

“Justly or unjustly,” put in Mr. Sikes.

“Absolutely,” accepted Mr. Link. “The time has come when we got to head
that boy into the right path by telling him what the gypsy woman said.”

“I must repeat—as I have repeated times without end—that I think it
would be the height of cruelty to tell the child any of that nonsense,”
protested Mr. Sage, rather vigorously for him. “Why, when I think of
little Oliver lying awake nights picturing himself on the gallows—”

“It’s our duty to warn him,” insisted Sikes. “It’s our duty by Ollie
here and poor Mary to see that that boy has everything done for him that
can be done in the way of—er—advice. The first thing we got to do, now
that he’s old enough to understand—and, mind you, I claim he was old
enough three or four years ago—is to make him control his temper. We
got to bring him up so’s nobody on earth can truthfully say he’s got a
mean and cruel and bloodthirsty nature. So when his trial comes up
there’ll be plenty of witnesses to testify that he wouldn’t kill a fly,
much less a man. But, by criminy, if he goes on kicking school-teachers
and fighting like a bull dog, he’ll get such a reputation that he won’t
have a ghost of a chance when it comes to testifying as regards to his
character.”

“Let’s go inside,” said Oliver’s father, wiping a little moisture from
his brow.

He led the way into the sitting-room where a lamp was burning above the
center table—a brassy, ornate lamp suspended from the ceiling over a
glossy mahogany table. The former was a Christmas present from Oliver to
his wife and the latter was a present from Mary to her husband. All
about the refurbished room were to be seen other gifts from Oliver to
Mary, and Mary to Oliver—such as the comparatively new ingrain carpet;
a larger and more generous base-burner stove with very bright nickel
trimmings and a towering “dome”; a three-year old wall-paper in which
poppies and humming-birds abounded; a “Morris” chair of the mission
type; a hard, high-backed leather couch; two rocking-chairs, very
comfortable but of peripatetic habits; a new eight-day clock; several
framed “engravings” of a patriotic or sentimental character; a sectional
book case containing sets of Dickens, Thackeray and Charles Lever (two
dollars a month until paid for); chintz window curtains; and, last but
not least, a wall-telephone. (Party J, ring 4.)

These were but a few of the symbols of prosperity that marked the
progress of the Baxters during the decade. The same mellowing influence
of a well-directed opulence prevailed throughout the house. For one
thing, a separate dining-room had been constructed off the sitting-room;
the porch and the house had undergone repairs and painting; the gravel
walk was replaced by one of soft red brick, and the fences were in
order. The only thing about the place that had not improved with the
times and the conditions was Oliver Baxter himself. He, alas, could not
be re-upholstered; he could not be painted or repaired; moreover, he
could not be stored away in the attic with all the other things
belonging to another day.

“It’s more cheerful in here,” explained Mr. Baxter, in a most cheerless
voice. “Sit down. Had I better call Oliver in now—or wait a while?”

His three visitors solemnly seated themselves.

“Better wait a few minutes,” advised Mr. Link.

“I—I kind of hate to whip him,” said Mr. Baxter forlornly. “He’s a good
little boy, and I—I promised his mother I’d never whip him unless I
actually caught him doing something bad.”

“Who said you had to whip him?” demanded Mr. Link.

“I wouldn’t let you whip him, even if you wanted to,” stated Mr. Sikes
flatly. “All I want is for us to talk to him about—well, about his
future.”

“It has just occurred to me that it might be advisable for me to find
Oliver and have a talk with him privately before we drag him before
this—er—before his executioners,” said Mr. Sage, with kindly irony. “I
could explain gently and—”

“I know just what you’d do, Parson,” broke in Mr. Sikes. “You’d explain
things to him by telling him there was a couple of blamed old fools in
here making up a story he oughtn’t to pay any attention to—just be
polite and say ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, sir’ and act like a little gentleman
no matter what we say, but not to worry, because there ain’t a damn’
thing to worry about.”

“I dare say you are right,” sighed the kind-hearted minister. “My little
girl, it appears, was the cause of this fight, Brother Baxter. I regret
to say that Jane—ah—sort of egged him on. It does not seem to me to be
quite just that Oliver should be penalized for his—shall we say an act
of chivalry? Naturally I am inclined to favor the boy. No doubt if Jane
had refrained from—”

“That ain’t the point,” interrupted Mr. Link. “The thing is, did he lose
his temper or did he not—and if so, is it safe to let him go on losing
it like that? You can’t tell what it will lead to.”

“What I want to know,” broke in Mr. Baxter, “is who he’s been fighting
with.”

“Sammy Parr,” replied the three visitors.

“Sammy Parr? Why, doggone it, it ain’t more than an hour ago they were
playing hopscotch out in my barn lot. I never saw two boys more friendly
and happy than they were.”

“That’s the worst of it,” said Mr. Link solemnly: “It goes to prove that
when Oliver gets mad he don’t know what he’s doing. It’s these violent,
ungovernable tempers that raises thunder, Ollie. The kind that flares up
like a powder explosion, does a lot of damage, and then dies down like a
breeze. Fighting fit to kill one minute, smiling the next. They’re the
worst kind.”

It was decided by Messrs. Sikes and Link, over the objections of Mr.
Sage, to have Oliver October up before the tribunal forthwith. The boy’s
father apparently had no voice in the matter.

“Of course, I’ll admit he’s got a temper,” said the latter, as he arose
to go in search of his son. “I don’t know where he gets it from. Mary
usually had her own way, but it wasn’t because she insisted on having
it. And she never got mad if I opposed her. She just laughed and went
ahead and did things her way. In that way we always got along without a
sign of a quarrel. As for me, I haven’t got any more of a temper than a
sheep has. He don’t get it from either of us. My grandfather had an
uncle that he used to talk a good deal about—a feller that would fight
at the drop of the hat—but he always claimed he did it for fun and
because he enjoyed lickin’ somebody every once in awhile. Oliver seems
to take after me in a good many ways, and he’s like his Ma in others.
He’s got my freckles and nose and when he grows up I guess maybe he’ll
have my hair, but he’s got Mary’s eyes and ears and mouth and his legs
are more like hers—ha! ha!—I mean they ain’t skinny and crooked like
mine—er—Well, I guess I’ll go out and see if I can find him.”

With that, he dashed hurriedly from the room. Presently they heard him
out in the yard calling Oliver’s name. That Oliver did not respond at
once was obvious. The shout was repeated several times, growing fainter
as the search took Mr. Baxter around to the back of the house and into
the region of the barn and outbuildings.

“Everything that gypsy woman said has come true up to date,” announced
Mr. Sikes, after silence had reigned for many minutes in the
sitting-room. “In the first place, she said he was going to look like
his pa—and he does. He’s an improvement on big Ollie, I’ll admit—a big
improvement—but just the same he’s a lot like him. Then she said he’d
always be at the head of his class and as bright as a dollar, didn’t
she? Well, _that’s_ come true, ain’t it?”

Here he paused, reluctant to go on with his justification of the gypsy’s
prophecy. He looked at Mr. Link, who at once accepted the unspoken
challenge by assuming the funereal air that always marked his
translation from livery-man to undertaker.

“Yes,” said Silas, his gaze lifted toward the ceiling, “and we must not
forget that his beloved mother died before he was ten years old.”

“True,” mused the minister, nodding his head slowly. “Doubly unfortunate
was that dear woman’s death. If God in his wisdom had seen fit to spare
her for a few days longer all this nonsense about the gypsy woman’s
prophecy would be—”

“Sh! Here they come,” cautioned Silas, as steps were heard on the front
porch.

“I hope Serepty Grimes don’t happen to drop in,” said Mr. Sikes
uneasily.

“She won’t,” vouchsafed Mr. Link. “I happen to know that Ed Tucker’s
wife ain’t expected to live till morning.”

“You don’t say so! I heard she was better to-day.”

“False alarm,” said the undertaker, thoughtlessly.

Mr. Baxter marshaled his son into the room on the tail of this remark,
and ordered him to take off his hat—a command instantly followed by
another that took him back to the door mat, where he sullenly performed
a forgotten obligation.

And so it came to pass on this mild September evening, that young Oliver
October learned what was in store for him if his “fortune” came true.

He sat very still and wide-eyed in the depths of the Morris chair—a
distinction conferred upon him by his compassionate elders—his sturdy
black-hosed legs sticking straight out before him, his grimy hands
stuck—for reasons of shame—into his already crowded trouser pockets.
His gray eyes, from which the cloud of obstinacy soon disappeared, went
quickly from speaker to speaker as the grewsome story of that remote
October night was unfolded in varying degrees of lucidity by the giants
who towered over him. He was a very small boy and they were very big and
very, very old monsters. And they were telling him all this, they said,
because they loved him and were going to do everything they could to
keep him from being hung some day! There wasn’t anything they wouldn’t
do! But a great deal depended on him. That was the thing, repeated Mr.
Link, over and over again. He must realize that a great deal depended on
him.

First of all, it was imperative that he should never, never allow his
temper to get the better of him; he must never, never get mad at anybody
or anything; he must never get into fights; no matter what the
provocation, he must not get into fights; if there was no other way, he
must play with the little girls and avoid the boys—at least, until the
little girls grew up and were too big for him to play with.

He revealed a most commendable temper when Mr. Link stipulated that he
should play with the little girls.

“I won’t play with the girls,” he cried hotly. “I hate ’em. I’ll kill
’em if they try to play with me.”

“My, my!” exclaimed Mr. Link in dismay.

“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Sikes reproachfully.

“Oliver!” cautioned his father, speaking for the first time since the
ordeal began.

“Well, I won’t play with girls,” repeated Oliver. “You bet I won’t. I
hate ’em.”

“I guess there’s no reason why you can’t play with the boys,”
compromised Mr. Link, “provided you’ll only remember that you mustn’t
fight with ’em.”

“Well, I got to fight with ’em if they fight with me, don’t I?” cried
Oliver.

“Spoken like a man,” said the minister, patting him on the shoulder.

“Well, I’ll be doggoned!” gasped Mr. Sikes, staring in disgust at the
speaker. “And you a minister of the gospel!”

“We must not make a coward of Oliver,” said the other, a trifle warmly.

“That’s right,” said Oliver’s father. “Mary wouldn’t have liked to see a
son of hers grow up to be a—a feller who wouldn’t stand up for his
rights. And neither would I. What’s more, Joe Sikes, you’re a fine one
to talk. You’ve had more fights than anybody in—”

“The thing is,” broke in Mr. Link, “if Oliver October can fight without
losing his temper, I’ll not say a word. Do you think you can, my lad?”

“What’s the use of fighting if you ain’t mad?” reasoned Oliver October.
“It would be just like wrassling.”

“Now, see here, Oliver,” spoke up Mr. Sikes severely, “all we ask of you
is to grow up to be a good, kind, peaceful man like your Pa here. He’s
getting along towards sixty years of age, and I don’t know as he ever
had a fight in his life. If he ever did, he probably wished he hadn’t.
Your Pa is a respected, upright citizen of this here town, and I want to
see you foller in his footsteps. And what’s more, your Pa ain’t a
coward. Not much! He’s as brave as I am—yes, siree, he’s a _braver_ man
than I am. I was always going around picking up fights, just because I
was big and strong and didn’t have any sense. That’s it. I didn’t have
the sense that God gives a hickory-nut. Your Pa had a lot of sense. He’s
got it yet. And why? I’ll tell you why, Oliver. He saw right smack in
the beginning that no matter how good a fighter you are when you’re
young, it ain’t going to do you any good when you’re old—because when
you’re old nobody gives a _dern_ how good a fighter you were when you
were young. They just say you used to be a tough customer—and sort of
shoulder you out of the way. But if you’ve got a reputation like your
Pa’s—for common sense, fair-dealing, kindness, good-nature
and—and—(with a conciliatory glance at Mr. Sage)—and religion,
why—er—why, you’re all right. Understand? But, on the other hand, if,
as you say, you’ve got to fight in case somebody picks on you, why, you
ought to have some lessons in boxing. I’ve been thinking it over. If
you’d like for me to do it, I’ll show you a lot about boxing. Boxing
lessons will prove to you how important it is to keep your temper. The
minute a boxer loses his temper and gets mad, he’s going to get licked.
That’s as sure as shooting. You never saw a prizefighter in your life
that got mad when he was in the ring. If you’ll come around to the feed
yard after school to-morrow, I’ll learn you how to—”

“About what time, Uncle Joe?” broke in Oliver eagerly, his face lighting
up.




                               CHAPTER VI


                         A PASTOR PROMISES AID

Four mature throats were simultaneously cleared, and Mr. Sage, being a
very unusual sort of minister, abruptly put his hand over his mouth—not
quite soon enough, however, to smother a spasmodic chuckle.

Notwithstanding this and other diverting passages, Master Oliver was
finally made to realize the vastness of the dark and terrifying shadow
that hung over him. He listened to the pronouncement of his own doom,
and his warm little heart was beating fast and hard in an ice-cold body
that trembled with awe. He suffered his “uncles” to pat him on the
shoulder and say they would “stand by” him through thick and thin, and
his lip quivered with something far removed from gratitude. He sat up
long past his bed-time, and his eyes were bright and shining where
ordinarily they would have been dull and heavy.

At last the three hangmen arose to depart. They had frightened the poor
boy out of his boots, and now, well-satisfied with their work, were
going home to sleep the sleep of the just and beneficent whilst he was
doomed to a shivery night in which the gallows they had erected for him
was to stand out as if it were real and not a thing of the imagination.

“And, now, Oliver,” said Mr. Sikes consolingly, “you needn’t be afraid
of the fortune coming true, because we’re going to see that it don’t.
We’re going to watch over you, and tend you, and guide you, and some day
we’ll all sit around and laugh ourselves sick over what that infernal
lying gypsy woman said. So don’t you worry. Me and your Uncle Silas and
Mr. Sage here are going to make it our business to see that you grow up
to be a fine, decent, absolutely model young man, and ’long about 1920
or thereabouts we’ll have the doggonedest celebration you ever heard of.
We’ll paint the town—”

“How old will I be then?” piped up Oliver wistfully.

“You’ll be thirty and over,” announced Mr. Sikes.

“And how old will you and Uncle Silas be?”

“About the same age as your Pa—couple of years’ difference, maybe, one
way or the other.”

“How old will that be?”

Mr. Link, who was quick at figures, replied, but with a most singular
hush in his usually jovial voice.

“Why—er—I’ll be seventy-eight, your Pa will be seventy-five, and your
Uncle Joe here will be—you’ll be eighty, Joe. By jiminy, I wonder if—”

“I didn’t know anybody ever lived to be as old as that,” said Oliver, so
earnestly that three of his listeners frowned. “Except Methusalum. Maybe
you’ll all be dead and buried ’fore I’m thirty so what’s going to become
of me then?”

“Why—er—we don’t intend to be dead for a long, long time,” explained
Mr. Sikes. “I’m figuring on living to be a hundred, and so’s your pa and
Uncle Silas. Don’t you worry about us, sonny. We’ll be hanging—I mean,
we’ll be moseying around this here town for forty or fifty years longer,
sure as you’re alive. Yes, sirree.”

“What an awful thing it would be,” groaned Oliver’s father, “if all
three of us was to up and die inside the next eight or ten—”

“If there’s an epidemic like that,” interrupted Mr. Link, scowling at
the tactless Mr. Baxter, “it’ll probably take Oliver off too, so don’t
be foolish.”

Mr. Sage spoke up, dryly. “It will be quite all right for you to die,
gentlemen, whenever the good Lord thinks it most convenient. You seem to
forget that I am one of Oliver October’s self-appointed guardians.
Permit me to remind you that I will still be a mere youth of sixty when
he reaches the age of thirty. So you need not feel the slightest
compunction or hesitancy about dying.”

He was stared at very hard by two of his listeners.

“I wish my Ma was here,” said Oliver October, his lip trembling. Despite
the sincere if voluble protestations of the three visitors, he still
felt miserably in need of a friend and comforter. He could not conceive
of his father taking him in his arms and holding him tight; there wasn’t
anything soft and warm and cushiony about his father; only his mother
could whisper and croon in his ear and snuggle him up close when he was
sick or frightened, and she was gone.

“Amen to that,” said Mr. Sage, fervently.

“Amen!” repeated Mr. Link in his most professional voice.

Mr. Sikes coughed uncomfortably and then put on his hat.

“Well, good night,” said he. “Sleep tight, sonny.”

“Say ‘thank you’ to your Uncle Joe, Oliver,” said Mr. Baxter huskily,
and then, without rime or reason, gave vent to his nervous cackle.

“Thank you, Uncle Joe,” muttered Oliver.

Mr. Sage laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Do you say your prayers
every night, Oliver?”

“Yes, sir—I do.”

“Well—er—if Brother Baxter doesn’t mind and if you gentlemen will
excuse me, I think I will go upstairs with Oliver and—and listen to his
prayer.”

A little later on, the tall, spare pastor sat on the side of young
Oliver’s trundle bed in the room across the hall from old Oliver’s and
next to the one in which Annie Sharp, the hired girl, was already sound
asleep. The boy had murmured his “Now I lay me” and, for good measure,
the Lord’s Prayer. Mr. Sage leaned over and, lowering his voice,
said—but not until he had satisfied himself that no one was listening
outside the door:

“You believe I am a good man, don’t you, Oliver—a very good man?”

“Yes, sir. You’re a preacher. You got to be good.”

“Ahem! Quite so. You don’t believe I could tell a lie, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, now I am going to tell you something and I want you to believe
it. Nobody on this earth can foretell the future. Nobody knows what is
going to happen to-morrow, much less what is going to happen years away.
It isn’t possible. God does not give any person that miraculous power.
Our Lord Jesus Christ could perform miracles, but he was the only one
who could do so. Do you think that God would give to all the thieving
gypsies in the world the same divine power that he gave to his only Son,
the Savior? No! Now, listen. There is not a word of truth in what that
old gypsy woman said—not one word, Oliver. You can believe me, you can
trust me. I am God’s minister, and I am telling you to pay no attention
to anything Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link said to you to-night. If God would
only allow me to do so, I would tell you that they are a pair of silly
old fools—but that wouldn’t be kind, so I will not say it. You need not
be afraid. All that talk about your being hung some day is
poppycock—pure poppycock. Don’t you believe a word of it. I came
upstairs with you just for the purpose of telling you this—not really
to hear your prayers. Now don’t you feel better?”

“But you just said, Uncle Herbert, that nobody could see ahead. How do
you know I won’t be—be hung?”

“I am not saying that, my lad. I am merely telling you that the gypsy
woman did not have the power to see ahead. There is no such thing as
true fortune-telling. She claimed to read the stars. Well, do you
suppose that all those millions and millions of stars—any one of them
much greater than the earth—are interested in little bits of things
like you and me? No, siree, Oliver. They don’t even know we exist. That
old gypsy was just lying. They all do. They take your money and then
they go away and laugh at you for being such a goose. So you need not
worry at all about what you were told to-night. And now I am going to
say something to you that will surprise you. It is wrong for me, a
minister of the gospel, to tell you this, but I love fighting Christians
just as much as I love praying Christians. I do not mean that a man
should go about looking for fights. That would be very, very wrong.
Wouldn’t it?” He asked the question abruptly.

“Yes, sir,” said Oliver. “It would.”

“You must keep out of fights whenever you can, but if the time comes
when you _must_ fight—do it as well as you know how and pray about it
afterwards. When your enemy smites you, turn the other cheek like a good
Christian boy—but do not let him hit your other cheek if you can help
it. Defend yourself. Put up your props, as your Uncle Joe says, and sail
into him. You will thus be turning the other cheek, but it does not mean
that he may smite it without resistance on your part. The Bible doesn’t
seem to be very clear on that point, so I am taking the liberty of
telling you just what I think _ought_ to be done when an enemy besets
you with his fists. You must not fight if you can help it, Oliver. A
soft answer turneth away wrath. Sometimes. When I was your age, I had a
good many fights—and you see what I am to-day. A minister of the
gospel. If I had an enemy to-day and he was to set upon me, I should
defend myself to the best of my strength and ability. Your Uncle Joe and
your Uncle Silas are right, however, in counseling you to avoid
conflict. No good ever comes of it. As you grow older you will acquire
wisdom, and wisdom is a very great thing, Oliver. A wise man does not go
about seeking for trouble. He tries to avoid it. And so will you when
you are older. But just at present you are no wiser than other boys of
your age. You were very foolish to fight with Sammy to-day because Jane
egged you on. It is most commendable, of course, to protect a lady in
distress. But Jane was not in distress. She did not need protection.
Sometimes a woman—But never mind. You understand what I mean, don’t
you, Oliver?”

“No, sir,” said the truthful Oliver.

“Well, what I want you to do, Oliver, is to go on leading a—er—regular
boy’s life. Do the things that are right and square, be honest and
fearless—and no harm will ever come to you. Now, turn over and go to
sleep, there’s a good boy. I will put out the light for you. Don’t lie
awake worrying about things—because there is nothing to worry about.
Good night, Oliver. I have a very great affection for you, my lad, and,
so long as God lets me live, I will always help you when—er—evil
besets you. As it did to-night.”

He smiled dryly, perhaps a little guiltily, as he turned away and
lowered the wick in the lamp that stood on the table near by.

“Don’t blow it out yet, please,” pleaded Oliver October. “I want to ast
you a question.”

“Go ahead, my lad. What is it?” said the man, peering over the lamp
chimney, at the boy huddled up in the bed.

“If you was me, would you take boxing lessons from Uncle Joe?”

Mr. Sage considered, weighing his words. A little wave of color spread
over his pale, ascetic face, and a queer light gleamed in his kindly
eye.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he answered after a moment. Then he blew out the
light. Instead of departing, he strode over and sat down on the edge of
the bed. “I doubt very much if Joe Sikes is a scientific boxer. He
strikes me as a rather rough and tumble sort of fellow. You wouldn’t
learn much from him, I’m afraid. But I’ll tell you what I will do. I
will give you a—er—a few instructions myself, if you will come over to
the house, say once a week—secretly, you understand. You must never
tell anybody that I am—er—giving you lessons in the manly art of
self-defense. It will have to be a very dark secret between us, Oliver.
For the present, at any rate.”

He was glad that he had blown out the light. Somehow he knew that the
small boy’s eyes were upon him, and that they were filled with the sort
of amazement that makes one most uncomfortable. This was proved by the
very significant fact that Oliver did not speak. After a moment Mr. Sage
went on, a little hurriedly:

“You see, Oliver, when I was in college—that was before I went to the
Theological Institute, you know—I went in for the various sports and
games. I was on the football team and the baseball team, and so forth.
Quite a number of us took up boxing. It is very fine exercise for both
the body and the mind. Yes, I will be happy to teach you a few of the
tricks of the—er—sport. Of course, I have not boxed since I became a
minister, but I—er—I dare say I haven’t forgotten how to feint and
block and sidestep and—ahem! Yes, yes—come and see me to-morrow and we
will talk it over.”

As he slowly descended the stairs, he consoled himself with the thought
that he had given the poor lad something besides the gallows to think
about.

The three old men were waiting for him on the porch, and none too
amiably it would appear, judging by the glum silence that greeted him as
he joined them. Mr. Link and Mr. Sikes spoke a gruff “good night” to
Baxter and started off toward the gate at the foot of the slope. The
minister paused at the top of the steps to shake hands with Oliver
October’s harassed parent.

“Thank you for coming over and helping straighten things out,” said Mr.
Baxter. Then he proceeded to commit himself and his two cronies by
adding: “Have you heard anything from Josephine lately?”

Now that was the one question that the people of Rumley religiously and
resolutely refrained from asking Mr. Sage. They persistently asked it of
each other—in an obviously modified form—and they did not hesitate to
bother the postmaster from time to time with inquiries; but they never
asked it of Josephine’s husband. It was a very delicate matter.

Mrs. Sage, in the sixth year of her married life—her baby was then two
years old—surrendered to her ambition. She went on the stage.

And so, it is no wonder that people hesitated about asking Mr. Sage how
she was getting along; to most of them it was almost the same as
inquiring if he knew how she was getting along in hell.

Besides, it was hard to ask questions of a man whose eyes were dark with
unhappiness and whose face was drawn and sad and always wistful.

For nearly four years that very question had been on the tip of Mr.
Baxter’s tongue, struggling for release. He had always succeeded in
holding it back. And now, before he knew what he was about, he let go
and out it came. He was petrified.

“Not lately,” said Mr. Sage, quietly.

Whereupon, for no reason at all, Mr. Baxter cackled inanely.




                              CHAPTER VII


                          THE MINISTER’S WIFE

Rumley had not stood still during the decade. It was the proud boast of
its most enterprising citizen, Silas Link, that it had done a great deal
better than Chicago: it had tripled its population. And, he proclaimed,
all “she” had to do was to keep on tripling her population every ten
years and “she” would be a city of nearly half a million souls in 1950.
It was all very simple, he explained. All you had to do was to multiply
fifteen hundred (the approximate population in 1900), by three and you
would have forty-five hundred in 1910.

“Work it out yourself,” he was wont to say, “if you don’t believe me. If
we keep on multiplying we’ll have 364,500 population fifty years from
now.”

The prize pupil in the South Rumley school, Freddy Chuck, aged thirteen,
went even further than Mr. Link in his calculations. He carried the
matter up to the year 2000 and proved conclusively that if the ratio
could be maintained for a hundred years, Rumley would have something
like 88,303,500 inhabitants at the beginning of the twenty-first
century. Freddy was looked upon as a mathematical “shark.” The North
Rumley school, presided over by Mr. Elwell, contained no such prodigy,
but it did have an exceedingly promising half-back in the person of
Oliver October Baxter.

But this is beside the point. Rumley’s phenomenal growth over a period
of ten years was due to several causes. In the first place, it had
become a divisional railroad point, with shops, a roundhouse and
superintendent’s headquarters. It was now a “junction” as well, a new
branch line connecting there with the main line for points east and
south. This had brought nearly three hundred new citizens to the town.
Then had come the “strawboard works,” employing about thirty men, and
after that the “cellulose factory,” with some fifteen or eighteen people
on the pay-roll. Later on, in 1896, a “cannery” was added to the list of
industries. These extraordinary symptoms of prosperity drew capital of
another character to the town. Two saloons, with pool and billiard rooms
attached, were opened on Clay Street and did a thriving business from
the start, notwithstanding the opposition of the Presbyterian and
Methodist churches. New grocery stores, butcher shops, drygoods stores
and so forth were established by outside interests, each of them
bringing fresh enterprise and competition to the once drowsy hamlet. The
older stores were forced to expand in order to keep up with the times
and conditions. House building in all parts of town had boomed. Three
substantial new brick business “blocks” were erected—all three-story
affairs—and an addition of twelve rooms and a bath had been tacked onto
the old Bon Ton Restaurant, transforming it, quite properly, into the
Hubbard House, the leading hostelry of the town.

Oliver Baxter owned one of the new business “blocks” on Clay Street. It
was known as the Baxter Block, erected in 1896. His own enlarged place
of business occupied one half of the ground floor, the other half being
leased to Silas Link, who conducted a furniture, cabinetmaking and
undertaking establishment there, with palms in the front windows.

Link’s Livery Stable and the feed yard of Joseph Sikes had been
consolidated, the sign over the sidewalk on Webster Street reading “Link
& Sikes, Livery & Feed.” The second floor of the Baxter Block was
occupied by Dr. Slade, the dentist, and Simons & Sons, Tailors. The
third floor was known as Knights of Pythias Hall, and it was here that
all the “swellest” dances and receptions were held. Collapsible chairs
from Link’s Undertaking Parlors were rentable for all such festive
occasions, a very satisfactory arrangement in that cartage was never an
item of expense. Link’s three or four piece orchestra could also be
engaged by calling at or telephoning to the aforesaid parlors, where
Charlie Link, the embalmer, would be pleased to guarantee satisfaction.
Charlie was Silas’s nephew, and a trap-drummer of great dexterity.
Catering by Mrs. Hubbard, of the Hubbard House, terms on application.
Flowers for all occasions supplied from Link’s new greenhouse and
garden, Cemetery Lane.

It is worthy of mention that there was no Main Street in Rumley. In
rechristening the principal thoroughfare, the board of trustees
deliberately violated all traditions by giving it the name of Clay
Street, not in honor of the celebrated Henry Clay but because for at
least two generations it had been known as the clay road on account of
the natural color and character of its soil. This reduced confusion
among the older and more settled inhabitants to a minimum; they very
cheerfully consented to spell clay with a capital C and declared it
wasn’t half as much trouble as they thought it would be to remember to
say Street instead of Road. But even so, it was still a clay road—and
in rainy weather a very _bad_ clay road.

Mary Baxter died of typhoid fever when young Oliver was nearing seven.
Her untimely demise revived the half-forgotten prophecy of the gypsy
fortune-teller. People looked severely at each other and, in hushed
tones, discussed the inexorable ways of fate. Those acquainted with the
story of that October night told it to newcomers in Rumley; even the
doubters and scoffers were impressed. It was the first “sign” that young
Oliver’s fortune was coming true. Somehow people were kinder and gentler
to him after his mother died.

As for Oliver the elder, there was a strange—one might almost believe,
triumphant—expression in his stricken, anxious eyes, as if back of them
in his mind he was crying: “Now will you laugh at me for believing what
that woman said?”

Of an entirely different nature was the agitation created by the
unrighteous behavior of the preacher’s wife. It all came like a bolt out
of the blue. No one ever suspected that she had gone away to stay. Why,
half the women in town, on learning that she was going to Chicago for a
brief visit with her folks, went around to the parsonage to kiss her
good-by and to wish her a very pleasant time. Some of them accompanied
her to the railway depot and kissed her again, while two or three young
men almost came to blows over who should carry her suitcase into the day
coach and see that she was comfortably seated. They were all members of
Mr. Sage’s church.

Josephine had a remarkable faculty for drawing young men into the fold.
Several who had been more or less criticized for their loose ways
suddenly got religion and went to church twice every Sabbath and to
prayer meeting on Wednesday nights with unbelievable perseverance until
they found out that it wasn’t doing them the least bit of good.

Excoriation and a stream of “I told you so’s” were bestowed upon the
pretty young wife and mother when it became known that she was not
coming back.

The Presbyterians made a great show of pitying their pastor, and the
Methodists made an even greater show of pitying the
Presbyterians—which, when all is said and done, was the thing that made
Josephine’s act an absolutely unpardonable one.

She did not belong in Rumley. That was the long and the short of it. The
greatest compliment ever paid to the holy state of matrimony was her
ability to stick it out for six long years. In her own peculiar way she
loved and respected her husband. But the bonds of love were not strong
enough to hold her. She was gay and blithe and impious; she loved life
even more than she loved love. The shackles hurt. So she slipped out of
them one day and left their symbols lying by the wayside in the shape of
a broken, bewildered man and a child of her own flesh, while she went
back to the world that was calling her to its arms.

Herbert Sage was stunned, bewildered.... She wrote him from Chicago at
the end of the first week of what was to have been a fortnight’s visit
to her mother. It was a long, fond letter in which she said she was not
coming back—at least, not for the present. She was leaving at once for
New York, where she had been promised a trial by one of the greatest of
American producers. A month later came a telegram from her saying she
was rehearsing a part in a new piece that was sure to be the “hit of the
season”—everybody said so, even the stage director who had the name of
being the biggest “gloom” in New York. It was a musical comedy, with a
popular comedian as the star, and she had a small part that was going to
be a big one before she got through with it—or so she said in her
joyous conceit.

“With my good looks, my voice, my figure and my ambition, Herby, I
cannot fail to get over. Everybody says I’ve got talent, and that dance
I used to do for you on week days when it wasn’t necessary to be
sanctimonious—well, they are all crazy about it. Before you know it, my
dear, you’ll be the husband of one of the most celebrated young women in
the United States and I’ll be cashing checks every week that will make
your whole year’s salary in that burg look like the change out of a
silver half dollar after you’ve bought two ten cent sodas at Fry’s drug
store. You will be proud of me, Herby, because I will take mighty good
care that you never have any reason to be ashamed of me or for me to be
ashamed of myself. You know what I mean. I don’t suppose I will say my
prayers as often as I did when you were around to remind me of them but
I will be a good girl just the same. Also a wise one.”

That was four years ago. Her confidence in herself had been justified,
and, for all we know, the same may be said of Herbert Sage’s confidence
in her. She had the talent, the voice, the beauty, and above all, the
magnetism, and so there was no holding her back. She was being
“featured” now, and there was talk of making a star of her. Her letters
to Herbert were not very frequent but they invariably were tender. Every
once in a while the press agent sent him a large batch of “notices,”
chiefly eulogistic; and regularly on little Jane’s birthday a good sized
check arrived for the youngster’s “nest egg.”

At first she had undertaken to share her salary with Sage. He kindly but
firmly refused to accept the money. After three checks had been returned
to her she accepted the situation, although she wrote to him that he was
a “silly old thing” and “hoped to goodness he would see the error of his
ways before long.”

For two successive seasons she appeared in a Chicago theater, following
long New York runs of the pieces in which she was playing, but not once
did Herbert Sage go up to see her. Some of the best people in Rumley saw
her, however—one of them, in fact, went three nights in succession to
the theater in which she was playing and tried to catch her eye from the
balcony—so it was pretty generally known throughout the town that she
really had the making of a pretty fair actress in her!

Finally, in one of her letters announcing a prospective engagement in
London, she put the question to him: “Do you want to get a divorce from
me, Herby?” His reply was terse and brought from her the following
undignified but manifestly sincere telegram: “Neither do I, so we’ll
stick till the cows come home. I feel like a girl who has just been
kissed. Sailing Friday. Will cable. Much love.”

She made a “hit” in London in the big musical success of that season.
They liked her so well over there that they wouldn’t let her go back to
the States.

At the time of which I write she was playing her first engagement in
London, and half the town was in love with her. She wrote to Herbert:

“My dear, you wouldn’t believe the number of matrimonial offers I’ve
had, and your hair would turn white in a single night if I was to tell
you how many homes I could wreck if I hadn’t brought my conscience along
with me. I am the toast of the town, as they say over here. Better than
a roast, isn’t it?”

While Herbert Sage forbore speaking of the vagrant Josephine to his
friends in Rumley, nevertheless he preserved and re-read from time to
time the mass of press cuttings that he kept safely locked away in a
drawer of the bureau that once had held her cheap and meager belongings.
He looked long and hungrily at the countless photographs with which she
never failed to beleaguer him in his loneliness; and then there were the
magazines, the pictorial sections of the newspapers and the
reproductions of as many as a score of original drawings done by
celebrated artists and illustrators on both sides of the Atlantic. Some
of these caused him to frown and bite his lip—one in particular: the
rather startling picture of a very shapely young gentleman in a mild but
attractive state of inebriation caroling (by mistake, no doubt), to an
irate old man in a casement window above.

Morning and night she was in his prayers; and little Jane, as soon as
she was able to prattle, was taught to say “and God bless and keep my
mamma forever and ever, Amen!”

She was greatly missed by little Oliver October. For some
reason—perhaps she did not explain it herself—at any rate, she did not
go to the trouble of speculating—she had taken a tremendous fancy to
the child. He was a lively, amusing little chap who laughed gleefully at
her antics and was ever ready for more—a complimentary spirit that
constantly supplied kindling for her own unquenchable fires. She romped
with him, told marvelous stories to him, sang for him and danced for
him—and just about the time she was making ready to leave Rumley
guiltily showed him how to turn a “cartwheel”! He was very much
impressed by this astonishing bit of acrobatics, and as she faced him,
her face crimson and her eyes sparkling, he paid her a doubtful but
fulsome compliment by saying he’d bet his mother couldn’t do it, nor any
other lady in town, either. She made him promise not to tell
anybody—and he was never, _never_ to ask her to do it again, because
she was getting very old and the next time she might fall and break her
neck, and he wouldn’t like that, would he?

This small boy of five or six was the only being in town with whom she
could play to her heart’s content, and she made the most of him. Her own
tiny baby interested but did not amuse her. In the first place, she had
not wanted a baby at all, and in the second place since she _had_ to
have one she could not understand why she had not had a boy. It wasn’t
quite fair. She liked boy babies. It was something to be the mother of a
man-child—something to be proud of. She even went so far as to say to
herself that she never could have run way and left her baby if it had
been a boy. She would have been ashamed to have a son of hers know that
his mother had not quite played the game. She was fond of Jane but it
was not as hard to leave her as it would have been had she been a boy.
Of that she was absolutely certain.

Oliver October could not understand why he was not allowed to mention
“Aunt” Josephine’s name in the presence of “Uncle” Herbert. His mother
and Mrs. Serepta Grimes—who, by the way, was still an ever-present help
in time of trouble—gave him very strict orders and repeated them so
often that he never had a chance to forget them. But when he found out
in a roundabout way that Mrs. Sage had gone off to join a show, he at
once assumed—and quite naturally, too—that she was with Barnum’s
Biggest Show on Earth, and lived in joyous anticipation of seeing her
when the great three-ring circus came to the nearby county seat for its
biennial visit. Moreover, he was very firm in his determination to run
away from home and join the show, a secret decision that called for
unusual industry on his part in the matter of mastering the “cartwheel”
and other startling feats of skill, such as standing on his head,
walking on his hands, turning somersaults off of a sill in the haymow,
and standing upright on the capacious hindquarters of patient old Rosy
down at Uncle Silas Link’s livery stable.

He also undertook to increase his suppleness by anointing himself with
fish worm oil, an absolutely infallible lubricant recommended by Bud
Lane, who solemnly averred that he had worked one whole season with the
Forepaugh circus as fish worm catcher for the Human Eel, the limberest
man alive. Oliver October’s mother gave him a sound spanking within
fifteen minutes after the initial application of this diligently
acquired lubricant, while Mrs. Grimes made a point of hurrying down to
the livery stable to tell the sheepish Bud Lane what she thought of him.

Youth is ever fickle. Oliver October’s heart was soon mended. He was
always to have a warm corner in it for the gay Aunt Josephine but such
diverting games as “one old cat,” “blackman,” “I spy,” and “duck on the
rock” rather too promptly reduced his passionate longing for her to a
mild but pleasant memory. They also interfered with his acrobatic
aspirations, and it was not until little Jane Sage arrived at an age
when she was intelligent enough to be impressed and thrilled by manly
achievements that he again took up the “cartwheel,” the “hand spring,”
and other sensational feats of endurance—endurance being a better word
than agility in view of the fact that he practised them by the hour for
her especial benefit.

For, be it here recorded, Janie Sage, at the age of six, was by far the
prettiest and the most sought after young lady in Rumley, and only the
most surpassing skill with the hands and feet was supposed to have any
effect upon her susceptibilities.

What with having had past instructions in the art of cartwheel flipping
from a minister’s wife and the present promise of lessons in boxing from
the minister himself, Oliver October was indeed a favored lad! He was
very glad that he had gone to Sunday-school regularly, for therein lay
the secret of his good fortune. If he had not been a very good little
boy, Mr. and Mrs. Sage would not have been so kind to him. There wasn’t
the slightest doubt in his mind about that. And more than all this, Mr.
Sage acted like he was awfully pleased every time he walked home from
school with Jane, carrying her books and everything. He showed this by
invariably giving him a piece of bread and butter and sugar. No wonder,
then, that Oliver fought like a tiger for his lady love. Many a bigger
and stronger man than he has fought the whole wide world for his bread
and butter alone.

Three or four days after the warning administered to Oliver by his
self-appointed guardians, one of the latter, Mr. Sikes, found himself in
an extremely awkward position. He was a man of dark and lasting hatreds.
His particular aversion was brothers-in-law. He had two of his own and
he hated both of them as men are seldom hated by their fellow man. His
opinion of them somewhat unjustly extended itself to the brothers-in-law
of practically every friend he possessed. It had got to be an obsession
with him. The husbands of his two sisters, it appears, had instituted
some sort of proceedings against him in court back in the dark and
stormy age that he called his youth, and while history does not reveal
the nature of the suit, it goes without saying that they won their case,
thereby providing him with an everlasting grudge against all
brothers-in-law.

Horace Gooch had come over from Hopkinsville to see his wife’s brother
on a matter of business. Ten years had not improved Mr. Gooch. If you
had asked Mr. Sikes, however, whether they had improved him he would
have blasphemously answered in the affirmative. He would have stated—if
he had thought of it—that anything that shortened the life of Mr. Gooch
could not be otherwise than a most gratifying improvement.

Now this is what happened—and any fair-minded person will sympathize
with Mr. Sikes in his dilemma. As Gooch was leaving the Baxter Hardware
Store, after a furious wrangle with his brother-in-law—Mr. Sikes had
heard most of it through an open window—he had the option of either
stepping over or around a half-grown puppy lying immediately in front of
the door. He did neither. Notwithstanding the friendly thumping of the
puppy’s tail on the board sidewalk and the hospitable smile in his big
brown eyes, Mr. Gooch proceeded to remove the obstruction with the toe
of his boot. He did not do it gently. A sharp yelp of pain was succeeded
by a series of ear-splitting howls as the gangling pup went tearing down
the street on three legs.

Mr. Sikes turned the corner of the building just in time to witness this
incident. He was also a witness to what followed almost immediately.
Oliver October and Sammy Parr were playing “keeps” against the brick
wall a dozen paces or so away. Now, it so happened that the former, and
not Mr. Baxter, senior, was the sole owner of that sacred pup. Before
you could say Jack Robinson, Oliver October was blazing away at the
retreating figure of his uncle with marbles he had just won from Sammy.
He did not take the time to look for stones in the gutter. His face was
white with fury. Mr. Gooch uttered a sharp ejaculation and suddenly
clutched his left elbow with his right hand. An instant later the most
universally coveted “agate” in Rumley grazed his ear and went hurtling
down Clay Street. Mr. Sikes, forgetting himself for the moment, cried
out:

“Good shot! Give it to him!”

Another hastily fired “plaster” got Mr. Gooch on the leg, and then young
Oliver took to his heels—not because he was afraid of his uncle but
because he had caught sight of the far more terrifying figure of Mr.
Sikes.

“Whose boy is that?” demanded the outraged Mr. Gooch, addressing Mr.
Sikes.

“None of your damned business,” snarled Mr. Sikes, lowering his chin in
a menacing way.

“I will make it my business,” roared the other. “I’ll have the little
scoundrel locked up for—”

“You just go ahead and try it,” broke in Mr. Sikes, advancing slowly.
“Just you go ahead and try it. That’s all I got to say. Go ahead and try
it.”

By this time Mr. Gooch had recognized the angry citizen.

“Oho! Mr. Sikes, eh? Well, what cause have you got for losing your
temper like this, Mr. Sikes? What right have you to get mad because I
ask you the name of a dodgasted little—”

“Mad? I’m not mad,” interrupted Mr. Sikes violently. “And I’ll tell you
who that boy is if you really want to know.”

“I do,” said Mr. Gooch, feeling of his elbow.

“Well, he is the owner of that pup you just kicked in the ribs. Good
day!”

With that, Mr. Sikes stalked around the corner, a prey to conflicting
emotions. He stole down the alley, with many a furtive glance over his
shoulder. He felt very guilty. He had openly, vociferously encouraged
Oliver October in the commission of a deed of violence. Suppose, for
instance, one of those rocks—(he did not know they were marbles)—had
struck Horace Gooch at the base of the brain! He wiped his moist
forehead. Just suppose! And how was he to take Oliver to task for flying
into a rage and throwing stones, with murderous intent, when he himself
had been so overjoyed that he yelled to him to keep it up? Yes, he was
in a very awkward position. So he decided that unless somebody took him
to task for _not_ taking Oliver October to task, he would consider the
incident closed. But every time he thought of the way Horace Gooch
grabbed his elbow and subsequently clapped his hand to his “off” leg, he
gave way to inordinate mirth.

At supper that evening Mr. Baxter asked his son if he knew who it was
that hit his Uncle Horace with a rock. Oliver had spent most of the
afternoon in hiding. Hunger and the approach of night were responsible
for his decision to give himself up, so to speak. Just before the supper
hour he ventured out of his place of hiding—a cornfield down the
road—prepared to face the town marshal and arrest. His dog had basely
deserted him an hour or so earlier. His spirits rose a little as he took
his seat at the table, for old Oliver appeared to be in an unusually
cheerful frame of mind. Just as he began to feel that, after all, there
was nothing to face, his father frowned severely and asked:

“Oliver, do you know who hit your Uncle Horace with a stone this
afternoon?”

There was a loophole. “I didn’t know anybody hit him with a stone, Pa.”

Mr. Baxter reflected. “Well, what _was_ he hit with if it wasn’t a
stone?”

“A marble.”

“Do you know who threw it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who?”

“Me,” replied Oliver October, and was suddenly thrilled by the thought
of George Washington and the cherry tree.

“Well, you must never do it again,” said his father mildly. Then, in his
most jovial manner: “Pass up your plate, sonny, and let me give you some
more of this steak. It will make you strong.”




                              CHAPTER VIII


                        GLIDING OVER A FEW YEARS

It is not the purpose of the narrator of this story to deal at length
with the deeds, exploits, mishaps and sensations of Oliver October as a
child. Pages, even reams, could be written—and certainly not wasted—in
recording the innumerable adventures that befell him between his tenth
and seventeenth years.

If time and space permitted, it would be a pleasure to tell how he
learned to swim and dance, to drive an automobile, and to play the
mandolin and the allied instruments of torture comprising a trap
drummer’s outfit; how he felt when he put on his first pair of long
pants; how he earned his first dollar; how he headed an expedition to
dig for gold in the ravine reaching out from the upper end of Death
Swamp; how he organized the far-famed band of robbers that twice came to
grief before reforming—once in Mr. Higgins’s watermelon patch and later
on in the vicinity of Mr. Whistler’s bee hives; how he fell in love with
pretty Miss Somers, the high-school teacher, and couldn’t keep his mind
on his studies; how he performed the common miracle of changing himself
from an untidy, dirty-faced boy into a painfully immaculate personage
with plastered hair, well-brushed garments, soap-scoured hands, and an
astonishing tendency to turn scarlet when he most desired to be
complacently pallid; how he screwed up the courage to ask his best
girl—at that time a very tall and angular maiden named Jennie
Torbeck—to go with him to the theater up at the county seat, and how he
lost all affection for her and was miserably disillusioned when she
coughed all through the performance and caused people to crane their
necks and scowl at them.

In short, how he grew up to be five feet eleven inches tall and stripped
at one hundred and seventy pounds of absolutely healthy bone and tissue.

And then it would be an even greater satisfaction to tell of the time he
sucked the blood and poison out of the foot of a small boy who had been
bitten by a rattlesnake; of the memorable day when he grabbed and hung
on to the bit of a horse that was running away with Jane Sage, then
twelve years old, alone in the careening phaëton; of the midsummer
afternoon when he came near to losing his own life in saving that of a
drowning companion. These and many other things could be told of him,
but it would only be a case of history repeating itself inasmuch as the
untold stories of countless red-blooded American boys would contain, in
one form or another, all that befell Oliver October Baxter.

On the other hand, it would be the disagreeable duty of the chronicler
to set down in black and white all the unpleasant and trying experiences
resulting from the ceaseless espionage that clouded his daily life and
doings. All that need be said about this unhappy phase of his
development may be confined to a single sentence: he was never free from
the advice, direction and criticism of four devoted old men. He had
advice from Mr. Sage, direction from the Messrs. Sikes and Link, and a
plaintive sort of criticism from his father. Serepta Grimes, who loved
him as she would have loved a son of her own, gave him the right kind of
advice, good soul that she was. She advised him to be patient; he would
be twenty-one before he knew it, and then he could tell ’em to mind
their own business. It would be necessary, she ruefully acknowledged, to
tell practically the entire population of Rumley to mind its own
business, but the ones that really mattered were Silas Link and Joe
Sikes.

“But they are such corking old boys, Aunt Serepta,” he was wont to
lament; “and they are trying to be good to me. I wouldn’t hurt their
feelings for the world.”

“They’re a couple of buzzards, Oliver.”

“I get pretty sore at them sometimes,” he would confess, crinkling his
brows. “But I guess I’d better wait till I’m past thirty before I jump
on ’em, hadn’t I?”

“I guess maybe you had,” Serepta would agree, for down in her heart she
too was afraid.

He was seventeen when he left the Rumley high-school and became a
freshman at the State University. There had been some talk of sending
him to one of the big Eastern colleges, but when Mr. Sikes pointed out
to Mr. Link that he didn’t see how either one of them could give up his
business and go East to spend the winters, the latter flopped over and
took sides with him against Oliver senior, who was for sending him to
Princeton because Mary had taken a strong fancy to that distant seat of
learning after hearing Mr. Sage dilate upon its standards.

He made the football and baseball teams in his sophomore year, and was
“spiked” by the most impenetrable Greek fraternity before he had been on
the campus twenty-four hours. His fame had preceded him. He also was
able to show his newly-made freshman friends so many of the fine points
about boxing that they proclaimed him a marvel and wanted to know where
he had picked it all up. He refused to divulge the long-kept secret.
Moreover, he astonished them with his unparalleled skill at turning
cartwheels. And besides all this, he astonished the faculty by being up
in his studies from the week he entered college to the day he left it
with a diploma in his hand. He took the full course in engineering, and
not without reason was the prediction of the Dean of the School that one
day Oliver Baxter would make his mark in the world.

The last of the three decades allotted to him by the gypsy was shorn of
its first twelve months when he received his degree. As Mr. Sikes
announced to the Reverend Sage at the conclusion of the commencement
exercises, he had less than nine more years to live at the very
outside—a gloomy statement that drew from the proud and happy minister
ah unusually harsh rejoinder.

“You ought to be kicked all the way home for saying such a thing as
that, Joe Sikes. To-day of all days! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself. Why can’t you be happy like all the rest of us?”

“Happy?” exploded Mr. Sikes. “Why, I’m the happiest man alive. This is
the greatest day of my life.”

“Well, then, for goodness’ sake, don’t spoil it for me,” complained the
tall, gray pastor. Turning to the slim, pretty girl who walked beside
him across the June-warmed campus, he spoke these words of comfort:
“Don’t mind this old croaker, Jane dear. He is still living back in the
dark ages, when they believed in witchcraft, ghosts and hobgoblins.”

Mr. Sikes was not offended. His broad, seamed face, leathery with the
curing of many suns, was alight with his rare but whole-hearted grin.

“You left out fairies, parson,” he said, and winked at Jane over his
shoulder. “The older she gets, the more I believe in ’em.”

“Sometimes you can be silly enough to satisfy anybody, Uncle Joe,” said
she, gayly.

“Second childhood,” declared Serepta Grimes, trudging several feet
behind Old Joe, who had a habit of keeping at least two paces ahead of
any one with whom he walked.

Mr. Sikes accepted this with serenity. “Well,” he said, “if it’s second
childhood, Serepty, I hope I never get over it. But I’m all-fired glad
of one thing. He’s through playing football and I won’t have to act like
an idiot any more. I’m too blamed old to jump up and down and yell like
an Indian every time he makes a long run. People thought I was a lunatic
at that game last fall. The idea of a man sixty-nine years old—Hello,
here comes his pa. Say, what’s the matter, Ollie? What are you cryin’
about?”

“I’ve just been talking to the president of the University,” said Mr.
Baxter, the tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.

“Well, what of it?”

“He said Oliver was about the finest boy they ever had in the college.”

“Is that anything to blubber about?”

“You bet it is,” gulped old Oliver, smiling through his tears. “You just
bet your sweet life it is.”

A word in passing about Jane Sage. She was a slender, graceful girl
slightly above medium height, just turning into young womanhood—that
alluring, mysterious stage that baffles the imagination and confounds
the emotions. Her gray eyes, set widely apart under a broad brow, were
clear and soft and wistful, and yet in their untrammeled depths stirred
the glow of an intelligence far beyond her slender years. She was an
extremely pretty girl. Her mouth was rather large and, like her
mother’s, humorous. Her hair, brown, wavy and abundant, grew low upon
her forehead. Her teeth were small, even and as white as snow; she
showed them when she smiled. There were faint dimples in her cheeks.

She kept house for her father, and, at seventeen, made no secret of her
determination never to get married! That was settled. Never! She was
going to take care of her daddy as long as he lived, and, as she was
serenely confident that he would live to be a very old man—indeed, she
could not conjure up the thought of him dying at all as other mortals
are bound to do sooner or later—there wasn’t any way in the world for
her to avoid being an old maid.

If she possessed any of her mother’s powers of mimicry, they were never
revealed by word or deed. She was singularly lacking in histrionic
ability and for that her father was thankful though secretly surprised.
Friends of the family, remembering Josephine’s propensities watched
closely for signs of an undesirable heritage, and were somewhat
disappointed when they failed to develop. If she had not borne such a
striking resemblance to her mother, everybody in town would have said
that she “took after her father”—and that would have explained
everything. That far-distant, almost mythical mother, was no more than a
dream to Jane. It was hard for her to believe that the famous actress,
Josephine Judge, was her mother; she was secretly proud of the
distinguished isolation in which it placed her among her less favored
companions.

She adored Oliver October. There had been a time when she was his
sweetheart, but that was ages ago—when both of them were young! Now he
was supposed to be engaged to a girl in the graduating class—and Jane
was going to be an old maid—so the childish romance was over. She
wished she knew the girl, however, so that she could be sure that Oliver
was getting some one who was good enough for him.

Late in the fall of 1911, young Oliver, having passed the age of
twenty-one and being a free and independent agent, packed his bag and
trunk and shook the dust of Rumley from his feet. Through the influence
of an older member of his “frat,” supported by the customary
recommendation from the college authorities, he was offered and accepted
a position in the construction department of a Chicago engineering and
investment concern interested in the financing and developing of water
power plants in the northwest. His work took him, in the course of time,
to the Rocky Mountain region, where concessions had been obtained and
plants were either being installed or projected.

There was grave uneasiness in Rumley when he fared forth in quest of
fame and fortune. Many were the predictions that Chicago would be the
ruination of him; he was bound to fall in with evil companions in that
wicked city, and into evil ways. College had been bad enough—but
Chicago!

Yes, he was working inevitably toward the end prophesied by the gypsy.
Next thing they would hear of his drinking and carousing and leading the
gay, riotous life of the ungodly, and then, sure as anything, he would
get mixed up in some disgraceful brawl—well, he might be innocent of
the actual murder but that wouldn’t save him if the circumstantial
evidence was strong enough—as it would be.

And then, when old Oliver resignedly announced that his son was going up
into the wild and lawless northwest, where everybody carried guns and
lynchings were common, there was real consternation among the older
families in Rumley. One very ancient lady went so far in her senile
sympathy as to put into words the question that had been in her thoughts
for days. Chancing to meet old Oliver on the way home from church one
Sunday, she sadly inquired whether he would bring Oliver October’s body
all the way back to Rumley for burial or leave it out there in the
wilderness.

Early in 1913 he was sent to China by his company on a mission that kept
him in the Orient for nearly a year and a half. A week before Christmas,
1914, the Rumley _Despatch_ came out with the announcement—under a
double head—that Oliver October Baxter was returning from the Far East,
where he had been engaged in the most stupendous enterprise ever
undertaken by American capital, and would arrive on the 22nd to spend
the Christmas holidays with his father and to renew acquaintances with
old friends—who were legion.

“Samuel Parr, the well-known insurance agent,” said the _Despatch_, “who
is to be married on the 29th to Miss Laura Nickels, received a telegram
this morning from Mr. Baxter in which he states that he will be happy to
officiate as best man at the ceremony which, instead of being solemnized
at the home of the bride’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Nickels, on
Grant Street, as originally planned, will take place in the Presbyterian
Church at eight o’clock in the evening. Miss Jane Sage will be the
maid-of-honor. Mr. Baxter’s many friends will be glad to welcome him to
the hustling city of his nativity. He has succeeded well in his
profession and has gone forward with remarkable rapidity for one of his
years. Few young men have achieved, etc., etc.”

The word that he was back in the United States and on his way to Rumley
created quite a little excitement in town. It was the opinion of a good
many people that he now stood a pretty fair chance of escaping the fate
prescribed for him by the gypsy fortune-teller—provided, of course, he
could be persuaded to remain in Rumley for the next five years, ten
months, one week and five days.

He arrived on the eleven-twenty from Chicago and was met at the depot by
a delegation. Samuel Parr was master of ceremonies.

“Stand back just a minute, will you?” Sammy commanded, addressing those
in the front rank of the crowd. “Give his poor old father a chance to
shake hands with him, can’t you? Just a minute, Mr. Sikes. That means
you, too. Slow, now—_slow_, Mr. Link. This isn’t a funeral. Hello,
Oliver! How’s the boy? Here’s your father—over this way. Never mind
your suitcases. I’ll tend to ’em.”

Young Oliver rushed up to his father, both hands extended.

“Hello, dad! My old dad!”

“I can’t believe my eyes—no, sir, I can’t,” cried the old man,
quaveringly. He was wringing his son’s hand. “You’re back again, alive
and sound. For nearly three years I’ve been sitting around waiting for a
telegram or something telling me—”

“You bet I’m alive,” broke in Oliver October, laying his arm over the
old man’s shoulder and patting his back. “And you don’t look a day older
than when I left, ’pon my soul, you don’t. It’s mighty good to see you,
and it’s wonderful to be back in the old town again. Hello, Uncle Joe!
Well, you see they haven’t hung me yet.”

“And they ain’t going to if I can help it,” roared Mr. Sikes, pumping
Oliver’s arm vigorously. “Not on your life! We got a few more years to
go, and, by glory, we’re going to keep you right here in this town from
now on. It’s all fixed, Oliver. We’ve got you the appointment of city
civil engineer for Rumley, population five thousand and over, salary
eighteen hundred a year. How’s that? The Common Council took action on
it last Monday night, unanimous vote, politics be damned. All of the
democrats voted for you. No opposition to—”

“Give somebody else a chance, will you?” interrupted Sammy Parr, and
coolly shouldered the older man aside. “Come over here, Oliver, I want
to introduce you to the bride-elect. She came here to live after you
went away, and she’s crazy to meet you. Just a minute, Mr. Link. Plenty
of time—plenty of time. Don’t crowd! Ladies first—ladies first.”

“Where is Jane, Mr. Sage?” inquired Oliver October, when he had a
breathing spell. He was searching the outer edge of the throng with
eager, happy eyes.

“She is up at your father’s house, Oliver, helping Mrs. Grimes and Annie
with your home-coming dinner,” replied the minister, still gripping the
young man’s hand. “It is good to see you, my boy—God bless you.”

“I’ve never forgotten the things you said to me the day I went away,
Uncle Herbert. I’ve led a pretty clean life, sir, and I’ve never done
anything I’m ashamed of. I’ve done a lot of things I’ve been sorry
for—but nothing to be ashamed of.” He leaned close to the other’s ear
and said in a low, whimsical tone: “Don’t let it get to the ears of my
other uncles, but I’d hate to tell you how many times I’ve thanked the
Lord and you for those sparring lessons you gave me.”

“‘The Lord loveth a cheerful giver,’” quoth the Reverend Mr. Sage dryly.

On the way up to the old home, Oliver’s father, waiting until he saw a
clear stretch of road ahead, turned from the steering wheel of his brand
new Ford, and, eyeing his son narrowly, said:

“Yes, sir, you’ve surely got my nose, and you’ve almost got my hair. If
you was to let your mustache grow I guess it would be a good deal like
mine used to be. You’ve made a success of everything so far, from all
reports, and now, darn it all, they’ve got you started in politics with
this appointment. I fought it tooth and nail, but they argued me down,
claiming it can’t be a political job so long as both parties want you to
take—”

“You needn’t worry about that, father. I’ll not accept the position.”

Mr. Baxter brightened. “You won’t? Good for you! That’ll show Joe Sikes
and Silas Link they can’t run everything.”

“I have other plans. I will tell you about them later on, father.”

“Of course, you’re a good deal taller and heavier than I am,” went on
Mr. Baxter, staring ahead. “You don’t take after me when it comes to
size and build. Been out in the open a good bit, I see. It’s done you a
lot of good.” He shot a glance at his son’s rugged, tanned face. “Yes,
and your eyes are clear and bright. I guess you haven’t done much
drinking or staying up late o’ nights.”

“I don’t drink very much—very little, in fact. Never have. In my
business a fellow has to have his wits about him. As for being up late
nights, I have seen many a night when I didn’t go to bed at all.”

“That sounds bad,” said Mr. Baxter sourly. “I don’t see how it could
help interfering with your work.”

“It didn’t interfere with it. You see, I was working all night.”

“Extra pay?”

“No, sir. Just extra work.”

Mr. Baxter cackled, cutting it short to toot his horn viciously for the
benefit of a dog crossing the street two or three hundred feet away.

“I’m just learning,” he explained.

“So I see,” said his son, crimping his toes suddenly and then relaxing
them as his father swung safely around a corner.

“Only had her about six weeks.”

“What can you get out of her?”

“She’s a racer.”

“She is?”

“You bet she is. Seventy-five miles an hour.”

“Gee, it’s good to hear you lie so cheerfully, dad.”

“If I’d had any idea you were going to believe me, I’d have claimed a
hundred,” said old Oliver, grinning. “See many changes in the town,
sonny?”

“I thought Mr. Sage was looking a little older.”

“Well, he is a little older. We all are, for that matter. I guess you’ll
find Jane has changed somewhat too. She’s twenty-one. They say she’s an
uncommonly pretty girl.”

“They say? Don’t you see anything of her yourself?”

“See her nearly every day. I don’t take much notice of girls these days,
blast the luck. She comes in every once in a while to read the letters
she gets from you. Seems as though I get a good deal more news out of
the letters you write to her than the ones I get from you. You never
wrote anything to me about the girl you was thinking of marrying out
there in Montana, or the one in China either.”

“I was always careful not to write anything unpleasant to you,” said
Oliver October glibly.

“Umph! Well, here we are. Don’t be uneasy now. I know how to stop her.”

And stop “her” he did, a dozen feet or so beyond the front porch steps.

“Set still. I’ll back her up. Sort of slipped on the ice, I guess. We’ve
had some mighty cold weather the last week or so.”

The “uncommonly pretty girl” opened the front door.

“Hello, Oliver!” she cried.

“Hello, Jane!” he shouted back, as he ran up the steps. “Gee! it’s great
to see you. And, my goodness, what a big girl you are. You were just an
overgrown kid when I went away. Funny how a fellow never thinks of a
girl growing up just the same as he does.”

He was holding her warm, strong hands in his own; they were looking
straight into each other’s eyes. In his there was wonder and
incredulity; in hers the expression of one startled by a sudden
indefinable sensation, something that came like a flash and left her
strangely puzzled.

“You haven’t grown much,” she said slowly. “Except that you are a man
and not a boy.”

“That’s it,” he cried. “The difference in you is that you’re a woman and
not a girl. And I was counting on seeing you just as you were four years
ago.”

“Come in,” she said, with a queer dignity that she herself did not
understand. “Get out of that fur coat and—and give Aunt Serepta a big
hug and a dozen kisses. She’s waiting for you in the sitting-room.”

He still held her hands. “Oh, I say, Jane, I—I used to kiss you when we
were little kids. I—”

“But we are not little kids any longer, Oliver,” she cried, drawing
back.

He stared hard at her. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and got engaged to
somebody, old girl.”

“I am not engaged to any one. I am not even in love with any one.”

“Well, all I’ve got to say is that this burg must have more than its
share of blind men,” said he with conviction.

“Hey!” shouted his father. “Do you expect me to carry in these valises
for you, you big lummix?”

“Put ’em down, dad. I’ll be out for them in a minute.”

“Well, see that you do.”

“He is getting to be terribly cranky, Oliver,” said Jane, lowering her
voice.

“Do you mean—he’s actually sore?”

“Well, he’s—he’s very impatient sometimes,” she explained. “You’d
better hurry.”

“Poor dad, he’s aged terribly in the last few years, hasn’t he? I was
quite shocked.”

The welcome he received from Serepta Grimes was all that could be
desired. After she had hugged and kissed—and wept over him a
little—she ordered him to take his bags up stairs to his old room and
not to be all day about it, because dinner would soon be ready and they
were having company in his honor.

“See here, Aunt Serepta,” he began gayly, “I’m getting too old to be
ordered around—and, what’s more, what right have you to come into a
house of gladness and cast a spell of gloom over it? You sha’n’t boss
the heir-apparent around as if he were a—”

“You do as I tell you, or I’ll speak to Santa Claus about you,” she
broke in, with mock severity. “Don’t forget Christmas is coming.”

When he came down stairs, after having unpacked his bags and scattered
the contents all over the room, he found the “company” already
assembled. As might have been expected, the guests included the Reverend
Mr. Sage, Mr. Sikes, and Mr. Link, and one outsider: the Mayor of
Rumley, Mr. Samuel Belding.

“What’s this I hear?” demanded the latter sternly, as he shook hands
with the young man. “Your father’s just been telling us you won’t accept
the distinguished honor the city of Rumley has conferred upon you
through the unanimous vote of the Common Council. What’s the matter with
it? Ain’t the pay big enough for you? It’s the chance of a life time, my
boy. Rumley is going ahead like a house afire. We’re going to open up
and pave two or three new streets, put in a new sewerage system and a
crematory, build a bridge over the railroad tracks at Clay Street
crossing, and—”

“I don’t believe a darned word of it,” broke in Mr. Sikes, almost
plaintively.

“What’s that?” demanded the Mayor, going purple in the face. “You don’t
believe what I’m—”

“I wasn’t thinking about you,” said Mr. Sikes. “I don’t believe Oliver
means what he says.”

“Like as not he never said it,” put in Mr. Link, eyeing old Oliver
darkly.

“Oh, yes, he did,” said the latter cheerfully, and not in the least
offended by the implication. “Didn’t you, Oliver?”

Oliver’s and Jane’s eyes met. She was standing beside her father a
little apart from the garrulous group. He saw something in her dark,
unsmiling eyes that puzzled him—something he was a long, long time in
fathoming.

“The truth of the matter is,” he said seriously, “I have other plans. I
appreciate the honor. The pay has nothing to do with my decision. I love
the old burg and I am proud to have been born here. I have just given up
a job that has been paying me nearly four times as much as what I would
be getting here, Mr. Belding. And it will be open to me whenever I
choose to go back with the company. That is understood. I—”

“You say you’ve quit your job?” broke in his father, aghast.

“Yes, sir,” quietly. “I gave it up last week.”

“A job paying more than seven thousand a year?”

“Just seven thousand, to be exact.”

“Well, of all the idiotic—”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Mr. Link. “The thing is, he may be
resigning on account of ill health. Now that I’ve had a good look at
you, Oliver, I must say your eyes seem a little liverish. Not exactly
liverish, either, but sort of bright and feverish. If you—”

“I am perfectly well, Uncle Silas,” said Oliver, smiling. Again his eyes
sought Jane’s. They seemed darker and deeper than before. “No, it isn’t
my health that’s caused me to give up my job. Needn’t worry about my
health, dad.” While he addressed his father he was subtly conscious of
speaking solely for Jane’s benefit. “But, come along; let’s have dinner.
I’m as hungry as a bear. We can talk about my affairs afterwards. With
the cigars. I brought you a box of the finest cigars I could find in
Chicago, father. You’ll hear the flapping of angels’ wings every time
you light one of ’em and take a few puffs.”

“You’ve got no business buying expensive cigars when you’re out of a
job,” grumbled his father. “Giving up a place with seven—”

“Maybe he’s going to get married,” burst out the Mayor, nudging the
young man in the ribs. “That accounts for his eyes being feverish
and—and sometimes when a feller is in love he does get to be a little
bit liverish.”

“That accounts for it,” said Mr. Sikes, very much relieved. “He’s going
to marry a woman with plenty of money. He don’t have to work any more,
Ollie. I hope to goodness she ain’t got any brothers to make trouble for
him after the nuptials have worn off a little. One brother-in-law can do
more to make a feller—”

“I am not going to be married,” said Oliver, blushing for no reason at
all, and thereby convincing the attentive Jane that if he wasn’t going
to be married it was through no fault of his own. “Nobody will have me,”
he added lamely.

“Of course, if you’ve been going around telling everybody what’s ahead
of you,” said Mr. Sikes, “I don’t blame ’em for not wanting to risk
being tied up to a feller—”

“Shut up!” cried Serepta Grimes, from the dining-room door. “You make me
sick, Joe Sikes, the way you go on. Dinner’s ready. You sit over here
next to Jane, Oliver. This is your place, Sam.”

“There’s another thing,” said the Mayor, very profoundly. “If you take
this job we’re offering you, Oliver, it’s bound to lead to something
better. I don’t mind telling you that I’m not going to be a candidate
for re-election. I’ve got two years more to serve and then I’m through.
This here town needs a young, active, progressive man for mayor. Some of
us have been talking things over and we’ve about decided that we know
the feller that ought to step into my shoes. He is a young man of vast
experience, education, integrity, ability, and he’s a good
Republican—at least, his father is. My shoes are pretty good-sized, but
that’s a blessing. No matter who steps into ’em, they’re not likely to
pinch. What size shoes do you wear, Oliver?”

“Sh!” hissed Mr. Baxter. “The parson’s waiting to bless the food.”

The host did not speak again until near the end of the meal. He was
deeply pre-occupied.

“What is this plan of yours?” he suddenly asked, breaking in on Mr.
Belding’s windy eulogy of the feast prepared by three of the “best cooks
in the universe.”

Young Oliver started. “Hadn’t we better leave that till we’re alone—”

“No; let’s have it now,” said old Oliver testily. “Unless it’s something
you’re ashamed of,” he amended, bending his gaze upon his son.

“I certainly am not ashamed of it.” A trace of irony, unintentional to
be sure, crept into his voice. “I suppose you know there is a war going
on?” His eyes swept the circle of listeners.

“Well, it’s kind of leaked out down our way,” spoke Mr. Link dryly.

“Damn the Kaiser,” said Mr. Belding, with feeling.

“Thank God, they turned him back at the Marne,” said Mr. Sage, speaking
for the first time in many minutes.

“I know what you are planning to do, Oliver,” cried Jane, paling.

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head. “You would know. You’re young enough
to know, Jane.”

“You are going over there to fight,” she cried, a thrill in her voice.

“Right you are. I’m going over in February with the Canadians. It’s all
settled. I’m to have my old job back when the war is over.”

Deep silence followed the announcement. Mr. Baxter sat with his lips
working, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in quick spasmodic jerks.
Jane put her hand to her throat as if to release something that had got
caught there and was stifling her.

“But it’s not our war,” said Mr. Sikes at last.

“It’s everybody’s war,” spoke young Oliver out of the very depths of his
soul. “We will be in it some day. We can’t keep out of it. But I can’t
wait. I’m going over now. Oh, I’ll come back, never fear. No chance of
me being killed by a German bullet.” Here he grinned boyishly. “You see,
Uncle Joe, I’ve just got to pull through alive and well, so that I can
be hung when my time comes.”




                               CHAPTER IX


                           HOME FROM THE WAR

The war was over. Oliver October Baxter came through without a scratch.
He saw two years of hard fighting with the glorious Canadians; when the
United States went in, he gave up his hard-earned commission as first
lieutenant and was transferred to the American Army. He learned a great
deal about red tape before his transfer was effected, and he discovered
to his disgust that he knew a great deal less about war than he might
reasonably have been supposed to know after two years of slogging along
at it under shot and shell from the German Armies. He had to go back to
America and enter a training camp, and even then, to employ his own
expression, he had the “devil of a time” getting a commission as second
lieutenant.

There were so many able young business men and college graduates out for
commissions that he just barely managed to scrape through “by the skin
of his teeth” in the struggle for honors. The fact that he had had two
years of actual experience at the front, part of that time as an
officer, did not seem to help him very much with his studies at the
“Camp,” nor with the intensive drilling that was supposed to make a
soldier of him in three months. Two medals for distinguished service on
the field of battle were of absolutely no service to him in the contest
that was being waged in the training camp—in fact, he was advised by
the major in command that he would better not even speak of them, much
less expose them to view.

Then, to his intense chagrin, he was sent from one camp to another—a
sort of floating officer—finally winding up in a mid-western division
that did not go over seas until the spring of 1918, only a few months
before the war ended. Once with the Army in France, however, things took
a belated change for the better. Far-sighted and fair-minded officers in
high places were not slow in transferring him from the camp far behind
the lines to a veteran division up in the battle zone. He went through
the Argonne and was close on the bloody heels of the German Army when
the last guns in the great conflict were fired. He came out a captain.

In April, 1919, he sailed from Brest and on the tenth of May arrived in
Rumley, discharged from the Army and jobless. On the way home he stopped
over in Chicago to notify his employers that he would be ready to resume
work after a month’s much-needed rest and quiet down in the old town. He
was blandly informed that as soon as anything turned up they would be
pleased and happy to take him back into the concern, but at present
there wasn’t a vacancy in sight—in fact, they were cutting down the
operating force wherever it was possible, and so on and so forth. Yes,
they remembered perfectly that they had promised him his old place when
he returned, but how in God’s name were they to know that the war was
going to last as long as it did? He couldn’t expect them to hold a job
open for him for nearly four years, could he? Only too glad to take you
on again, Baxter, when things begin to pick up—and all that.

Being a captain in the Army and used to plain speaking, he told the
astonished general manager what he thought of him and the whole works
besides, and airily went his way.

The horrors of war had not affected his spirits. He went over in the
first place full of cheer and enthusiasm; he came back without the
latter, but indomitably possessed of the former. He had seen grim sights
and sickened under the spectacle; he had stood by the side of dying
comrades and wept as he would have wept over his own brother; he had
known times when life was far harder to bear than the thought of death;
and he had said what he believed to be his last prayer a hundred times
or more. But when the guns ceased their everlasting roar and the smoke
lifted to reveal a blue sky that smiled, he too smiled and was glad to
be alive. He had lived on hope through the carnage of what seemed a
thousand years; the hope which men, in their bewildered after-joy, were
prone to call their luck. It was hope that went over the top with them,
but it was luck that saw them through.

And so when he was turned away, empty-handed, from the place where he
had proved his worth as a soldier of industry, he was not dismayed. He
experienced a lively sense of indignation, he felt outraged, but he did
not sit himself down over against the walls of Nineveh to devote a
single hour to lamentation.

The injustice rankled. He had heard of other men coming back to find
their places occupied by indispensables, but it had never occurred to
him that _his_ bosses would “welch” on their promise. He had never for
an instant doubted, and yet when he was turned away he was not
surprised. It seemed odd to him that he was not surprised. Perhaps it
was because he had reached the point where nothing could surprise him.
In any case, he strode out of the old familiar offices with his chin
high, enjoying a very good opinion of himself and an extremely poor one
of his late employers. It did not occur to him to feel the slightest
uneasiness about the future. He would be no time at all in landing a
good job with any one of the half dozen big concerns that had tried in
vain to get him away from the V—— Company. He would take his month or
two of idleness down in the old town, where he could realize on the
dreams and the longings that had never ceased to attend him, awake or
asleep, through all the black ages spent in France.

This time there was no delegation at the station to meet him. Too many
of Rumley’s young men had preceded him home from the war. He was no
better than the rest of them and deserved no more. His father and Sammy
Parr were waiting for him when the train pulled in.

“By thunder, Oliver, it beats the dickens how you work into my plans so
neatly,” cried the latter. “You always seem to be coming home at the
right minute. You couldn’t have timed it better if you’d—oh, excuse me,
Mr. Baxter, I forgot you hadn’t—er, here’s your father, Oliver.”

Old Oliver came shuffling up from the background. He eyed his son
narrowly.

“What’s this, I hear about them not taking you back on your old job?” he
demanded. He extended his hand, which young Oliver gripped in both of
his.

“Aren’t you glad to see me back, alive and well, dad?” he cried. “Not
even scratched, or gassed or shell-shocked or anything. You act as
though you—”

“Of course, I’m glad you’re back, sonny—of course, I am. I’ve been
praying for this ever since you went away. I don’t see how on earth you
ever escaped being killed. I—I guess it wasn’t meant for you to die
that way. Seems so, at any rate. But what did I tell you about them
holding your job for you? What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you just
what would happen? Didn’t I say you’d never get it back? Didn’t I say
you were a fool for giving up a seven thousand dollar job to go over and
mix up in a war that wasn’t any of our business? Well, you see what’s
happened. Just what I said would happen. Here you are, a grown man, out
of a job and probably won’t be able to get one in God knows how long.
I—”

“Oh, I’m not down and out, you know, dad,” broke in young Oliver,
slapping his father on the shoulder. “I’ve got quite a bunch of money in
the bank and I’ve got my health and a few million dollars’ worth of
brains left. So, cheer up! I’m not worrying. I learned a long time ago
how to land on my feet—and that’s the way I’ll land this crack.”

“Course you’re not worrying,” was his father’s sour retort. “You’ve got
me to fall back on, with a good home and grub and a darned fine business
to drop into when I’m dead and gone. Four-fifths of the fellers who
served in the army from this town alone are back here now, loafing and
living off of their folks, and kicking like a bay steer because the
government won’t do something for them. I hope you ain’t going to be one
of that kind, Oliver. I hope to God you ain’t.”

His son could hardly believe his ears. He was bewildered, hurt.

“If you mean, dad, that I am counting on living off of you—of sponging
on you—why, put it out of your mind. Nothing like that is going to
happen. I did plan to stay a month or two, just for a rest and to be
with you for a while—but if you’d rather have me beat it back to
Chicago to look for a job, I’ll only hang around a few days.”

“I want you to stay here as long as you like, sonny,” cried old Oliver,
melting. “I don’t want you ever to go away again. Maybe I sounded as if
I did—but—but, I don’t. I’m getting purty old—seventy-four last
month—and I guess I’m not good for much longer. Don’t you get it into
your head that I don’t want you to stay here in Rumley. Nothing would
suit me better than to turn the business over to you right now and let
me retire, but I guess it’s not your idea to go into the retail hardware
business.”

“If you need me, dad, I—I will stay,” said Oliver, swallowing hard.

“Oh, I don’t need you yet,” said his father, crusty once more. “I can
get along, I guess. I’ve done it for a good many years, and I’m not all
in yet, as the feller says. There was a time when I thought of selling
out and moving into another state to live, but I’ve given that idea up.”

“Still living in dread of what that darned old fraud said the day I was
born, eh? Well, the agony will soon be over. A year and a half more,
isn’t it? That will end the tale, and I will live happily forever
afterward.”

Sammy Parr was consulting his vest-pocket note book.

“Just one year, six months and twenty-one days,” said he.

“Good Lord, Sam! Have _you_ gone off your nut, too?”

“Vital statistics, old boy. It’s my business, you know. Come on; I’ve
got my car out here. Your father’s Ford died last fall and he’s been an
orphan ever since. Grab up some of this junk and I’ll bring the rest.
Never mind, Mr. Baxter. We can manage it.”

“Drop me at the store,” said old Oliver crossly.

Sammy gave young Oliver a significant look. “All right, Mr. Baxter.
We’ll wait outside for you. I’ve got nothing but time on my hands
to-day, and besides I want to talk to Oliver about a—er—something
private.”

As the two young men hurried across the platform with the bags and
bundles, Sammy found opportunity to say to Oliver:

“He’ll be in a good humor in a minute or two. It’s just a habit he’s
fallen into since you’ve been away. I guess it’s that infernal gypsy
business. He’s as peevish as blazes a good part of the time.”

They stopped in front of the Baxter store and the old man reluctantly
got out of the car. It was plain to be seen that he had not intended to
stop there at all but was now obliged to do so to save his face.

“I won’t be a minute,” he said, affecting a briskness that was
calculated to deceive his son. Then he darted into the store, where,
from a shadowy corner in the stove section, he shifted his uneasy gaze
from the clock on the wall to the car at the curb.

“How’s your wife, Sam?” inquired Oliver.

Sammy grinned. “Little premature, ain’t you?”

“Premature?”

“Sure. I’m not going to be married till next week.”

“Oh, I say, old chap, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard of Laura’s death. Her
name _was_ Laura, wasn’t it?”

“Yep. And it still is. But her last name isn’t Parr any longer. It’s
Collins. We’ve been divorced for five or six months, Oliver. Don’t look
so darned serious. I’m not sensitive. It’s the way things are done these
days. Nobody gets married for keeps nowadays. It’s not supposed to be
proper. The idea is to try it out for a year or so and if it doesn’t
work, zing! You up and get divorced. Pretty much the same thing as an
armistice. The war has changed everything. Quite a few old married
people I know of are taking advantage of the new order of things. I’ve
had to change the beneficiaries in four or five policies already.
They’ve suddenly awoke to the fact that it’s easy. God knows where it
will end. But I haven’t time now to tell you how Laura and I came to
split up. Some other time, if you’ll just remind me of it. The question
of the hour is, will you be best man again for me next week, old boy?
I’m marrying the sweetest little woman that ever came down the pike, and
this time it’s for keeps. No monkey business. Her first husband was a
Lieutenant Higby—we were in the same camp for months and months. That’s
where I met her. Well, he didn’t appreciate her. That’s the long and
short of it. Got to running around after other women. She up and canned
him. Long and short of it. Laura, God bless her, fell in love with a
chap named Collins. I don’t blame her, mind you—not a bit of it. She’s
as square as anything. Of course, it hurt my pride a little when she ran
away with him—but it simplified matters. I’m sure you will like Muriel.
She’s as fine as they make ’em. We’re to be married next Thursday
afternoon. Up in the city. Her people live there. How about it? Will you
repeat for me? I promise you it will be the last time, Oliver. Never
again. We both know what we’re about this time. We’ve cut all our wisdom
teeth—and, by Gosh, if you ask me, I’ve had a couple pulled.”

“We had a very jolly time at your first wedding, Sammy,” sighed Oliver.
“Jane was maid-of-honor and—well, I would have sworn that you two were
the kind who would stick.”

“So would I,” agreed Sammy cheerfully. “We can’t very well ask Jane to
be maid-of-honor this time,” he went on. “Religious scruples, you see.
Minister’s daughter. Wouldn’t look right. I mean, wouldn’t look right
for her. But it’s different with you. You haven’t any religious
scruples. What say? Will you do it?”

“Certainly. Rumley seems to be keeping up with the times, Sammy. When I
was a kid, nobody ever dreamed of getting a divorce. It was looked upon
as a—er—a sort of a crime.”

“Still is by some of the old-timers,” confessed Sammy. “Here comes your
father. Don’t say anything about me being married next week. I’m closing
up a deal to renew his fire insurance to-morrow or next day, and if he
knew I was thinking of committing bigamy next week, he’d turn me down
cold. He calls it bigamy, you see.”

“I see. By the way, where is Jane, Sammy?”

He remembered having asked that very question when he returned after a
former protracted absence—and how many times had he asked it even
before that? Every time he came home from college for a brief visit,
every time he met Mr. Sage on the street—why, all his life he had been
asking: “Where is Jane?”

“Jane Sage? Oh, she’s around, same as ever. Things are a lot easier for
Mr. Sage now. I guess maybe you haven’t heard about his brother dying
out in California and leaving him quite a bit of money. Yep. About a
hundred thousand dollars, they say—safely invested, mostly at six per
cent. The old boy still sticks to his job as preacher, though. He’s
getting eighteen hundred a year now from the church. I’m glad of it. He
gets a new suit of clothes every once in a while, and Jane doesn’t have
to make her own dresses as she used to. It looks like a pretty serious
affair between her and Doc Lansing. Been going on now for nearly a
year.”

“What’s that?” demanded Oliver, startled.

“I guess it’s all happened since you went away. Why, sure it has. Doc’s
only been practicing here since last summer. Got hurt over in France in
1917 and had to take his discharge. Went over early in ’Seventeen in the
Medical Corps. Leg smashed. Limps. Fine feller, though.”

“I don’t seem to remember him,” said Oliver, dully.

“His father is president of the new bank here—that brick building down
there at the corner of Clay and Pershing Streets.”

“Pershing Street?”

“Yep. Used to be Ridley’s Lane.”

“Oh.” Oliver was feeling a little like Rip Van Winkle. “You say
she’s—er—in love with him?”

“Looks that way,” said Sammy, indifferently. “He’s dead gone on her,
that’s sure. I had him in not long ago for the baby. He’s all right. I
forgot to tell you that the court gave the kid to me for eight months
every year—four months to Laura. All right, Mr. Baxter. Hop in. I’ll
snake you home in no time. Hang on to your hat.”

The volatile, insouciant Mr. Parr employed the correct word when he said
“snake,” for he wriggled a swift and serpentinous way through the
traffic of Clay Street in his noisy red roadster, keeping up a running
fire of conversation all the time, much of it being drowned by the
louder fire of the muffler cut-out—which he used unsparingly in place
of his horn in tight pinches.

“There’s Jane on ahead,” he sang out to Oliver as they whizzed across
Pershing Street.

“Where?” cried Oliver, starting up.

“Back there,” replied Sammy, with a jerk of his head.

Oliver twisted in the seat and looked over his shoulder. Jane was
standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring after the red roadster.
He half-rose and waved his hand to her. She did not respond at once. The
car was swinging into a cross street before she recovered from her
astonishment. Then she waved her hand—and the last he saw of her she
was standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Say, what the—what’s the rush?” he roared. “I want to speak to Jane.
Stop the damn thing, will you? Let me out. I’ll run back and—”

“Keep your shirt on,” chirped Sammy. “I’ll run you clear around the
block and we’ll head her off. Quicker than backing and turning in
this—”

“Go ahead!” commanded Mr. Baxter sharply. “Let’s get home. You can see
Jane to-morrow or next day,” he shouted to his son.

“Oh, I say, dad!”

“If you’d sooner see her than me—all right. All right! Turn around,
Sammy, and take him back. Let me out. I’ll walk the rest of the way
home.”

“Drive on, Sam,” said Oliver, sinking back in the seat.

Presently Mr. Baxter cackled. He was in high good humor again. “Say,” he
said, “I fooled the whole crowd of ’em. I told Joe and the rest of ’em
you wouldn’t be coming down till to-morrow. Pretty smart trick, eh?
Joe’ll be so mad he’ll pay me the twenty dollars he owes me, claiming he
don’t want to have anything more to do with me. He-he-he!”

Oliver was silent. Sammy snorted and then got very red in the face.

“I had to tell Serepty Grimes,” went on Mr. Baxter, as if apologizing to
himself. “She’s keeping house for me now, and so I had to tell her. I
didn’t tell her till just about an hour ago, though. She was as mad as a
wet hen.”

“Aunt Serepta keeping house for you?”

“Yes. Have you got any objections?”

“None whatever, dad. I think it’s great.”

“Well,” began the old man, slightly mollified, “I’m glad it suits you.”

“I wouldn’t have thought she’d give up her own nice little house
to—Don’t tell she’s in financial difficulties, dad.”

“She’s better off than she ever was. She sold her house and lot and the
Grimes sawmill two years ago, and now she’s living off the fat of the
land. She was the one who proposed the housekeeper scheme, not me. I
tried to argue her out of it. Wasn’t any use. I said that people would
be sure to talk if she came over and lived at my house. Make a regular
scandal out of it. But she just laughed and said nothing in the world
would tickle her so much as to have people say complimentary things
about her at her age. I was a long time figuring out what she meant.
She’s sixty-nine. She says I ought to feel the same way about it, me
being seventy-four. ‘Let ’em talk,’ says she, and after a while she got
me to saying ‘let ’em talk.’ But the cussed part of it is, nobody thinks
there’s anything scandalous about it. There hasn’t been a derned bit of
talk. The only thing people say, far as I can make out, is that it’s a
mighty nice arrangement. What the dickens are you laughing at, Sam?”

“I just ran over a hen,” lied Samuel promptly.




                               CHAPTER X


                               IDLE DAYS

June was well along before Oliver began seriously to contemplate
bringing his self-styled “vacation” to an end. May had been glorious.
Not since the year he left college had he known what it was to be idle
and, in a manner of speaking, independent. He revelled in privileges
that had been denied him for years—such as lying abed in the morning
till he felt good and ready to turn out; strolling aimlessly whither he
wished without troubling himself over the thought that he had to get
back at a given time; loafing;—Lord, he couldn’t remember that there
ever had been a time when he actually enjoyed the dishonorable luxury of
loafing!—on street corners, in Fry’s drug store, in the public library,
on friendly lawns and front porches; fishing, tramping, motoring,
reading—all the things he had dreamed of in the black days across the
sea.

The country was green and fresh and sparkling with the glories of a
summer just taking over the heritage of a blithe and bountiful spring.
The dust and grit of jaded August were still far enough away to be
unconsidered; the roadside bushes and hedges, the trees and the grass
were without the coat of gray that settles down upon them as summer
ages; the brooks and the creeks were cool and laughing in a world of
plenty, disdainful of the drought that was sure to fall upon and suck
them in the blistering “dog days.”

Even the sinister stretches of Death Swamp, across which he looked from
the oak-shaded citadel that he would always call home, were not so
repelling as they had been in days of yore. The pools, the hummocks, the
patches of defiant reeds, the black shades of the quagmires seemed oddly
to have lost much of their ugliness; the vastness that used to appall
him was gone, just as the old church down the lane seemed to have shrunk
from an immense, overpowering structure into a pitiful little shanty
supporting a ridiculous little steeple. The swamp was green and almost
kindly in its serenity; the wall of willows that surrounded it was
greener still and no longer the horrifying barrier beyond which no man
dared to tread; the soft blue of the June sky lay upon the still and
supposedly bottomless pond in the middle of these useless acres.

But at night—ah, that was different! The swamp turned grim and dismal
and forbidding. The grown man became once more the little boy as he
looked out over the moonlit waste or tried to pierce its black shadows
on a starless night; the same old creepy sensations of dread and terror
stole over him, and he who knew not the meaning of fear shivered.

During the first week he spent many happy, care-free hours with Jane
Sage. They took long walks through country lanes, visited the old haunts
he had known as smuggler, pirate and brigand, and marveled to find that
they were still boy and girl. It was hard for him to believe that this
tall, beautiful, glowing creature was the Jane Sage of another day, hard
for him to realize that this ripe, mature, fully developed woman with
the calm, clear eyes of understanding and the soft, deep voice, had once
been a spindling, giggling girl in pinafores and pigtails, and later a
half-formed maid in unnoticeable shirt waists and ill-hanging skirts.
She reminded him that she was twenty-five. Why shouldn’t she be grown-up
at twenty-five? What was surprising in that? Everybody else grew up and
got old, didn’t they?

“Yes,” said he, “but somehow you seem to have grown up differently from
other people. As if magic had something to do with it.”

“I was as grown-up when you went off to France four years ago as I am
now. A girl doesn’t change much between twenty-one and twenty-five, you
know.”

“Why, you were just out of short dresses when I went to France.”

She laughed. “Shows what little notice you took of me,” she gurgled.
“And all the time you were over there you were thinking of me as an
overgrown schoolgirl, I suppose. That is, if you thought of me at all.”

“Oh, I thought of you a great deal. But you’re right. I did think of you
as you were when I went to Chicago to work—just a pretty, big-eyed,
high-school girl with bony elbows and skinny arms—and you were as flat
as a board. Why, good Lord, Janie, hasn’t anybody ever told you that
you’re old enough to be married?”

“I am not without confidential friends,” she replied demurely, a soft,
warm flush spreading from throat to cheek.

This was in the first week of his visit. It was early evening and he
lounged contentedly among cushions at the foot of the steps leading up
to the parsonage veranda—an “improvement” that had followed close upon
Mr. Sage’s windfall. Jane sat on an upper step, her back against the
railing, her legs stretched out before her in graceful abandon. The
porch light behind cast its quite proper glow down upon the tranquil
picture; it fell upon the crown of Jane’s dark, wavy hair, scantily
touching with shadowy softness the partly lowered face which, with
seeming indifference, she kept turned away from him. She was looking
pensively down the dim-lit, cottage-lined street that cut through what
once had been the barren tract known as Sharp’s Field.

Oliver had fastened a sort of proprietory claim upon her as soon as he
arrived in town. He took it for granted that old conditions had not been
altered by the lapse of years nor by the transformations of nature; it
did not occur to him that their relationship could or should be governed
by a new set of laws.

And suddenly, on this quiet June evening, came the shock that put an end
to the old order of things: the astonishing realization that Jane was
old enough to be married! She was no longer a simple playmate. She was
old enough to be somebody’s wife—aye, more than that, she was old
enough to be the mother of children!

He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye, as if at some strange
creature that baffled his understanding. A woman! Jane Sage a woman!
Yes, there was the woman’s look in her thoughtful eyes, the woman’s mold
of chin and cheek and temple, the graceful curves of a woman’s body, the
round throat and the firm, shapely breast of glorious womanhood. A queer
little thrill ran over him—the thrill of discovery. This was succeeded
by a smarting sense of mortification which found expression in an
apologetic murmur:

“And I’ve been behaving right along just as if you were still a blooming
infant.”

“Instead of a withering old maid,” she remarked, affecting a lugubrious
sigh.

“Oh, I say, you—why, hang it all, Jane, if you turn out to be an old
maid I’ll—I swear I’ll not believe there’s a God or anything. It would
be monstrous—inhuman.”

“Sometimes we can’t help it,” said she.

“It’s darned hard for me to think of you as a grown woman, but it’s even
harder to conceive of you as an old maid.”

“You’re getting on in years yourself, old boy,” said she tauntingly.
“Aren’t you afraid of becoming a crusty old bachelor?”

He did not answer. Apparently he had not heard her. He was deep in
thought. After a long silence he spoke.

“What sort of a chap is Lansing, Jane?”

She started, and for a moment her eyes were fixed intently on his
half-averted face. There was an odd, startled expression in them.

“He is very nice,” she answered.

“So everybody says. He struck me as an uncommonly decent, high-minded
fellow. Knows a lot more to-day, of course, than he’ll know when he gets
a little older. Just out of medical college, isn’t he?”

“He was overseas in 1917,” she replied, a trace of warmth in her voice.
“He had been an interne for more than a year when he enlisted. He’s
young, of course—but we are all young once, aren’t we? He is considered
a very able—”

“Lord love you, Jane,” he broke in hastily, “I’m not questioning his
ability or his record. He’s got a smashed leg to show for his work over
there, and that’s more than I’ve got. As for his—”

“You have two or three medals,” she broke in softly. “You got them for
bravery, didn’t you?”

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I got them for foolishness. Fools
rush in where angels fear to tread! I had a fool’s luck, that’s all. The
battlefields and trenches were full of dead men who ought to have had
ten medals to my one. Lansing, for instance—wasn’t he hurt in an air
raid over a field hospital a few kilometers back of the lines?”

“Yes.”

“I sometimes think, in fact, I know—that it takes more real courage to
fight with your back to the enemy than it does to face him—if you see
what I mean. It’s much easier to be brave in the light than it is in the
dark. Besides,” he went on in his dry, whimsical manner, “you know which
way to run if you can see the enemy coming toward you. And usually you
run away from him a lot faster than you run toward him. I know I did.”

“You used to be a very good runner,” she said, smiling. “But that was
ages ago.”

“Ages,” he agreed, and then both fell silent.

They watched the approach of an automobile along the tree-lined street.
It slowed down as it neared the Sage home, coming to a stop at the front
gate. Jane shifted her position quickly. She uncrossed her legs, drew
them up into a less comfortable position, and attended to some slight
though perhaps unnecessary rearrangement of her skirt. This action did
not escape the notice of Oliver. It was significant. It established the
line she drew between him and other men. She didn’t mind him and she did
mind—well, say, Lansing, for it was the young doctor who clambered out
of the car and came up the walk.

The house stood back a hundred feet or more from the street, so Oliver,
recognizing the newcomer, had ample time to say to Jane, with a
mischievous gleam in his eye as he looked up at her:

“Hullo! Here comes the doctor. Why didn’t you tell me some one was sick
in the house?”

“Sh! He will hear you,” cautioned Jane, frowning at him.

“Bless your heart, Jane,” he whispered impulsively, and again she looked
at him in stark surprise.

Young Lansing walked with a slight limp. He was a tall, shock-haired,
good-looking chap of twenty-five or six. He had the manner of one
absolutely cocksure of himself—no doubt an admirable trait in one of
his calling—and there were people who did not quite approve of him
because he seemed to know as much as if not more than the old and
time-tried practitioners of the town. He had new-fangled ideas, new
methods, and he never by any chance so far forgot himself as to allude
to an ailment or remedy in terms other than profoundly scientific. After
hearing him classify your symptoms, it was impossible for you to deny
that he was a young man of superlative attainments. But when you rushed
around to the drug store with your prescription, believing yourself to
be in the grip of a strange and horrific malady, and found that you had
an ordinary sore throat and were to let the same old potash tablets
dissolve in your mouth just as you had always done, you somehow felt
that young Dr. Lansing was a trifle over-educated. He was, at
twenty-six, what you would call bumptious. Nevertheless, he was a fine,
earnest, likeable fellow—and even the most ignorant of patients would
just as soon be ill in Latin as in plain English so long as he pulls
through.

“Good evening, Jane,” said he, as he came up to the steps. “How are you,
Captain Baxter? Wonderful night, isn’t it?”

“Wonderful,” said Oliver, who wasn’t thinking at all of the physical
aspects of the night.

“Don’t be a pig, Oliver,” cried Jane. “Hand over a couple of those
cushions to Dr. Lansing. You look like a Sultan completely surrounded by
luxury.”

“Don’t bother,” interposed Lansing hastily. “I shan’t mind sitting here
on the step. Doctors get used to—Oh, thanks, Captain. Since you force
them upon me.”

Twenty minutes later, Oliver looked at his wrist-watch, uttered an
exclamation, and sprang to his feet.

“I must be going, Jane,” he said. “Due at Sammy Parr’s house half an
hour ago. I’m standing up with him at his wedding to-morrow, Doctor.
Marriage is a complaint you can have more than once, it seems. It’s
Sammy’s second attack.”

“No cure for it, I believe,” said Lansing, arising. “Not necessarily
fatal, however.”

“If taken in time it can be prevented,” quoth Oliver, airily. “The
symptoms are unmistakable.”

“Haven’t you ever been exposed to it?” inquired Lansing, with a grin.

“Frequently. It takes two to catch it, though. That’s how I’ve managed
to escape. So long, Jane. I shan’t see you again for a few days. Going
up for the wedding to-morrow and expect to stay in the city for a day or
two. Good night, Doctor.”

He took himself off in well-simulated haste. He had not been slow to
size up the situation. He was _de trop_. A certain constraint had fallen
upon the young couple at the opposite side of the steps. He had
sustained the brunt of conversation for some time, notwithstanding
several determined efforts on Jane’s part to do her share. Lansing
seemed to have become absolutely inarticulate.

As he strode off down the street he was conscious of an extremely
uncomfortable feeling that they were glad to be rid of him. Indeed, now
that he thought of it, Jane had not seemed especially pleased when he
dropped in shortly after supper. He recalled her long silences and the
way she kept her gaze fixed on the street. Yes, they were glad to be rid
of him. Any one could see that with half an eye. He smarted a little. It
hurt him to think that Jane didn’t want him around. Now that she was a
woman she didn’t want him hanging around. She wanted somebody else.
Somehow it didn’t seem natural.

But then, he philosophized, why wasn’t it natural? She was old enough to
be thinking seriously of getting married, old enough to have been in
love a half dozen times or more—only he couldn’t conceive of Jane being
so silly and vacillating as all that—and she certainly had a right to
be annoyed with him if he came meddling around—He stopped short in his
tracks, a queer little chill of dismay striking in upon him. For a
moment he felt utterly desolate and bewildered. He felt lost. Why, it
meant that he and Jane couldn’t be playmates or chums any longer.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, he turned and looked back in
the direction from which he had come. He saw the little red tail-light
far up the street, standing guard, so to speak, in front of the
parsonage. A red light signified danger. It means “steer clear,” “go
slow,” “beware.”

Jamming his hands into his pockets he resumed his way homeward, but now
he walked slowly, his head bent in thought. Presently his face began to
brighten, and soon he was grinning delightedly.

“Bless her heart,” he was saying to himself. “It’s great! What a mucker
I am to begrudge her anything. I hope this guy is good enough for her,
that’s all. If he isn’t—” here his face darkened again—“if he doesn’t
treat her right after he gets her, I’ll make him wish he’d never been
born.” His cogitations became more expansive. After a while they led him
to strong decisions. “It’s up to me to give him a clear field. No
butting in as if I owned the house and Jane and everything. It’s all
right for me to say I’m an old friend, and all that, but old friends can
make damned nuisances of themselves. I know how I’d feel if I was in
love with a girl and some idiotic old friend kept on horning in on
everything. Why, I’ve been up at Jane’s every night since I got to
town—most of the afternoons, too. Monopolizing her. Making her unhappy.
Making him—Yes, I’ve got to cut it out. It isn’t fair. She’s in love
with him—at least, it looks that way. It’s going to spoil my visit down
here, but I’ve got to do it. The town won’t seem natural or like home if
I can’t play around with Jane—but, my Lord, our play days are over. He
seems like a decent chap. I wonder how Mr. Sage feels about it?
Heigh-ho! It certainly does beat the devil the way the war has turned
everything upside down. Nothing is the same. It never can be the same.
Let’s see—what did I say I had to do? Oh, yes—see Sammy Parr about
something or other.”

And yet, with the best intentions in the world, he was not allowed to
carry them out. Jane had something to say about it. She met him face to
face in the street three days after Sammy Parr’s wedding, and looking
straight into his eyes, asked:

“What is the matter, Oliver?”

“Matter?”

“Yes. What have I done?”

“Done?”

“Don’t be stupid. Have I offended you? Why haven’t you been up to see
me?”

He decided to be quite frank about it. “I guess you know the reason.”

“I don’t know of any reason why you shouldn’t come to see me, unless
it’s because you don’t care to.”

“See here, Jane, we’ve always been pals. I know you like me just as much
as you ever did, and I’d jump off of that building over there head first
for your sake. I don’t know exactly how things stand with you and
Lansing. I don’t think you are engaged to be married. If that were the
case, I’m sure you would have told me so, but—”

“We are not engaged to be married,” she said quietly.

“I’m not going to ask whether you are in love with him. It’s none of my
business. It’s pretty generally understood that he is in love with you.
Let me finish. I will admit I’ve been making a few inquiries. I have
found out that up to the time he came upon the field you had any number
of young men calling on you—And I’ll bet my head they were all in love
with you. According to gossip, he seems to have the inside track—so
much so, in fact, that all of the others have dropped out of the
running. You see hardly any one now but Lansing. And so, while I’m not a
suitor, it’s only fair and square of me to keep out of the—”

Her free, joyous laugh interrupted him.

“Oh, you don’t know how relieved I am,” she cried. “I thought it was
something really serious. Something I had done to offend you. So that’s
the explanation, is it? You wanted to give me every chance in the world
to catch a beau—and to keep him. It’s awfully kind of you, Oliver.
Quixotic and silly and presumptuous—but kind. I am glad you’ve told me.
As you say, it is none of your business. So I shan’t burden you with my
affairs. There is no reason why you should make me miserable and
unhappy, however, just because you want to be what you call fair and
square. It’s just dirt mean of you, that’s what it is. So now you know
how I feel. Why, suppose I were in love with some one—even suppose I
were engaged—is that any reason why the oldest friend I have in the
world should turn his back on me and—”

“Now, now! Don’t lose your temper, Jane!”

“I’m not angry. I’m hurt. You’ve been in love with loads of
girls—heaven knows how many that I don’t know anything about—but has
that ever made any difference in my friendship for you? Indeed it
hasn’t. You—”

“Then you _are_ in love with Lansing?” he broke in recklessly.

“I haven’t said so, have I? Besides there is only one person who has a
right to ask me whether I’m in love with him or not and that is Doctor
Lansing himself.”

“That was one straight to the point of the jaw,” cried he, with a
grimace.

“So you needn’t feel you are doing me a good turn by avoiding me,” she
went on. “On the contrary, you are putting me in an extremely unenviable
position. What do you think people will say if you—of all persons—drop
me like a hot potato and—”

“Now, listen, Jane,” he began defensively. “I thought I was doing the
right thing. You see, it isn’t the same as it would be if I were a
contender. Good Lord, can you see me standing aside in favor of another
fellow if I was in love with you? I should say not! I’d stay him out if
it took all night _every_ night for ten years. But I want to play the
game. Why, if I keep on coming to see you morning, noon and night, I’ll
scare Lansing off and he—he’ll take to drink or something like that,”
he wound up whimsically.

“I don’t believe even as redoubtable a character as you could scare him
off, my dear Oliver,” said she, not without a trace of irony.

“Well, anyhow—” began Oliver lamely—“anyhow, I’ve explained and it
doesn’t seem to have done a particle of good.”

“Are you coming to see me?”

“Certainly. If you want me to.”

“Just as if there were no such person as Dr. Lansing?”

“He isn’t easy to overlook, you know.”

“I dare say if I were to ask him to overlook you, Oliver, he would do it
for my sake—with pleasure.”

“Ouch!”

“When are you coming to see me?”

“This evening,” said he promptly. “Unless you have a previous
engagement,” he hurriedly qualified in justice to his good intentions.

Jane smiled. “Doctor Lansing has quite an extensive practice,” she
remarked dryly. “He can’t devote every evening to me, you know.”

And so June drew toward an end with Jane and Oliver back on the old
footing—not quite the same as before, owing to the latter’s secret
conviction that he was playing hob with the doctor’s peace of mind,
although that young gentleman failed surprisingly to reveal any signs of
an inward disturbance. On the contrary, he didn’t seem to mind Oliver at
all—an attitude that was not without its irritations.

The “committee of three,” satisfied that he was safe for the time being,
adopted the welcome policy of letting Oliver alone. Joseph Sikes was so
vehemently concerned over the Eighteenth Amendment that he had little
time for anything else—not, he insisted, because he was a drinking man
or that he couldn’t get along without it, but because he had for once
abandoned his own party and had weakly helped to elect men to a
legislature that had betrayed the state into the hands of the “sissies.”
He invariably spoke of the “dry” advocates as “sissies.”

Oliver’s otherwise agreeable and whilom stay in Rumley was marred by his
father’s increasing despondency and irritation over the fact that he not
only was out of a job but apparently was making no effort to obtain one.
There were times when the old man’s scolding became unbearable, and but
for the pleadings of Serepta Grimes and the counsel of Mr. Sage, Oliver
would have packed his bags and departed.

“Don’t pay any attention to him, Oliver,” begged Serepta. “He’s cranky,
that’s all. He don’t mean what he says. It would break his heart if you
were to get mad and go off and leave him.”

“But I can’t stand being called a loafer, and a good-for-nothing, and a
lazy hound, and—”

“You must overlook it, Oliver. He’s old and he has worried so terribly
over what that gypsy said—”

“All right—all right, Aunt Serepta,” he would say, patiently. “I’ll put
up with it. I know he’s fond of me. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world.
But sometimes it gets on my nerves so I have an awful time keeping my
temper. How would you like to be called a long-legged sponge?”

He grinned and so did she. “I think I’d like it,” chuckled dumpy little
Serepta. “It would be stretchin’ something more than the imagination to
give me a pair of long legs, my boy.”

“I’m not asking him for money,” grumbled Oliver. “I’ve got a little laid
by. Enough to tide me over for quite a while. He seems to think I’m
scheming to get my hands on some of his. In fact, he said so the other
day when I merely mentioned that if I could scrape up a few extra
thousand I could triple it in no time by draining all this end of the
swamp and turning it into as fine pasture land as you’d find in the
state. I even took him down to the swamp and showed him that it is
possible and feasible. He called me a rattle-brained idiot.”

“Well,” said Serepta gently, “maybe you can carry out the plan after he
is gone, Oliver. He’s pretty old. He will leave everything he has to you
when he dies. He is a very thrifty man and he has prospered. So you will
be pretty well off.”

“God knows I would like him to live to be a hundred, Aunt Serepta—so
let’s not talk of his dying.”




                               CHAPTER XI


                         OLD OLIVER DISAPPEARS

Shortly before three o’clock on the afternoon of June 23rd; old Oliver
Baxter stepped into the bank at the corner of Clay and Pershing streets
and drew out thirty-five hundred dollars in currency. He gave no reason
to the teller or to the cashier for the withdrawal of so large an amount
in cash. He asked for a thousand in twenty dollar bills, the balance in
fifties and hundreds. Receiving and pocketing the money, he strode out
of the bank and turned his steps homeward.

His balance at the bank was a fairly large one. Moreover, he owned
considerable stock in the institution. The Baxter Hardware Company was
no longer an insignificant concern dealing in tools, tinware, nails; it
was an “establishment.” You could buy plows there; reapers, binders and
mowers; furnaces and boilers, ice boxes and washing-machines; pots,
kettles and cauldrons; stoves, ranges and brass-headed tacks; cutlery,
crockery and stout hemp rope; step-ladders, wheel-barrows and glass
door-knobs; log-chains, dog-chains and fly-wheel belts; coffee-mills,
pepper-pots and bathroom scales; currycombs, skillets and housemaid’s
mops.

The staff consisted of three clerks and a book-keeper, and, now that
farm machinery was included in the stock, an “annex” in the shape of a
long corrugated-iron shed reached out from the rear of the store and
took up all the available space between the Baxter Block and
Stufflebean’s Laundry on the north. People were right when they said
that young Oliver would fall into a very snug little fortune—and a
thriving, well-established business besides—when his father died.

Oliver October, ten or fifteen minutes late for supper that evening,
found his father in a surprisingly amiable frame of mind. He was quite
jovial, more like himself than he had been at any time since his son’s
arrival. He joked about old Silas and Joseph, teased Oliver about the
extremely pretty Indianapolis girl who had come the week before to visit
the Lansings, and exchanged pleasant jibes with Mrs. Grimes at the
supper table, but said nothing about the money he had withdrawn from the
bank.

It was a hot, still night, and there was a moon. On the front porch
after supper he brought up the subject of draining the swamp. He said
that he had given the matter a great deal of thought and was more or
less convinced that Oliver’s plan was a good one. Mrs. Grimes
triumphantly reminded Oliver that she had said, three weeks ago, that
all he had to do was to give the family mule plenty of rope and he would
quit balking in time—and hadn’t it turned out just as she said it
would? She left father and son seated on the porch and went off to spend
the night with an old friend whose husband was not expected to live till
morning.

Mr. Baxter’s good humor did not endure. He revived a dispute they had
had in the store earlier in the day—a one-sided quarrel, by the way,
which his son had terminated by rushing out of the place with the words
“Oh, hell!” flung back over his shoulder. The old man had that day
offered him an interest in the business if he would remain in Rumley and
take full charge of the store. Oliver was grateful, he was touched, but
he declined the offer, saying he had a profession in which he wanted to
make good; staying in Rumley would mean the end of all his hopes and
ambitions. Mr. Baxter flew into a rage and his son, white with
mortification, left the store, with that single, unguarded exclamation
his only outward sign of revolt.

Mr. Baxter’s reversion to the subject came when Oliver, looking at his
watch, announced that he must be running along, as he was due over at
the Sages to say good-by to Jane and her father.

“Well, I’ll walk part of the way with you,” said his father crossly. “I
want to talk to you about the drainage scheme and—and, Oliver, I’d like
to see if I can’t coax you to change your mind about coming into the
store. If you don’t mind, we’ll take the lower road along the swamp.
It’s a short-cut for you—saves you a quarter of a mile or more. I’ve
been over the road several times lately, looking the land over, and I
want to get your idea fixed in my mind. It’s as bright as day almost.
This may be the last night we’ll ever spend together, so I—”

“Don’t say anything like that, dad!”

“Never can tell. You may be sent off to some out-of-the-way place in the
West—in case you get a job, which I doubt very much—and God knows
whether I’ll be here when you come back. Got to look these things in the
face, you know. I’m seventy-five. If I do say it myself, a pretty good
little man for my age—wiry as a piece of steel—but, as I say, you
never can tell.”

A few minutes before nine o’clock, Oliver October appeared at the home
of the Reverend Mr. Sage, somewhat out of breath and visibly agitated.

“I’m awfully sorry to be so late,” he apologized. “Father and I had a
long and trying confab and I—I couldn’t get away. He gave it to me hot
and heavy to-night, Uncle Herbert. The worst yet. God knows I hate to
say it, but I’m glad I’m going to-morrow, and the way I feel now, I hope
I’ll never see the place again.”

“No, you shouldn’t say it, Oliver,” said Mr. Sage. “Poor man, he is
really not responsible these days. I wish you could see your way clear
to remain here.”

“You don’t believe he is—unbalanced, do you? I mean out of his mind?”

“By no means. He is as sound as a dollar, mentally. But his nerves, my
boy—his nerves are shattered. He thinks of nothing but the fate he
believes to be in store for you. Every day is an age to him. You will
not be thirty until a year from next October. Do you know how long that
seems to him? Endless! You see, Oliver, for nearly thirty years he has
lived in dread of—well, of the absurd thing that gypsy woman said. He
tries to laugh it off, but I know it has never been out of his thoughts.
Once you have passed your thirtieth birthday, he will be another man. He
sleeps on thorns now. It is no wonder that he is cross and irritable and
unreasonable. He is not deceived by the recent change of front on the
part of Joe Sikes and Silas Link, both of whom now loudly profess not to
believe a word of the fortune. He knows they are trying to cheer him
up.”

“He really is afraid that I am going to be hanged before I’m thirty?”

“I fear that is the case, Oliver.”

“And that is why he wants me to stay here, so that he can watch over and
protect me?”

“Exactly. Only he can not force himself to come out flatly and say so.
He is ashamed to say it to you, Oliver.”

“If I really believed that to be the case, Uncle Herbert, I—I would
stay.”

“It is the case, my lad,” said the minister earnestly.

“I’ll—I’ll think it over to-night,” said Oliver. “To-morrow I will put
it up to him squarely. If he says he wants me to stay _for that reason_,
I will chuck everything and—and go into the store.”

“A year or so out of your life, Oliver, is a very small matter. But a
year out of his is a great one, especially as it will seem like a
hundred to him. Yes, my boy, think it over. And think of him more than
of yourself while you are about it.”

“I guess maybe I deserve that slap, Mr. Sage. It touched the quick,
but—I guess I deserve it.”

He ran his fingers through his moist, disheveled hair—and then looked
at them curiously. With his other hand he fanned himself with his straw
hat.

Jane, who had been silent during the brief colloquy between her father
and Oliver, was studying the young man’s face intently. She was puzzled
by his manner and by his expression. He spoke jerkily, as if under a
strain, and his lips twitched. She noticed that his shoes were very
muddy.

“I came over by the back road, along the swamp,” he explained, catching
her in the act of staring at his feet. “Father walked part of the way
with me. He was pleasant enough to start off with, and I thought
everything was all right between us, but when I told him I couldn’t
reconsider—he went up in the air—and—Gee, what a panning he gave me!
It was terrible, Mr. Sage. I saw red. I felt like taking him by the
throat and choking him, just to make him stop abusing me. I—I had to
run—I couldn’t stand it. God, how miserable I am!”

He put his hands over his eyes and his shoulders shook convulsively.
Jane and her father looked on, speechless. After a few moments, Mr. Sage
arose and, with a sign to his daughter, entered the house, leaving her
alone with Oliver.

“Poor, poor Oliver,” she whispered, moving over close beside him on the
step. “It is all so strange and unreal. He loves you. You are everything
in the world to him. I can’t understand why he treats you like this.
I—I wonder if he isn’t just a little bit unbalanced. He must be. He—”

“I don’t think he is,” groaned Oliver, lifting his head. “If I thought
it was that, I’d put up with anything—I’d overlook everything. But your
father is right. He’s as clear-minded as he ever was. He’s got it in for
me for some reason and he—”

“If I were you, Oliver, I should tell him to-morrow that you intend to
stay here and go into the store.”

“I don’t know that even that would help matters.”

“Try it, Oliver,” she said gently.

The clock on the town-hall struck twelve before Oliver reluctantly bade
Jane good night and started homeward. Looking over his shoulder from the
bottom of the lawn, he saw her standing on the steps in the glow of the
porch light. He waved his hand and blew a kiss to her. There were lights
in Mr. Sage’s study windows upstairs.

On his way home, through the heart of the town, he passed the rather
pretentious house in which the Lansings lived. There were people on the
broad veranda. He recognized Sammy Parr’s boisterous laugh. He longed
for the companionship of friends—merry friends. His heart was heavy. He
was lonely. He turned in at the stone gate and walked swiftly up to the
house.

“Hello, Ollie,” called out Sammy. “Just in time to say good night.”

Young Lansing came to the top of the steps to greet him.

“I’ve been up saying good-by to Mr. Sage and Jane. And the funny part of
it is that I may not go away to-morrow after all,” said Oliver.

Lansing started and gave him a keen, startled look.

“Has Jane persuaded you to stay?” he asked, after a slight hesitation.

“Not for the reason you may have in mind, old chap,” replied Baxter,
laying his hand on the young doctor’s shoulder. “The Sages think I ought
not to leave my father.” He spoke in lowered tones, for Lansing’s ear
alone.

“I quite agree with them,” said the other stiffly. “Jane has been
talking to me about it. She said she intended asking you to change your
plans.”

“Mr. Sage opened my eyes to one or two things I haven’t been able to see
till now,” said Oliver simply. “My place is here in Rumley, Lansing. For
a year or two, at any rate.”

They joined the group at the darkened end of the veranda. Sammy and his
bride—a fluffy little giggler—were there; Miss Johnson, the girl from
Indianapolis, and two other young men.

“No, thanks, Doctor; I won’t sit down,” said Baxter. “Just ran in to see
if Sammy was behaving himself. And to tell you all that you will
probably have me on your hands for a while longer.”

“Good boy,” cried Sammy.

“Lovely—perfectly lovely,” shrieked the bride.

“If you had told me this morning, Mr. Baxter,” said Miss Johnson coyly,
“I shouldn’t have telegraphed mother I’d be home day after to-morrow.”

“Have a highball, Baxter?” asked Lansing suddenly.

“Not to-night, thanks. I’ve got to be running along. Father may be
waiting up for me. Night, everybody.”

And he was off. The group watched him stride swiftly down the cement
walk. Sammy was the first to speak.

“Well, I call that sociability, don’t you? What the dickens is the
matter with him? First time I’ve ever seen Ollie Baxter with a grouch. A
grouch, that’s what it was.”

“I don’t think it was very nice of him to come up here with a grouch,”
complained the bride.

“I guess the crowd was too thick for him,” said one of the young men
solemnly, and then winked at the girl from Indianapolis.

“He’s got something on his mind,” announced young Lansing,
professionally.

“The old man, I guess,” said Sammy. “If my father behaved like old man
Baxter does, I’d take him across my knee and spank him.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Early the next morning, Serepta Grimes called Joseph Sikes on the
telephone.

“Did Oliver Baxter stay all night with you?” she inquired. “I mean old
Oliver.”

“No.”

“Have you seen anything of him this morning?”

“No. What’s the matter, Serepty?”

“Well, he didn’t sleep here last night, and there ain’t a sign of him
around the place. I—I guess maybe you’d better come up, Joe.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Old Oliver was gone.

“Off his base,” groaned Mr. Sikes, fifteen minutes after Serepta’s
agitated call. He and Silas Link had hurried up to the Baxter home,
where they found Mrs. Grimes waiting for them on the front porch. “I
knew it would come. Off his base completely.”

“Wandered off somewheres,” groaned Mr. Link, very pale and shaky. “Maybe
down into the swamp. My God!”

“Oliver October’s down there now,” said Serepta. “I got him out of bed a
little after seven. He didn’t wait to put on anything except his pants
and shoes. All I could get out of him was that the last he saw of his
father was down on the swamp road about nine o’clock last night. Old
Ollie walked a piece with him. Last Oliver saw of him, he was standing
down there in the middle of the road.”

“Sure as shootin’!” gulped Mr. Sikes, sitting down heavily on the arm of
a chair. “Out of his head. Wandering around. In circles. Dead, maybe. My
God, Silas!”

“My God!” echoed Mr. Link, wiping the moisture from his forehead with a
palsied hand.

Both of them looked helplessly at Mrs. Grimes. She too was pale but she
was not helpless.

“Well, for goodness’ sake, don’t sit there like a couple of corpses,”
she cried. “Do something. Get busy. Go look for him. Start—”

“Sure he’s not around the house or barn anywhere?” broke in Mr. Link,
struggling to his feet.

“Maybe he fell down the cellar,” exclaimed Mr. Sikes, hopefully. “Or the
cistern, or—”

“I’ve looked everywhere. He ain’t in the cellar or the cistern or the
barn. I got here just about seven. Lizzie Meggs was getting breakfast.
She was singing, happy as a lark. Did I tell you that Abel Conroy is
still alive? Well, he is. I sat up with Kate Conroy all night, looking
for him to die any minute. He—”

“Think he’ll pull through the day?” inquired Mr. Link, suddenly becoming
an undertaker.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he got well.”

“Good deal depends on how his heart holds out. Doc’ Williams was
saying—”

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake!” boomed Mr. Sikes.

“As I was saying,” resumed Mrs. Grimes, “Lizzie was getting breakfast. I
said I thought I’d go upstairs and lie down for an hour or two, and she
says I’d better knock on Mr. Baxter’s door, ’cause she hadn’t heard him
moving ’round, and his breakfast would be cold if he didn’t get a move
on him. So I rapped on his door as I went by. Not a sound. I rapped
again, and then I tried the door. Then I went in. He wasn’t there. His
bed hadn’t been slept in. So I called Oliver October. It’s half-past
eight now, and the boy’s been down at the swamp for nearly an hour. Do
something! Go out and help him look—”

“I’ll take a look in the barn first. He may have gone up to the haymow
to sleep,” said Sikes, and shuffled off, followed a moment later by
Silas Link, who had stayed behind long enough to instruct Mrs. Grimes to
telephone to the police and to the railway station.

The long and the short of it was, Oliver Baxter had vanished as
completely as if swallowed by the earth—and it was the general opinion
that that was exactly what happened to him. There was not the slightest
doubt in the minds of his horrified friends that he had wandered out
upon the swamp and had met a ghastly fate in one of the countless pits
of mire whose depths no man knew or cared to fathom even in speculation.

These soft, oozy, slimy holes were located at the lower end of the
swamp, nearly a mile from the Baxter home. The upper end had long been
looked upon as reclaimable through drainage, but that portion
surrounding the pond was a hopeless morass. Scientific men advanced the
opinion that ages ago a vast lake had existed in this region, covering
miles of territory. Death Swamp was all that was left of it; the rest
had dried up through the processes of nature. Tradition had it that the
pond was without bottom, but science in the shape of an adventurous
surveyor demonstrated that the water was not more than a few feet deep
at any point. However, this same surveyor was authority for the
statement that the mud at the bottom of the pond was so soft and
unresisting that he could not reach solid ground with the twenty-foot
fishing pole with which he was equipped.

There were the usual stories, some verified, of horses and other animals
straying into the swamp and sinking out of sight before the eyes of
their owners—disappearing swiftly in what appeared to be a patch of
firm, reed-covered earth.




                              CHAPTER XII


                        ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT IT

Notwithstanding the almost universal belief that poor old Oliver Baxter
was buried in the black mire of the Swamp—there were some who said he
was still _sinking_—a state-wide search was at once instituted by his
distracted son, who, for one, did not believe that the missing man had
gone to his death in the loathesome tract. Before the sun had set on
that bleak though sunlit day, telephone and telegraph wires carried the
news to all nearby towns, villages and farms. Railway trains and
interurban cars were searched; the woods and the fields for miles around
were combed and the highways watched.

The bank’s prompt announcement that Mr. Baxter had withdrawn thirty-five
hundred dollars convinced Oliver October and a few sound-headed
individuals that he had deliberately planned his departure from Rumley,
although they were totally in the dark as to his reason for leaving—if,
indeed, a reason existed in his disordered mind.

No one could be found who saw him after he took leave of his son on the
swamp road. Oliver October related all that transpired between them on
that moonlit by-way. He did not spare himself in the recital. No one
blamed him, however. Much to his distress, Serepta Grimes came forward
with truthful descriptions of scenes in and about the Baxter home; she
told of old Oliver’s inexplicable conduct, of violent fits of anger that
grew out of nothing and died away in melancholy regret over the things
he had said to his beloved son. And she described Oliver October as an
angel possessing the patience of Job for having endured these outrageous
“tantrums.”

While neither Serepta nor young Oliver could be positive, they were of
the opinion that Mr. Baxter wore his every-day business suit on the
evening of his disappearance. Of this, however, they could not be sure.
An inspection of his closet the following morning led to a puzzling
discovery. A comparatively new suit of a dark gray material—rather too
heavy for summer wear—was missing, while the wrinkled, well-worn
garments that he wore daily at the store were found hanging in the
closet alongside his venerable “Prince Albert.” Mrs. Grimes was
confident that he had on his old clothes at supper time; Oliver October
had not noticed what he was wearing. In the event that Mrs. Grimes was
right—and she couldn’t take oath on it—Mr. Baxter must have returned
to the house and changed his clothes after parting from his son. There
was no one at home. Lizzie, the most recent maid-of-all-work, was at the
“movies,” and Mrs. Grimes was “sitting up” with Abel Conroy.

The excitement in Rumley was intense. The Baxter home became a magnet
that drew practically the entire population of the town to that section,
and there was not an hour of the day that did not see scores of people
trudging through the safer portions of the swamp or tramping along the
uplands that bordered it. Small children, accompanied by their parents,
stared wide-eyed and frightened across the loathesome tract, and
listened to solemn warnings which generally began with “poor old Mr.
Baxter wandered out there and that was the last of him.” Venturesome
young men approached a few of the “holes,” sounded them with poles and
saplings, and came away shaking their heads.

Three or four days passed before towns far and near began to report that
old men answering the description sent out by the Chief of Police in
Rumley were being detained or kept under surveillance, pending the
arrival of some one who could identify them as Mr. Baxter. Oliver
October, Sammy Parr and other citizens sped in haste to these towns,
only to meet with disappointment. Finally the tenth day came and the
nine days of wonder were over. People began to think and talk about
something besides the Baxter mystery. Detectives from Chicago, brought
down by Oliver October, agreed with the young man that his father had
“skipped out,” to use the rather undignified expression of Mr. Michael
O’Rourke. It was Mr. O’Rourke who advanced the theory that the old man
had taken this amazing means of forcing his son to remain in Rumley.

“Why,” said he, “it’s as plain as the nose on your face. He is dead set
on having you stick to this town. He chews it over with you for weeks.
You say ‘nix.’ Nothing doing. Well, what’s the smartest thing he can do?
What’s the surest way for him to bring you to time? He’s as slick as
grease, your father is. Out of his head? Not on your life. He’s an old
fox. Do you get me? The only way to make you stay in this town is for
him to leave it.

“He draws a wad of money, puts on his best clothes, and—fare thee well!
He sneaks off without letting anybody know where he’s going. Why does he
do that? Simple as A B C. If you or anybody else knew where he was or
where he was even likely to be, you’d have him back here in no time, and
all his trouble for nothing. He thought it all out beforehand. Knew
exactly where he was going and how to get there without being headed
off. And that’s where he is right now, leaving you to hold the bag. He’s
had his own way. You’ve got to stay here until he gets good and ready to
come back. See what I mean? Somebody’s got to be in charge of his
affairs. The store and everything. There is a chance, of course, that he
wandered out in the swamp, as most of these people think, but I don’t
believe it. He wouldn’t draw out thirty-five hundred dollars if he had
any preconceived notion of doing away with himself. And he wouldn’t come
home and put on his best suit of clothes, either. It’s possible, to be
sure, that he was slugged by somebody who knew he had all that money and
his body chucked into the mire. It’s up to you, Mr. Baxter. If you want
us to go ahead and rake the country for him, we’ll do it. I don’t say
we’ll find him. We’re an honest concern. We don’t believe in robbing our
clients. It will cost you a lot of money to find him, Mr. Baxter.
Besides, there’s always the chance that he’ll lose his nerve and come
back home. Or he may get sick and send for you. We’ve had hundreds of
these mysterious disappearance cases and more than four-fifths of ’em
don’t amount to anything.”

“I want to find him,” said Oliver firmly. “You may be right in your
surmise—I hope you are. But just the same I don’t intend to leave a
stone unturned, Mr. O’Rourke. As long as I’ve got a cent of my own, I’ll
keep up the search, and when my money runs out, I will use his. Good
God, when I think that he may have wandered off only to fall into the
hands of thieves and cutthroats, I—I—No, we must find him, do you
understand? Find him!”

“He’s all right as long as he don’t let some guy sell him the Field
Museum or the Woolworth Building,” said the detective easily. “All
right, sir. We’ll get on the job at once. Hold yourself in readiness in
case we need you in a hurry. I suppose we can always get in touch with
you here, Mr. Baxter?”

Oliver nodded. “Yes. You can always find me here in Rumley.”

And so the days ran into weeks and the weeks into months, with the
mystery no nearer solution than in the beginning—no word, no sign from
the old man who had vanished, no clue that led to anything save
disappointment. There was something grim, uncanny about the silence of
old man Baxter—it was indeed the silence of the dead. “He might as well
be dead,” was a remark that became common in Rumley whenever his case
was discussed. Strangely enough, no one now believed him to be dead.
Everybody agreed with the detective that the cantankerous old man had
“skipped out” with the sole idea of frustrating his son’s plan to return
to Chicago.

“What gets me,” said Joseph Sikes, “is the underhanded way he went about
it. Leaving Oliver and all the rest of us to worry ourselves sick and
him just calmly settling down somewheres in peace and comfort and maybe
snickerin’ to himself over the way he put it over on us. It wasn’t like
him, either. I never knew a more upright man, or anybody as square and
above-board as Ollie Baxter.”

Not once but a dozen times a day Mr. Sikes held forth in some such
manner as this, ignoring Mr. Link’s contention that poor old Ollie may
not have been responsible for his act, “owing,” said he, “to a sudden
mental aberration.” Young Dr. Lansing spoke of it as “aphasia,” which
was doubted with scornful determination until the word was reduced to
“loss of memory” by several family doctors who stood well in the
community.

Oliver October took charge of the store and, as self-appointed manager,
conducted the business to the best of his ability. He deferred to the
older clerks and the book-keeper in matters of policy, an attitude which
not only surprised but pleased them. Charlie Keep, the senior clerk—a
man who had been in the store for twenty years—was so inspired and
relieved by this self-effacement that he speedily proclaimed Oliver
October to be a better business man than his father.

There was nothing in the young man’s manner to indicate that he rebelled
against the turn in his affairs. On the contrary, he took hold with an
enthusiasm that left nothing to be desired by those who at first shook
their heads dubiously over the situation.

“I am to blame for all this,” he protested firmly. “If my father is
dead, I am accountable for his death. Whatever his present condition may
be, I am responsible for it. Don’t put all the blame on that gypsy
fortune-teller. I should have realized the state of mind he was in and I
should have given up everything else in the world to help him weather
the next year or so of doubt and distress. I laughed at his fears. I did
not understand how real they were to him. He wanted me here where he
could watch over me. Mr. Sage believes he has buried himself in some
out-of-the-way place where he can’t even hear what happens to me between
now and my thirtieth birthday. Uncle Joe Sikes says he got cold
feet—couldn’t stand the gaff. That’s another way of looking at it. In
either case, I honestly believe he will come back in his own good time.
And when he does come home he must find me here, carrying on the
business as well as I know how. I will do more than that. I’ll drain
part of our bally old swamp and make it worth fifty dollars an acre to
him instead of the dreary waste he bought for a song. And I sha’n’t stop
looking for him—not for a single minute. It’s all right to be
optimistic, it’s all right to assume that he is safe and well somewhere,
that he knows what he is about, and all that. The reverse may be the
case—so I mean to find him if it is humanly possible to do so.”

Joseph Sikes and Silas Link lamented and at the same time excoriated old
Oliver Baxter. For a while the latter spoke of his old friend as “the
deceased,” being in no doubt at all as to his fate, but, as time went on
and the “remains” continued to elude the most diligent of searchers, he
was forced to admit that perhaps everybody else was right and he was
wrong.

Accepting the increased burden of responsibility resulting from old
Oliver’s defection, the two “guardians” devoted themselves, without a
murmur of complaint, to the supervision of Oliver October’s private and
personal affairs. It was a duty that could not be shirked—a charge
bequeathed to them, so to speak, by the figuratively demised Mr. Baxter.
They had little or no support from Mr. Sage; and when they complained to
Serepta Grimes about the minister’s lack of interest in the young man,
that excellent manager shocked them by declaring that if they bothered
her with any more of that nonsense she would give them a piece of her
mind and a kettle full of boiling water besides.

They turned to Jane Sage for comfort, and while that young lady
smilingly called them a couple of “dear old geese” it was so much more
poetic than Mrs. Grimes’s “idiotic old jackasses” that they forthwith
accepted her as an ally and from that time on went to her with all their
troubles—dubiously and shamefacedly at first, to be sure, but with a
confidence that soon developed into arrogant assurance. She confided to
Oliver October that they nearly bothered the life out of her, and begged
him, for her sake, to smile more frequently than he did—(Mr. Sikes
dwelt mournfully upon what he called Oliver’s “hang-dog”
expression)—and to stop haranguing the members of the common council
about the defects in the city drainage system—(Mr. Link said that it
wasn’t right, the way he lost his temper when discussing the conditions,
and besides nobody else had ever found any fault with the sewers in
Rumley); and never to so far forget himself as to again threaten to sue
George Henley if he didn’t settle his account of four years’ standing;
and by all means to refrain from arguing politics with Justice of the
Peace Winterbottom, because neither Mr. Sikes nor Mr. Link slept very
well after listening to these heated debates.

“Poor old Janie,” Oliver would say, with his always engaging grin. “I’ll
bet you wish I was safely past thirty.”

“I do that,” she would always respond, very much as Biddy McGuire, the
Irish washwoman, might have said it.




                              CHAPTER XIII


                        THE GOOD SAMARITAN PAYS

The winter wore away, spring came and quickly melted into summer; the
first anniversary of the unexplained disappearance of Oliver Baxter
passed. Three months remained of the last year allotted to Oliver
October by the gypsy “queen” on that wild, shrieking night in ’ninety.
He was still alive and thriving, and the shadow of the scaffold was as
invisible as on the day the prophecy was uttered.

But by this time practically everybody in Rumley was counting the days
and jokingly reminding Oliver that his chances got better every day!

He grinned and suggested that the town ought to put up a stupendous
calendar in front of the city hall and check off each succeeding day, so
that the public could keep count with the least possible tax on the
mind.

“I feel like a freak in a dime museum,” he said to Jane one evening.
“What you ought to do at the lawn fête next week, Jane, is to put me in
a little tent and charge ten cents admission to see the man that the
hangman is after. You’d raise enough money to wipe out the entire church
debt. Think it over.”

He had just returned from a hurried trip to Nashville, Tennessee, where
an old man was being held—a queer old tramp with a prodigious Adam’s
apple, who refused to give any account of himself. This was but one of
the fruitless journeys he had taken during the twelve-month.

“I see by the paper this evening that your Uncle Horace has announced
himself as a candidate for State senator,” said Mr. Sage, who was
enjoying his customary half-hour on the porch with them.

“Well, I know one vote he will not get,” said Oliver, “even if he is my
uncle.”

“I know of another,” said the minister dryly.

“The nomination is equivalent to an election,” said Oliver. “There
hasn’t been a Republican elected in this county since the Civil War,
they say. If the old boy can buy the nomination he won’t have to spend a
dollar getting elected.”

“It is not my habit to speak unkindly of my fellow man,” said Mr. Sage,
“but I find it quite a pleasure to say that I look upon Horace Gooch as
the meanest white man in all—er—I was on the point of saying
Christendom, but I will say Hopkinsville instead.”

“Why, Daddy, I am really beginning to take quite a fancy to you,” cried
Jane delightedly. “Only last week you said he ought to be tarred and
feathered for turning those two old women out of their house over at
Pleasant Ridge.”

“But he didn’t turn them out,” said Oliver quickly. “Somebody came along
at the last minute and lent them the money to redeem their little house
and farm. They’re as safe as bugs in a rug and as happy as clams.”

“You don’t really mean it, Oliver?” cried Mr. Sage. “That is good
news—splendid news. It seemed such a heartless perversion of the law
that those poor, frail, old women—both over seventy, by the way—should
lose their all simply because they had to let their property go at tax
sale. Horace Gooch has become rich off of just such delinquent
tax-payers as these unfortunate old women. I am not saying it is
illegitimate business—but he has acquired quite a lot of good real
estate in this way. I rejoice to hear that some one has come to the
rescue of Mrs. Bannester and her sister. I suppose they had to give
their benefactor a mortgage on the property, however,—and that may
ultimately afford some one else a chance to squeeze them out of their
own.”

“I understand it was a loan for something like twenty years, without
interest,” said Oliver.

“Bless my soul! Practically a gift, in that case. It is unlikely that
they will live to be ninety.”

“I wonder how Uncle Horace felt when they popped up the other day, just
as he thought he had the tax deed in his hand, and redeemed the
property,” mused Oliver, chuckling. “I’ll bet it hurt like sin. Even a
shark can suffer pain if you stick him in the right place. He had his
heart set on that property, Uncle Herbert. The Interurban line is
figuring on putting up an amusement park out that way, and I happen to
know they’ve had an eye on the Bannester place, with its big oak trees
and a wonderful place for an artificial lake. He could have cleaned up a
lot of money on it.”

“I hate that old man,” cried Jane.

“My dear child, you must not—”

“When I think of how he behaved after Mr. Baxter went away, and the
things he said to Oliver when Oliver refused to help pay for the
monument his uncle had erected on his own cemetery lot up at
Hopkinsville, because Mr. Baxter’s sister was buried there—his own
wife, if you please, Daddy—well, when I think of it I nearly choke. I
won’t allow you to say I sha’n’t hate him. I just adore hating him and
I—”

“My dear, I had no intention of saying you shouldn’t hate Mr. Gooch,”
broke in her father. “I was merely trying to say that you must not speak
so loud. Some one outside the family circle is likely to hear you.”

“I’ve always said you were a corking preacher, Uncle Herbert,” announced
Oliver.

“Thank you,” with the lift of an eyebrow. “No doubt I have improved
somewhat with age.”

“I’d give a lot to know just what you said to old Gooch, Oliver, when he
came to see you about the monument last fall,” said Jane, invitingly.

“I was mighty careful, I remember, to see that there were no ladies
present at the time,” chuckled Oliver. “And besides, I’ve been trying
ever since to forget what I said to him. But it’s absolutely impossible,
with Uncle Joe dropping in every day or so to remind me of it.”

“I hope Mr. Gooch hasn’t been allowed to forget it.”

“Jane, my dear, you really are becoming quite a vixen,” remonstrated her
father.

An automobile came to a sudden stop in front of the house, and an agile
young man leaped out, leaving his engine running. He came up the walk
with long strides.

“Say, Oliver, you old skate, I’ve been looking all over town for you,”
shouted Sammy Parr. “This isn’t your night to call on Jane—don’t you
know that? You’re supposed to be either at the Scotts’, billing with Amy
Scott, or at the Ridges’, cooing with that new girl from Boston, and
listening to her talk about Harvard all the time. Say, I’ve been over to
Pleasant Ridge this afternoon—good evening, Jane—to see Mrs. Bannester
and her sister about some fire insurance—Evening, Mr. Sage. Nice
evening—And, say, they told me all about you, you blamed old skate—I
mean Ollie, not you, Mr. Sage. Gee whiz, Ollie, you certainly did throw
the hooks into Uncle Horace this time, didn’t you? You certainly—”

“Shut up!” growled Oliver, scowling fiercely at the excited Sammy.

“Shut up? Why should I shut up? Why the hell should I—beg pardon, Mr.
Sage—excuse my slippery tongue. My Lord, boy, the boom has already been
started. You can’t head it off. I didn’t lose a minute getting over to
the County Chairman’s office and telling him the whole story. The boom’s
on! He nearly hit the ceiling for joy. My God, if we can only keep all
this quiet till after the Democratic convention—and old Gooch is
nominated—we’ll spring something—Gee whiz! Listen to me barking loud
enough to be heard in Hopkinsville. Fine guy, I am, to talk about
keeping it quiet. Say, we’ve got to talk in whispers from now
on—whispers, see?”

As he planted himself down on the step, he delivered a mighty,
resounding slap upon Oliver’s knee.

“Aw, cut it out—cut it out,” grated Oliver. “Keep your trap closed,
can’t you?”

“What on earth are you talking about, Sammy?” cried Jane.

“He’s talking through his hat—”

“Out with it, Sammy, out with it,” counseled Mr. Sage, coming down the
steps.

Oliver groaned: “Oh, good Lord, deliver me!”

“Say, what do you think, Mr. Sage—what do you think? Why, this chump
here is the guy that lent Mrs. Bannester the money to—”

“See here, Sam—this is my affair,” broke in Oliver gruffly. “It’s
nobody’s business but my own. I made ’em swear on a stack of Bibles
they’d never tell—”

“Don’t blame them—don’t blame those nice old women,” broke in Sammy
sternly. “It was not their fault. I put one over on ’em. I told ’em
there was some talk of that check being phony and they’d better—”

“It wasn’t a check,” said Oliver triumphantly. “It was cash—currency.”

“That’s what they came back at me with, but I said I meant counterfeit
and not forgery—slip of the tongue and so forth. That got ’em. They up
and said they had known Oliver October Baxter since he was knee high to
a duck, and—”

“Oh, Oliver!” cried Jane. “Did you really do it? I could squeeze you to
death for it. And you never told me—you never breathed a word—”

“It was only about a thousand dollars,” mumbled Oliver. “And a little
over,” he added quickly, noting Sammy’s expression. “It was my own
money. I could do what I liked with it, couldn’t I? They used to bring
eggs and butter and chickens and everything to my mother, and when she
was sick they had me out to their farm and made me awfully happy
and—But that’s neither here nor there. It was a low-down trick of
yours, Sam, to—”

“Sure it was,” agreed Sammy cheerfully. “But right there and then the
destiny of the great American nation was shaped along new lines. Right
then and there, Mr. Samuel Elias Parr saw a great light. The words were
no sooner out of the mouth of old Mrs. Bannester—or maybe it was her
sister—it doesn’t matter—when the boom was born! Yes, sir, the boom
was hatched and—but, my God, we mustn’t—oh, excuse me, Mr. Sage, I
keep forgetting that you—”

“Pardon me, Sammy, but I am really quite curious to know why you
apologize to me for your profanity and not to Jane, who, I assure you,
is a young lady of considerable refinement and—”

“That’s all right, sir,” Sammy assured him glibly. “I’ve got Jane
covered with a sort of blanket apology—something like a blanket policy.
Good for any time and any place. But as I was saying, we mustn’t let Joe
Sikes and Silas Link get wise to all this. They’d raise Cain—spoil
everything gabbing about that gypsy’s warning or whatever it was. Now,
if we are foxy, we’ll catch the Democrats napping and, gee whiz! what a
jolt we’ll give ’em next November! We’ll run four thousand votes ahead
of Harding himself and—”

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, Sammy, slow down! Put on your brakes! What the
dickens are you driving at, anyhow? Boom? What boom?”

“Your boom, you idiot! The boom’s been started for you as Republican
candidate for State senator against old man Gooch. It’s under
way—nothing can head it off, absolutely nothing but death or an
earthquake. The County Chairman hit the ceiling. He told me he’d call a
meeting of—”

“Why, you darned chump,” roared Oliver. “I’m not going to run for State
senator or anything else. You must be crazy. You’ve got a lot of nerve,
you have. What right have you to start a thing like this without
consulting me? You’ll just make a monkey of me, that’s all you’ll
do—and of yourself, too. I’ll head it off to-morrow. I’ll telephone—”

“Won’t do you a darned bit of good,” cried Sammy exultingly. “They’ll
nominate you, anyhow. Why, my Lord, they’ve got to nominate _somebody_,
haven’t they? They do it every election year, don’t they? Just as a
matter of form? But, great Scott, here’s the chance for them to _elect_
somebody in this county. You don’t suppose they’re going to miss a
chance like this, do you? Popular young soldier, medal man, celebrated
football player, renowned engineer, youthful philanthropist, successful
business man, unsmirched character—why, you’re the only Republican in
this county that would stand a ghost of a show, Ollie. And best of
all—popular nephew running against Shylock uncle! Gee whiz! Normal
Democratic majority of three thousand wiped out—in spite of
prohibition—and—Senator Baxter, of Rumley, ladies and gentlemen!”

Even Oliver October laughed.

“By jingo, Sammy, you’re doing your level best to have me put my neck in
the noose, aren’t you?” he exclaimed.

“Noose nothing!” exploded Sammy. “I thought about all that. You can’t
possibly be elevated to a position in the halls of State or Nation until
next November, you chump—and you’ll be thirty in October, won’t you?
Well, that settles that. Puts the kibosh on that gypsy dope. Well, so
long! I’ve got to be on the jump. I just thought I’d run up and tell
you, so’s you’d know what’s what. I’m going down to see Al Wilson at the
_Despatch_ office. Put him wise and warn him not to let a word of it
leak out in the paper till he gets the word. Night, Mr. Sage—so long,
Jane.”

“Wait a minute!” called out Oliver, springing to his feet as Sammy
darted down the walk.

“Nix!” shouted Sammy over his shoulder.

The three of them watched him in silence as he leaped into his car and
began his swift, reckless turn in the narrow street.

“Sorry!” he yelled out to them. “Had to take off a little of the turf,
but this street needs widening, anyhow.”

“What are you going to do about it?” inquired the minister, the first to
speak.

Jane did not give Oliver a chance to reply. Her eyes were blazing with
excitement and there was a thrill in her voice that caused Oliver to
laugh outright.

“Do about it?” she cried. “Why, he’s going to run against old Gooch and
beat the life out of him!”

“Daughter!”

“Oh, my goodness! I’m so excited! Oliver, you’re a darling for helping
those old women out—and you never intended to say a word about it! It
was heavenly! And you will go to the State Legislature, and then to
Congress, and—Goodness knows how high up you may go!”

Oliver’s smile broadened. “And the Gypsy Queen be hanged,” quoth he.

Jane caught her breath. A startled look flashed into her eyes and was
gone.

“The Gypsy Queen be hanged!” she echoed stoutly. “Long live the King!”

Oliver was still looking up at her. She stood at the top of the steps,
the light from the open door falling athwart her radiant face, half in
shadow, half in the warm, soft glow. Suddenly his heart began to
pound—heavy, smothering blows against his ribs that had the effect of
making him dizzy; as with vertigo. He continued to stare, possessed of a
strange wonder, as she turned to her tall, gray-haired parent and laid
both hands on his shoulders.

“I wish I could say ‘gee whiz’ as Sammy says it,” she cried. “I feel all
over just like one great big ‘gee whiz.’ Don’t you, Daddy?”

The man of God took his daughter’s firm, round chin between his thumb
and forefinger and shook it lovingly. “One ‘gee whiz’ in the family is
enough,” said he. “I am glad you feel like one, however. You take me
back twenty-five years, my dear. Your mother used to say ‘gee whiz’ when
she felt like it. It is, after all, a rather harmless way of exploding.”

“I know—but don’t you think it is wonderful?” she cried. “I mean,
Oliver going to the Legislature and—”

“Whoa, Jane!” interrupted Oliver, a trifle thickly. He wondered what was
the matter with his voice. “Steady! Sammy’s crazy. I wouldn’t any more
think of letting ’em put me up for—why, gee whiz! It’s too ridiculous
for words.”

Her face fell. “I must say I like ‘gee whiz’ only when it expresses
enthusiasm,” she said. “It’s an awful joy-killer, the way you used it
just then, Oliver.”

“I don’t want any politics in mine,” he stated, almost sullenly. Then
brightly: “If I had to choose between the two, I’d sooner go in for
religion.”

Mr. Sage smiled. “If more clean-minded, honest fellows like you, Oliver,
were to go into politics, there wouldn’t have to be so many preachers in
the land.”

“What chance has an honest man got in politics, I’d like to know?”

“The same chance that he has in the church. The people want honest men
in politics, just as they demand honest men in their pulpits.”

“That’s all right, sir, but it’s easier to be good in a church than it
is in a barroom—and that’s just about the distinction.”

“You forget we’ve got prohibition now,” said Jane, ironically. “There
isn’t a barroom in the whole United States and there isn’t a single drop
of intoxicating liquor.” She laughed derisively.

“Not a drop,” he agreed, rolling his eyes heavenward. Then he quoted
incorrectly. “‘Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.’ That’s
what the good and honest men did to politics. They fixed it so that
there isn’t anything in the country to drink except booze.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Sage.

“Tell me how you came to go to the assistance of Mrs. Bannester and her
sister—tell me everything,” said Jane, resuming her seat on the step.

“There isn’t anything to tell,” said Oliver. “I just went out to see
them and—that’s all there is to it.”

“Oh, indeed!” she scoffed. “You just went out there and said ‘howdy-do,
ladies; here’s a couple of thousand dollars—and good-by, I must be
getting home.’”

“I stayed for dinner,” he admitted. “They always have fried chicken and
white gravy when I go to see them. And waffles and honey. I’m very fond
of honey.”

“Don’t you want to tell me, Oliver?” There was a hurt note in her voice
that shamed him.

“Well,” he began awkwardly, “I’d been thinking about it for some
time—their troubles, I mean. I couldn’t stand seeing them kicked off
their place. I had the money, and I didn’t need it. So I—I made ’em
take it. Yep—I just _made_ ’em take it. They were awfully nice about
it. If Uncle Horace ever finds out that I lent them the money, he’ll—”
He broke off in a chuckle of sheer delight. His eyes were full of
mischief. “I’ll never forget the time I let him have it with my marbles.
Gee, it was great!”

“Wouldn’t it be glorious if we could always stay young and throw marbles
at the people we don’t like?” cried Jane.

“The only drawback is that sometimes you can’t find the marbles again. I
lost two of my finest agates that day.”

“You young savages!” exclaimed Mr. Sage, with mock severity. He said
good night to Oliver and, murmuring something about next Sunday’s
sermon, entered the house. They heard him go slowly up the stairs.




                              CHAPTER XIV


                         JEALOUSY WITHOUT LOVE

“Did you notice, Oliver, that he spoke of my mother a little while ago?”

“Did he?”

“Certainly. You must have heard him.”

Oliver was silent. He was wondering how long that strange, unaccountable
blur had lasted.

“It was the first time he has spoken of her in years,” she went on, her
brow puckering. “It seemed to slip out when he wasn’t thinking, when he
wasn’t on guard.”

“It slipped out because he was thinking, Jane,” said Oliver. “That’s
just it. He is always thinking of her. What was it he said?”

She told him.

“I wonder if I remind him of her in lots of ways,” she mused.

Oliver’s thoughts leaped backward a score of years and more. “I used to
think she was the most wonderful person in all the world,” he said. “I
was very desperately in love with your mother when I was six or seven,
Jane.” He hesitated and then went on clumsily, almost fatuously: “I am
beginning to think that you are like her in a lot of ways.”

She gave him a quick, startled look. His face was turned away, and so he
did not see the tender, wistful little smile that flickered on her lips,
nor was he aware of the long, deep breath she took. From that moment a
queer, uneasy restraint fell upon them. There were long silences, dreamy
on her part, moody on his. He left shortly after ten; his “good night”
was strangely gruff and unnatural.

He was jealous. He knew it for a fact, he confessed it to himself for
the first time openly and unreservedly. He was jealous of young Lansing.
There was no use trying to deny it. He did not go so far as to think of
himself as being in love with Jane—that would be ridiculous, after all
the years they had known each other—but he bitterly resented the
thought that she might be in love with some one else. Especially with
the superior, supercilious, cocksure Lansing!

Why, if she were in love with Lansing—and married him!—good Lord, what
a fool he had been to think it would make no difference to him! It would
make a difference—an appalling difference. All nonsense to think she
wouldn’t go out of his life if she married Lansing or any one else. Of
course she would. He felt a cold, clammy moisture break out all over
him; a sickening sensation assailed the pit of his stomach. She would
have a home in which he could be nothing more than an old friend; he
would have to submit to being governed by certain conventions and by an
entirely new set of conditions; her husband would have a lot to say
about all that; it would mean that he couldn’t drop in every night or so
for an intimate chat, that he couldn’t go strolling freely and
contentedly into familiar haunts with Jane, that he couldn’t take her
off for rides in his car, or up to the city to see the plays. Lansing
wouldn’t stand for that! Nor would any one else! It would be the end of
everything, his life would have to be reordered, his very thoughts
subjected to a drastic course of inhibitions, he would have to stand
afar off and wait for some other man to beckon for him to approach!
Unbearable!

What was it that Sammy said—in jest, of course, but now heavy with
portent? “This isn’t your night to call on Jane,” or something like
that. It was Lansing’s night! The whole town knew it was Lansing’s
night—and he was calling on Jane because Lansing happened to be off in
the country seeing a patient.

This was what all his good offices had come to, this was what had come
of his idiotic, vainglorious desire to do the right thing by Jane! He
had simply let himself in for a lot of unhappiness. Strange, though,
that he should be so consumed with jealousy when he wasn’t the least bit
in love with Jane himself. It was absurd! Why, he had known her since
the day she was born—how could he possibly be in love with her when he
had known her all her life? He knew what love was—yes, indeed, he knew.
He had been in love half a dozen times. He ought to know what love
was—and certainly his feelings toward Jane were nothing like those he
had experienced in bygone affairs of the heart. Gee whiz! What had
suddenly got into him?

Suddenly it came to him that he was selfish. That’s what it
was—selfishness. He did not want her himself and yet he couldn’t bear
the thought of letting some one else have her. Utter selfishness! Having
arrived at this conclusion he smote his conscience heroically and
proclaimed to the night that he would no more be jealous. Not even of
Lansing. He would go on being Jane’s friend, and Lansing’s friend, and
the friend of their children, and—This brought him up with a blinding
jolt. Jane’s children! And Lansing’s! Something red and strangely
sustained blurred his vision.

He was oppressed by a feeling of almost intolerable loneliness as he
strode down the dimly lighted street; a soft breeze blowing through the
leaves of the young maples overhead suggested subdued, malicious
laughter; automobile horns sounded like raucous guffaws; some blithering
idiot was sounding taps on a mournful cornet far off in the night. He
was going to lose Jane—he was going to lose Jane—he was going to lose
Jane. Over and over again: he was going to lose Jane. Taps!

Clay Street was almost deserted. The stores were closed for the night. A
few pedestrians strolled leisurely along the sidewalks; a small group of
loafers in front of Jackson’s cigar store, a detached policeman, three
young girls waiting on a corner, widely separated automobiles drawn up
to the curb, a man studying the billboards outside the closed door of
the Star Moving Picture Palace. The town clock began to strike eleven.

“Gee whiz!” sighed Oliver October, for all the world seemed as bleak to
him as Clay Street was at midnight.

Not since that night in June, over a year ago, had he taken the “short
cut” swamp road on his way home from Jane’s. He avoided it after dark as
if it were a graveyard—and he always hurried a little in passing a
graveyard at night. He had never gotten over childhood’s fear of the
ghosts that were supposed to come out and wander among the cold, white
tombstones. There were no tombstones along the lonely swamp road, but he
had a dread of it just the same.

He sat on his porch until long past one o’clock, lonelier than he ever
had been in his life. The night was warm, somber; a light wind crossing
the expanse of swamp land brought a whiff of comfort and with it the
incessant chatter of frogs, the doleful hoot of owls and the squawk of
nightbirds prowling in the air. The house was dark, still. He felt very
sorry for himself, sitting there all alone. How different it was over at
Mr. Sage’s house—the friendly lights, the cozy comfort of everything,
the companionship—some one to talk to and laugh with, and some one to
feel sorry for him, instead of the other way about. To-morrow night
would be Lansing’s night—and soon, perhaps _every_ night.

“I ought to get married,” he mused in his dejection. “It’s the only
thing. Have a wife and a home and children. But, good Lord, where am I
to find a girl I’d want to be tied to all my life? I’ve had it pretty
bad two or three times, but, here I am, not caring a darn about any one
of ’em. I might just as well never have known them. It wasn’t the real
article—not by a long shot. There are mighty few girls like Jane in
this world—mighty few. The man who gets her will get one in a million.
And where would a chap find a father-in-law like Uncle Herbert? It makes
me sick the way Lansing twists that beastly little mustache of his and
looks bored every time Uncle Herbert speaks. Funny Jane doesn’t see it
and call him down for it. And why the devil doesn’t Uncle Herbert see it
and tell Jane she’ll never be happy with a fellow like Lansing? Good
Lord, is everybody blind but me?”

The next morning he was down at the swamp bright and early, inspecting
the work of the ditchers and tile layers. The task of reclaiming the
land had been under way for several months and was slowly nearing
completion.

“I wish you’d change your mind about not going out any farther, Oliver,”
said old John Phillips, who was superintending the work. “We could go
out a quarter of a mile farther without a bit of risk, and you’d add
about twenty acres of good land to—”

“We’ll have enough, John,” interrupted the young man. “We’ll stick to
the original survey. Don’t go a rod beyond the stakes I set up out
yonder. It may be safe but it isn’t worth while.”

“Well, you’re the boss,” grumbled old John, and added somewhat
peevishly: “I’ll bet your father wouldn’t throw away twenty acres or
more just because—but, as I was saying, Oliver, you’re the boss. If you
say I’m not to go beyond them stakes, that settles it. But I can’t help
saying I think you’re making a mistake. There’s some mighty good land
there, ’spite of them mudholes a little further out.”

“I’m not denying that,” said Oliver patiently. “But we’ll stop where the
stakes are, just the same.”

A few minutes later old John confided to one of the ditchers that young
Baxter was considerable of a darned fool. Either that, or else he had
some thundering good reason of his own for not wanting to go out beyond
the stakes.

“This here job has cost up’ards of three thousand dollars already, and
for a couple of hundred more he could clean up clear to the edge of the
mire, and when his pa comes back—if he ever does come back—he wouldn’t
have to take a tongue-lashin’ for doin’ the job half way. I used to look
upon that boy as a smart young feller. And him a civil engineer
besides.”

“Maybe he’s a whole lot smarter than you think,” said the ditcher
significantly.

“Oh, I don’t for a minute think it’s that,” said old John hastily. “Not
for a minute.”

“I can’t help thinkin’ we’ll turn up that old man’s body some day. It
sort of gives me the creeps. Bringin’ up them horse’s bones last week
sort of upset me. God knows what else may be out there in the mire.”

The two big ditches, fed by lateral lines of tile, held a straight
course across the upper end of the swamp and drained into Blacksnake
Creek, a sluggish little stream half a mile west of Rumley. Roughly
estimated, three hundred acres were being transformed into what in time
was bound to become valuable land. The time would come when it could be
successfully and profitably tilled. Farmers who had scoffed at the
outset now grudgingly admitted that “something might come of it.” A
far-seeing man from the adjoining county made an offer of ten dollars an
acre for the land before the work had been under way a month. He said he
was taking a gambler’s chance.

Oliver was walking slowly back to the house, his head bent, his hands in
his pockets, when he observed an automobile approaching over the deeply
rutted, seldom traveled road. He recognized the car at once. Lansing’s
yellow roadster.

He frowned. Lansing was the one person he did not want to see that
morning. He had lain awake for hours, seeking for some real, definite
reason for hating the man—and to save his life he couldn’t think of
one! And he knew that when he looked into the young doctor’s frank,
honest eyes this morning, and saw the genial, whole-hearted smile in
them, and heard his cheery greeting, the elusive reason would be farther
from his mental grasp than ever. He simply couldn’t help liking Lansing.

The car came into plain view around a bend in the road, and he saw that
a woman sat beside the man at the wheel. His heart contracted—and as
suddenly expanded. It wasn’t Jane.

“Hello, there!” called out Lansing, while still some distance away.

Oliver, peering intently through the flickering shadows of the woodland
road, saw that the doctor’s companion was a stranger. A young woman—and
an uncommonly pretty one he was soon to discover. He stepped off into
the rank grass at the roadside and the car came to a stop. He took off
his “haymaker’s” straw hat, and revealed his white teeth in the smile
that no one could resist. The young woman smiled in return, and then
flushed slightly.

“You’ve heard me speak of my sister, Oliver,” said Lansing, resting his
elbows on the wheel. “Well, here she is. Meet Mr. Baxter, Sylvia, as we
say out here. Mrs. Flame, Oliver. You needn’t be afraid of her, old man.
She’s quite flameless. Got rid of him last month in Paris. Come a little
closer.”

“Don’t be silly, Paul,” scolded Mrs. Flame. “Mr. Baxter may have a
perfect horror of divorced women.”

“I have,” said Oliver gallantly. “I shudder every time I see one. If I
hear about ’em in time, I shut my eyes so that I can’t see them. But
when I’m taken by surprise like this, I stare rudely, my knees quake and
I begin to pray for help. It’s queer I never feel that way about
divorced men. I don’t have the slightest fear of them, no matter how big
and strong and ferocious they may be. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Very,” said she, still smiling down into his eyes. “I must say,
however, I don’t think you are staring rudely.”

“It’s generally conceded that he stares very handsomely,” said Lansing.
“But, hop in, Oliver. I’ve been sent to fetch you over to Mr. Sage’s. He
had a cablegram early this morning and sort of went to pieces. Jane sent
for me. He’s all right now, but Jane says he wants to see you. She
telephoned while I was there, but you were not at home.”

“A cablegram? His wife—is she dead?”

“I should say not. She’s sailing for the United States to-morrow and is
coming here to live!”

“Good God!” burst involuntarily from Oliver’s lips.

“It’s knocked the old boy silly,” was Lansing’s brief and professional
explanation. “Climb in here beside Sylvia—plenty of room if we squeeze.
Get your leg over a little, Sylvia. That’s all right. Shall we stick to
this road, Oliver, or go back to the—”

“It gets better a little farther on,” said Oliver, dazed. “All the
hauling has been at this end. My Lord! No wonder he’s knocked out.
Coming here to live? Why—why, he hasn’t seen her since Jane was a baby.
What’s the matter with her? Sick?”

“I don’t think so. Unless you can see something ominous in the last line
of her cablegram. She winds it up with ‘dying to see you.’ Strikes me
she’s been a long time dying. They say she turned this burg upside down
when she first came here. Do you remember her, Oliver?”

“I should say I do,” cried Oliver. “I adored her. I say, this must mean
that she’s going to leave the stage, give up acting. She was famous over
there. Why, only a couple of years ago, she made a great hit in a new
play over in London. I tried to get across from France to see her in it,
but it couldn’t be managed. Just after the Armistice, you see. I asked a
good many British officers about her. They said she was tophole, all of
’em crazy about her. I can’t understand it, Doc. Coming here to Rumley
to live? Gee whiz!”

“I saw her in a play called ‘Rosalind,’” said Mrs. Flame. “Several years
ago. It’s by Shakespeare. My husband said she certainly was worth
seeing. Heavens, Paul, take these ruts slowly. You’re jolting my head
off.”

After a long silence: “When did you get here, Mrs. Flame?” inquired
Oliver briskly.

“Last night. Paul met me in Hopkinsville. I came direct from New York.
My home is in New York City, you know. I’ve never been in Rumley before.
We were living in Indianapolis when I was married. That was seven years
ago. Seems seven hundred. Now you know almost all there is to know about
me.”

Oliver was staring straight ahead. He was wondering if “Aunt Josephine”
could still turn “cart wheels,” and make up funny songs, and dance on
the tips of her toes. Hardly. She must be over fifty. Then he came out
of his momentary abstraction and politely asked Mrs. Flame when she had
arrived in Rumley.

“I mean,” he stammered, “how long do you expect to be here?”

“Ten days, or two weeks at the longest,” she replied. “I am joining a
house party at Harbor Point.”

“Good!” he exclaimed, and then as she looked at him quickly: “I mean,
I’m glad you’re going to be here that long. By George, this will make a
thundering difference in the lives of Mr. Sage and Jane. Is—is Jane
excited, Doc?”

“Nothing like the old man. He keeps saying over and over again, with a
smile that won’t come off, that if you pray long enough and hard enough,
you’ll get your wish, or something like that.”

“What does he want to see me about?”

“Search me. Ouch! Excuse me, Sylvia. I didn’t see it.”

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m used to hard knocks,” gasped the young woman.

Oliver turned his head to look at her. She was very pretty and very
smart looking in the little brown hat that sat jauntily upon her yellow,
beautifully coifed hair. Very trig, too. About thirty-two or-three, he
hazarded. Fine eyes—a trifle pained at present, but fine, just the
same. He found himself wondering if Jane was as pretty as Lansing’s
sister—and suddenly it occurred to him that Jane had her “lashed to the
mast”—absolutely!

The road got better. “Your ears must have burned last night, Mr.
Baxter,” she said.

He started guiltily. “How—what for?” he stammered.

“Old Paul here did nothing but talk about you all the way down from
Hopkinsville. I don’t see how you’ve done it. He’s usually quite a snob,
you know. I’ve never known him to like anybody but himself before. You
must be either superlatively good or superlatively bad. Which is it?”

“Depends entirely on which you prefer, Mrs. Flame,” said Oliver coolly.

“I guess that’ll hold you, Syl,” cried Lansing.

Oliver groaned inwardly. It was getting more difficult every minute to
hate the fellow.




                               CHAPTER XV


                          THE THIRD FAIR LADY

Two old men were crossing Maple Street as Lansing swung into it from the
dirt road. They quickened their steps and from the safety of the
sidewalk glanced at the occupants of the car.

“Wasn’t that Oliver October?” demanded Mr. Sikes, pursuing the car with
an outraged gaze.

“It was,” replied Mr. Link, putting his hand to his side. “He yelled at
us. Lordy, I’m too fat to hurry like that.” He strode on a few paces
before discovering that he walked alone. Mr. Sikes had stopped
stock-still and was gazing blankly after the receding roadster. “Come
on! What’s the matter with you?”

“Say, did you notice? Did you notice that woman sitting on his lap?”

“She wasn’t doing anything of the kind. She was sitting between ’em.”

“Well, anyhow, this settles everything,” said Mr. Sikes weakly. “He’s as
good as hung right now. Absolutely.”

“What the—”

“Say, are you blind? Can’t you see _anything_ at all?”

“I can see a darned sight better than you can, and you know it,”
retorted Mr. Link hotly. “You can’t see ten feet in front of you. How
many fingers am I holding up?”

“Oh, go to thunder! What I’m asking you is, did you notice her?”

“Certainly—that is, I noticed the back of her head.”

“Well, what color was it?” demanded Mr. Sikes.

“I didn’t notice,” said Mr. Link.

“You didn’t, eh? Of course, you didn’t. The only way you ever notice
anything is when I tell you to notice it. It was yaller.”

“Yaller? Well, what of it?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing at all,” exclaimed Mr. Sikes, throwing up his
hands in a gesture of supreme disgust. “Nothing at all, except she’s the
third yaller-haired one to come into his life. The one that was here
last fall that he took such a shine to, and the one he confesses to
being gone on out in Idaho or somewheres. Two dark and three fair women,
is what she said. Didn’t she? Wait a minute! Answer me. Didn’t she?”

“She did,” said Mr. Link, his brow clouding. “But he’s only had one dark
one, far as we know,” he added hopefully. “That girl he says he was
engaged to over in China.”

“What do you call Jane Sage? You wouldn’t call her a blonde, would you?”

“Certainly not. But what’s Jane got to do with it?”

“She’s got a lot to do with it. She’s a dark woman, ain’t she?”

“Not especially. Brown or chestnut, I’d say.”

“Well, say _bay_, if you want to,” roared Mr. Sikes. “And I’ll tell you
something you don’t know about Jane. She’s in love with Oliver, and
always has been.”

“Go on!”

“That makes her one of the dark women, don’t it? And she makes two,
don’t she? And this here new one—the one that was setting in his
lap—she makes the third fair one, don’t she? Well, what you got to say
to that? This is the last straw. I been prayin’ to God that we could get
through the year without another light woman turning up. And here she
comes, right when everything was looking safe. I—”

“He won’t take any notice of this yaller-haired girl,” said Mr. Link,
with an air of finality. “I can tell you something about Oliver that you
don’t know. He’s in love with Jane, as the saying is, and always has
been.”

Mr. Sikes stopped again in his tracks and glowered at Mr. Link. “Who
told you that?” he demanded.

Mr. Link took time to search several tree tops before answering. Then he
solemnly said: “I’m not sure it was the one I see perched over yonder at
the top of that second tree, but if it wasn’t that one it was one just
like it. A little bird told me.”

“Talk sense! Who told you Oliver was in love with Jane?”

“Doc Lansing. Not more than a week ago he told me Oliver was head over
heels in love with her. I guess he ought to know. He sees a good deal of
both of ’em.”

“Well, I’ll be—Why, dod-gast it, he’s the one that told me Jane was in
love with Oliver.”

“Well,” began Mr. Link after they had proceeded up Maple Street some
fifteen or twenty paces, “if he’s telling the truth, I guess you don’t
need to worry about this yaller-haired one any longer, Joe.”

Mr. Sikes shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that. He’s partial to
blondes, seems to me. I’ll have to talk to that boy, Silas. I’ve told
him a hundred times to beware of light women, and here he goes—”

“Come on! Oliver got out of the car up in front of the Reverend Sage’s
and it’s going on without him. That proves we’re right, Joe. That
telegram to Reverend Sage was—”

“It wasn’t a telegram. It was a cable. Marmaduke Smith told me; not five
minutes after he delivered it.”

“No matter. It’s from Ollie. He’s telegraphing Sage to break some kind
of news to Oliver. Dying somewheres maybe. That’s why they sent Doc
Lansing for Oliver October. Come on—step along a little, Joe. I think
I’ve sized the thing up. The minute I heard Sage had got a telegram I
says to myself, it’s from Ollie. I—”

“If you save your breath you can walk faster,” interrupted Mr. Sikes,
stepping forth with renewed vigor. Mr. Link was half a block in the rear
when his companion turned in at the parsonage.

It was true that Josephine Sage was coming home. The beatific minister
thrust the cablegram into Oliver’s hand as that young man came bounding
up the veranda steps.

“She’s coming on the _Baltic_. I have decided to go to New York to meet
her. Jane will accompany me. I wish you would find out for me, Oliver,
when the _Baltic_ is due to arrive at New York. I am so upset, so
distracted I do not seem to know just which way to turn. Please help me
out, lad. Perhaps I should have telegraphed myself—or had Jane do
it—but we—I mean _I_—er—”

“Don’t you give it another thought, Uncle Herbert,” cried Oliver,
returning the bit of paper which Mr. Sage carefully folded and placed in
his notebook. “I will arrange everything for you. You must be beside
yourself with joy, sir. It’s great, isn’t it? Where is Jane?”

Mr. Sage looked a trifle dazed. “Why—er—oh, yes, she is upstairs
putting a few of my things into a suitcase. I—”

Oliver laughed. “For the love of—Why, Uncle Herbert, you’ve got five or
six days to spare. The _Baltic_ won’t reach New York for a week anyhow.”

“A week?” in dismay. “Of course! I must be losing my mind. Of course! I
seem to remember Jane saying something of the kind a little while ago.
Yes, yes! But I do wish you would run along and send the telegram. Do
you happen to know of a nice quiet hotel there? Perhaps you wouldn’t
mind telegraphing for accommodations for Jane and me. And will you see
about reserving something on the train for us? I have done so little
traveling of late years, I—”

“Say, you ought to come out in the back yard and put the gloves on with
me, Uncle Herbert,” cried Oliver, with sparkling eyes. “I’ll bet you’re
twenty years younger than you were yesterday, and I’ve an idea you could
plaster it all over me.”

“I—I believe I could,” said Mr. Sage, squaring his thin shoulders and
drawing a deep breath. “I—I feel like a—a fighting-cock!”




                              CHAPTER XVI


                      MR. JOSEPH SIKES INTERVENES

Now, while Mr. Joseph Sikes was one of the first citizens of Rumley, a
good Republican, and a man whose opinions were considered if not always
respected, he had no social position, using the term in its present
accepted sense. In simple, he was not by way of knowing the “best”
people. There had been a time when Joe Sikes was a figure in the social
life of Rumley, but that was in the days when “society” functioned, so
to speak, in the corner grocery, or on the porch of the toll-gate, or at
K. of P. Hall. Conditions in Rumley had changed, but old Joe hadn’t. He
was still a “feed store” man, fairly prosperous, blatantly independent,
and on speaking terms with “fashion” only in connection with business or
politics.

The day was past in Rumley when Joe Sikes could stroll up to anybody’s
house, night or day, walk in without knocking, and feel at home with his
friends. There were eight or ten thousand people in Rumley now and there
was a distinct though somewhat heterogeneous element known to some as
the “smart set” and to others as the “stuck-ups.” They were the people
whose names and activities filled the society columns of the Rumley
_Daily Despatch_.

To them, old Joe Sikes was a “character.” He knew Banker Lansing, and
Banker Koontzwiler, and the President of the Excelsior Woodenware Works,
and others of their ilk, but he did not know their wives or their
daughters. Mr. Link, on the other hand, had a very wide acquaintance
with the “newer rich,” as he learnedly called them in placating Mr.
Sikes on occasion. He had buried a lot of them, for one thing.

Mr. Sikes was troubled. Not once but half a score of times in the week
following his first glimpse of “yaller-headed” Mrs. Flame, he had seen
her with Oliver October. She wasn’t, of course, sitting in Oliver’s lap
on any of these occasions, but—well, it is enough to say that Mr. Sikes
was sorely troubled. He saw Oliver going straight to his doom.

With Jane’s departure for New York he lost all hope.

He had lectured Oliver severely, and, to his grief and astonishment, was
laughed at for his pains. So he went to Serepta Grimes.

He rang the Baxter doorbell—and instantly wondered why he had done so.
It seemed like a confession of weakness on his part. He sat down on the
veranda and waited. It was late in the afternoon of a hot July day, well
along toward the end of the month. He sniffed the sultry air, gazed
frowningly at the western sky where clouds were gathering in the black
pregnancy of storm, and chewed hard on the macerated stub of an
unlighted cigar.

Mrs. Grimes came to the door.

“Oh, it’s you, is it? I thought maybe it was Marmaduke Smith back with
another telegram.”

“Another what?” demanded Mr. Sikes, with interest.

“He’s brought two up on his bicycle since four o’clock, and he said
maybe there’d be more. Two telegrams for Oliver.”

“Why didn’t he take ’em to the store, the little fool? Oliver may have
to ketch the six o’clock train. What’s in ’em?”

“How should I know? I don’t open his letters or telegrams.”

“Well, you’d ought to. Ten chances to one they’re from Ollie, asking for
help or money or—Where is Oliver, if he ain’t at the store?”

“He’s out automobile riding with Mr. Lansing’s daughter.”

“Oh; he is, is he?” snapped Mr. Sikes, getting up. “I might have knowed
it. Darn his eyes, he’s getting worse and worse every day. If I’ve
warned that boy once about light women, I’ve done it a hundred times.
He’s got to—”

“She’s letting it come in dark again,” said Mrs. Grimes calmly.

“Letting it what?”

“Come in dark. Her hair, I mean. She wouldn’t be any more of a blonde
than you are, Joe Sikes, if she’d quit bleaching her hair, or hennering
it, or whatever it is they do. Like Saul Higbee’s daughter Kate—you
remember her, don’t you? Turned blonde over night, and said God had
performed a miracle.”

“You mean to say this here Lansing woman ain’t a real blonde?” exclaimed
Mr. Sikes, sitting down again.

“You heard what I said, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know whether to believe you or my own eyes.”

“Looks as if we’d get the storm before dark, doesn’t it?” said Mrs.
Grimes, sweeping the cloud banks with a casual eye.

Mr. Sikes appeared to be thinking. After a long pause he said: “I guess
maybe you’re insinuatin’ that I better be moving along towards home if I
don’t want to get caught in it.”

“You can sit here as long as you like, Joe,” said she. “And you can stay
to dinner, too, if you feel like it,” she added, her conscience smiting
her suddenly.

“Have you swept the porch to-day, Serepty?” he inquired, after another
pause.

“Certainly. Why?”

“Because I never seem to come up here and sit down on it but what either
you or Lizzie Meggs rush out and begin sweeping all around me. No matter
what time of day I come, I always have to get out of the way of one of
you women sweepin’.”

“Well, you won’t have to to-day,” said she good-naturedly. “So set
still.”

“I guess I’ll wait for Oliver to come home,” said he guiltily. “I want
to see what’s in them telegrams. You—you’re sure about that woman
having dark hair?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, that’s a comfort. I—Hello! Here comes Oliver now—but, by
thunder, he’s got that yaller-haired woman with him,” he concluded in
dismay. “No, thank you, Serepty—I can’t stay for supper. I—I—” He got
up quickly, pulled his straw hat down low over his eyes, and started
hurriedly down the walk.

“Hello, Uncle Joe,” called out Oliver, swinging the car into the drive.
“Wait a minute and I’ll give you a lift home. I’m going back just as
soon as I’ve changed my collar and—”

“There’s a lot of telegrams here from your father,” said Joseph gruffly.
He halted half way down the walk and stared intently at Mrs. Flame.

Oliver brought the car to a stop in front of the porch. “I’ll be out in
a couple of minutes, Sylvia,” he said as he slid out from behind the
wheel. “Hey, Uncle Joe! Come here, please. I want to introduce you to
the lady you’ve been raising such a rumpus about. She swears she won’t
scratch your eyes out or pull your hair. You needn’t look so scared.
She’s perfectly harmless. Take my word for it. I’ve had experience with
fair women, as you well know, and I don’t find ’em any more devilish
than dark women.”

Mr. Sikes was scandalized. He turned purple in the face—not with anger
but with mortification. He told Mr. Link afterwards that he felt like a
fool, and Mr. Link brought a lot of wrath down upon himself by remarking
that it must have been wonderful for him to feel natural for once in his
life.

He approached the dazzling, radiant Mrs. Flame reluctantly, stammering
something about “horse play” and “poppycock.”

“Do you think there is going to be a storm, Mr. Sikes?” she inquired, as
Oliver, grinning maliciously, dashed up the steps and followed Mrs.
Grimes into the house.

Mr. Sikes did not answer at once. He was squinting narrowly at Mrs.
Flame’s back hair—or more particularly at a spot just below the left
ear.

“By jiminy,” he muttered softly, “she’s right.” Then recovering himself,
he said: “Eh?”

“Mr. Baxter is a great tease, isn’t he?” she substituted.

“He’s a darned nuisance,” said Mr. Sikes sharply. “Makes me tired.”
Suddenly it occurred to him that here was a chance not to be overlooked,
so he added very firmly: “I pity the woman that gets him for a husband.”

“You do? Why, I should say that the woman who gets him is about the
luckiest person in the world.”

He looked at her piercingly. “How long did you say you’ve knowed him?”
he inquired.

“I didn’t say—but there’s no harm in telling you, I suppose.” She began
counting on her fingers. “Nine days, Mr. Sikes.”

“It takes him just about that long,” was his cryptic rejoinder.

She laughed merrily. “Do they fall for him as easily as all that?”

“The married ones do,” said he darkly and daringly.

“Oh, that lets me out,” she said. “You see, I’m not married, Mr. Sikes.”

“Excuse me, I thought he said Missus,” floundered Mr. Sikes, a trifle
dashed.

“He did. I am Mrs. Flame.”

“Er—ahem! Oh, I see. Widow.”

“In a detached sort of way.”

This was beyond Mr. Sikes. “In the war, I suppose.”

“Do I look like a woman who lost a husband in the war, Mr. Sikes?”

“You don’t look like you’d lost one anywhere,” said he, beginning to
feel a trifle nettled. “You certainly don’t look like a widow to me.”

“What do I look like to you?” she inquired amiably.

“You look as if it wouldn’t distress you very much if I was to ask how
long he’s been dead,” was his unexpected reply.

She flushed. “A very good answer to a very stupid question,” said she.
“He isn’t dead. He is very much alive. He didn’t go to the war. I am one
of those horrible, unspeakable things known as a grass widow, Mr.
Sikes.”

“As I was saying,” he began after he had taken as much as thirty seconds
to recover from the shock of this disclosure, “it wouldn’t surprise me
if we got the storm inside of ten or fifteen minutes. I guess I’ll be
moving along. Glad to have met you, Mrs.—”

“Do wait,” she cried. “Oliver won’t be a minute. We’ll take you wherever
you wish to go, Mr. Sikes.”

“No, I won’t wait,” said he firmly. “But before I go, I want to—er—as
I was saying, it ain’t any of my business—you understand that, don’t
you?—er—I was just thinking it’s only fair to tell you that Oliver
is—er—what you might call engaged, Mrs. Flame. Generally speaking, I
mean.”

“I see,” said she brightly. “And you want to warn me not to make a fool
of myself, is that it? It’s awfully kind of you.”

Mr. Sikes was a poor dissembler. “Well, I was thinking more about Oliver
making a fool of himself,” said he bluntly.

“But why, Mr. Sikes, do you keep all this a secret from him?” she cried,
biting her lip to keep from laughing. “I think you ought to tell him he
is engaged and not keep the poor boy in suspense. He hasn’t the remotest
inkling of it.”

“Don’t you fool yourself,” said he stoutly.

“And who is the fortunate young lady?”

“We ain’t quite ready to make it public yet,” said Mr. Sikes, casting a
sharp look toward the house and cocking his ear for sounds of Oliver’s
footsteps on the stairs. “Which reminds me,” he went on hurriedly,
lowering his voice, “I guess you’d better not mention it to him.”

“I sha’n’t, Mr. Sikes, if it will make you feel any more comfortable.
But at least you can tell me this. Does the young lady know she is
engaged?”

He had got in deeper than he intended.

“Did I say she was young?” he demanded craftily, trying to recall just
how far he had already committed himself. “No, siree! You bet I didn’t.
I’m too smart for that.”

“But does she know she is engaged?” persisted this disconcerting young
woman.

“Not what you would call exactly,” he confessed, lamely.

“I see. You are keeping it a secret from both of them.”

He heard Oliver in the hall, speaking to Mrs. Grimes. It was no time to
choose words, so he blurted out:

“Yes, and you’ll do me an everlastin’ favor, ma’am, if you’ll keep it
secret from him for a week or two. He’s awfully touchy. It might spoil
everything if he got wind of it.”

“Is she a blonde or a brunette?”

This was his chance. “It’s purty hard to tell these days,” he said,
fastening his gaze on her hair in a most disconcerting manner.

She laughed outright, joyously, frankly. Oliver, coming out of the house
at this juncture, paused in amazement at the top of the steps.

“See here, Uncle Joe, you quit your flirting,” he cried. “Next thing you
know you’ll have a breach of promise suit on your hands.”

“Don’t get fresh!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes in some exasperation. Then, to
cover his confusion: “What’s the news from your pa, Oliver? What’s he
say in them telegrams?”

“They’re not from father, Uncle Joe,” said the young man, softening.
“Jump in behind there. I’ll run you uptown before the storm.”

“I’m not going uptown,” said Mr. Sikes obstinately. “I’m stayin’ here
for supper with Serepta. I just remembered it,” he went on, with a
guilty, apologetic look at Mrs. Flame. “Oh, before I forget it, Oliver,
is there anything serious in them telegrams?”

“Yes, sir! It certainly begins to look serious. I had six at the store
this morning, and a dozen telephone calls besides. That’s one reason why
I took the afternoon off. Nearly every man on the County Central
Committee has telephoned or telegraphed me to-day. The pressure is
getting pretty strong, Uncle Joe, and I’m beginning to weaken.”

“Pressure? Weaken? What the devil are you talking about now?” demanded
Mr. Sikes, placing one foot on the running-board and grasping the
door-handle.

“They want me to make the race for State Senator against Uncle Horace,”
said Oliver. “Hop in! I’m going to start.” Then, as the old man
scrambled hurriedly into the car, he added: “And I’ve about reached the
conclusion to go out and skin Uncle Horace alive.”

“My God!” gasped Mr. Sikes, leaning forward and gripping the back of the
front seat with both hands. “You—you don’t mean to tell me you’re going
to run for office, Oliver October Baxter!”

“Hang onto your hat, Uncle Joe! I’m going to let her out a little,” sang
out Oliver, and “let her out” he did as the car swept out of the
driveway into the street.

Mr. Sikes was standing up in the tonneau, grasping the forward seat with
one hand, and his hat with the other. He leaned over and shouted in
Oliver’s ear.

“You can’t do it! You mustn’t do it! It’s against my wishes, and your
pa’s, and—why, how many times have I told you what the gypsy said
about—Say! Slow down a little, confound you! Have you told Serepty
Grimes about this fool notion of yours?”

“I have. And she’s tickled to death. She says to go ahead and skin him
alive. That’s the kind of a hairpin she is!”

Mr. Sikes clung rigidly to the back of the seat for a couple of hundred
yards, speechless with a combination of concern and exasperation. Then
he sank down into the side chair and bellowed:

“I’m through! I’m done! There’s no use trying to save you—not a damn
bit of use. Go ahead and run! I’m through! Stick your neck right into it
if you want to. I’ve done my best—I’ve done all a man could do. I no
sooner see you safely out of a scrape with a light woman than you start
hell-bent for the halls of state. You—”

“Don’t you worry, Uncle Joe,” called out Oliver cheerily. “Uncle Horace
will probably snow me under a mile deep.”

Mr. Sikes was silent for a few moments, contemplating this calamity.
Suddenly he banged the back of the seat with his clenched fist.

“Not on your life!” he roared. “We’ll skin him alive. You’ll carry every
darned precinct in the county. He won’t—”

“Hang onto your hat, Uncle Joe!”

“My what? Good Lord! I forgot—but never mind! Don’t go back after it!
It’s an old one anyhow. Yes, sir; we’ll peel the hide off of old Gooch
next November—every inch of it. Let me out at the Hubbard House,
Oliver. Silas Link drops in there about this time every evening to cool
off under the electric fans. Does he know about this?”

“I don’t think he does,” said Oliver, drawing up to the curb in front of
the hotel.

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes, with satisfaction. He clambered out of the
car. “Good day, ma’am. I hope you don’t get wet.” He eyed her hair
narrowly, even apprehensively. “Hurry along, Oliver. You mustn’t keep
her out in the rain.”

“Good-by, Mr. Sikes. Thank you for warning me,” said Mrs. Flame,
favoring him with a smile so enchanting that instead of blurting out the
latest news to Mr. Link when he encountered him in the lobby of the
hotel a few moments later, he gloomily announced that a fellow as young
as Oliver didn’t have a ghost of a chance.




                              CHAPTER XVII


                       MR. GOOCH DECLARES HIMSELF

The Republicans of the county in convention a week later went through
the formality of nominating a ticket, a heretofore useless procedure
attended by vainglorious claims, bombastic oratory, unbridled
denunciation and a grim sort of jauntiness that passed for confidence
and died as soon as the meeting was over. Ever since the Civil War the
party had stoutly and steadfastly put up a ticket and just as regularly
had abandoned it to its fate. The candidates themselves, accepting
defeat at the outset, took little or no interest in the campaign aside
from the slight satisfaction they eked out of seeing their names on the
printed ballot. It was, so to speak, like reading one’s own obituary
notice—or, as one hardy, perennial office-seeker remarked—attending
one’s own funeral and getting back home in time for supper.

But the campaign of 1920 in this hide-bound Democratic stronghold
possessed strange, new elements; the under-dog bounced up with
surprising animation and showed his teeth, prepared at last to fight for
the bone that so long had been denied him. In the first place, the
administration at Washington was standing with its back to the wall; it
was almost certain to be swept out of power by the resistless force of
public opinion. Faint-hearted Republican politicians lost in the depths
of Democratic jungles saw light ahead and, rubbing their eyes, started
toward it, realizing it was no longer Will-o’-the-wisp or
Jack-o’-lantern that led them on. Their eyes glittered, their fingers
itched, and they became very strong in the legs. If Harding and Coolidge
were to be swept in by the avalanche, why shouldn’t they hang on behind
and be sucked into office by the same gigantic wave? In the second
place, the Democrats of Applegate County, fat and sluggish after years
of plenty, had overslept a little in their security. Too late they awoke
to the fact that they had four or five weak spots in their county
ticket, and while there was small danger of the normal plurality being
wiped out at the coming election they were in very grave danger of
having it reduced to a humiliating extent.

Mr. Horace Gooch, of Hopkinsville, heretofore a miserly aspirant for
legislative honors but persistently denied the distinction for which he
was loath to pay, “came across” so handsomely—and so desperately—that
the bosses foolishly permitted him to be nominated for the State Senate.
The people did not want him; but that made little or no difference to
the party leaders; the people had to take him whether they liked him or
not. Mr. Gooch’s astonishing contribution to the campaign fund was not
to be “passed up” merely because the people didn’t approve of him. It is
not good politics to allow the people a voice in such matters. Old Gooch
would run behind the rest of the ticket, to be sure, but he would
“squeeze through” safely, and that was all that was necessary.

The report that young Oliver Baxter, of Rumley, was being urged to make
the race against his uncle caused no uneasiness among the bosses. It was
not until after the young man was nominated and actually in the field,
that misgivings beset the bosses. Young Baxter was popular in the
southern section of the county, he was a war hero, and he was an
upstanding figure in a community where the voters were as likely as not
to “jump the traces.” And when the emboldened Republican press of the
county began to speak of their candidate as a “shark,” there was active
and acute dismay. They sent for Mr. Gooch and suggested that it wouldn’t
be a bad idea for him to withdraw from the race—on account of his age,
or his health.

“But I’m not an old man,” protested Mr. Gooch irascibly, “and I’ve never
been sick a day in my life. I’m sixty-four. You wouldn’t call that old,
would you?”

No, the chairman wouldn’t call that old, but from what he could gather
this was destined to be “a young man’s year.” Young men were in the
saddle; you couldn’t shake ’em out.

“Do you mean to tell me,” began Horace, genuinely amazed, “that you
think this young whipper-snapper of a nephew of mine is liable to defeat
me?”

“Oh, I guess perhaps we can pull you through,” said the chairman, rather
unfeelingly.

“My dear sir, we have a safe majority of four thousand votes in this
county. Why do you say you ‘guess perhaps’ you can pull me through? If
you are joking, I wish to state to you right here and now that I do not
approve of jokes. If you are in earnest, all I can say is that you must
be crazy. The people of this county want a sound, solid, able business
man to represent them in the legislature. They don’t want a young,
inexperienced, untried whipper-snapper—”

“Nobody knows what the people want,” said the chairman sententiously.
“Now, this young Baxter. He’s a fine feller. He’s got lots of friends.
Everybody likes him. He has a clear record. There isn’t a thing we can
say against him. On the other hand, he can say a lot of nasty things
about you, Mr. Gooch. We can’t come back at him when he begins stumping
the county and talking about tax-sales, foreclosures, ten per cent
interest, people having to go to the poorhouse, and all that kind of
stuff. What kind of a comeback have we? What are we to—”

“No man can accuse me of being dishonest; no man can question my
integrity—”

“Lord bless you, Mr. Gooch, nobody’s going to accuse you of being
dishonest. All they’re going to say about you is that you’re a rich man,
a skinflint, a tax shark, a gouger, a hypocrite, a wolf in sheep’s
clothing, a snake in the grass, a Shylock, and a good many other
things,” said the county chairman, with brutal frankness.

Mr. Gooch was not greatly disturbed by the prospect. He had heard all
these terms of opprobrium before; he was used to them. He said something
about “water off of a duck’s back,” and fell to twisting his wiry gray
beard with steady, claw-like fingers.

“We can’t afford to lose a single seat in the legislature,” went on the
chairman. “That’s why we thought best to put it up to you straight, Mr.
Gooch. I’m not saying you’ll be licked next November, but you stand a
blamed good chance of it, let me tell you, if this young Baxter goes
after you without gloves.”

“I’ve just been thinking,” said Mr. Gooch, leaning forward in his chair,
“suppose I go down to Rumley and have a talk with Oliver.”

“What about?” demanded the other, sharply.

“I may be able to reason with him. I understand he has not definitely
decided to make the race. I have an idea I can persuade him to decline.”

“No chance,” said the other, shaking his head. “He’s got it in for you,
I hear.”

Mr. Gooch got up and began pacing the floor. His lean, mean face was set
in even harder lines than usual; his mouth was drawn down at the
corners, the lower lip protruding like a thin liver-colored cushion into
which his shaved upper lip seemed to sink rigidly.

“See here, Smith,” he began, halting in front of the “boss,” “I may as
well come out flat-footed and tell you I’ve never been satisfied with
all these stories and speculations concerning the disappearance of my
brother-in-law a year ago.”

“You mean this young feller’s father?”

“Yes. I married his sister. I don’t know as you’ve heard that young
Oliver Baxter and his father were not on very good terms. They quarreled
a great deal. This nephew of mine has got murderous instincts. He threw
rocks at me once. He’s got an ungovernable temper. He—”

“I’ve heard all that bunk about a gypsy or somebody like that
prophesying he’d be hung. It’s bunk.”

“I agree with you. I took no stock in that gypsy’s prophecy at the time,
and I never have. But, as I say, I’m not satisfied with things. It’s
mighty queer that a man like Oliver Baxter could disappear off of the
face of the earth and never be heard of again. Most people believe he’s
alive—hiding somewhere—but I don’t believe it for a minute. He’s dead.
He died that night a year ago when he had his last row with his son.
And, what’s more to the point, I am here to say I don’t believe his son
has told all he knows about the—er—the matter.”

He waited to see what effect this statement would have on the chairman.
Mr. Smith’s eyes narrowed.

“Say, what are you trying to get at, Mr. Gooch? Are you thinking of
charging that boy with—with having had a hand in—”

“I’m not charging anything,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “I’m only saying what I
believe, and that is that Oliver is holding something back. If my poor
brother-in-law is dead, I want to know it. I’m not saying there was foul
play, mind you. But I do say it’s possible he might have made way with
himself that night, and that Oliver may know when and how he did it.”

“Well,” said Smith slowly, “that comes pretty near to being a charge,
doesn’t it, Mr. Gooch?”

“You can call it what you please. All I’ve got to say is that I’m not
satisfied, and I’m going to the bottom of this business if it’s possible
to do so.” He sat down again.

“So that’s what you’re going to see young Baxter about, is it? You’re
going to threaten him with an investigation if he doesn’t withdraw from
the race, eh? Well, what are you going to do if he up and tells you to
go to hell?”

Mr. Gooch winced.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been told to go to hell,” he said,
with a wintry smile. “However, it is not my intention to threaten my
nephew, Mr. Smith. Nothing is farther from my thoughts. I’m simply going
to let him understand that I am not satisfied with things as they are. I
don’t mind telling you that I’ve already made a few inquiries and—well,
there is something peculiar about the whole business, that’s all I’ve
got to say. It won’t hurt my nephew to know that I’m interested, will
it?” he wound up, a sly, crafty twinkle in his eye.

“You take a tip from me, Mr. Gooch,” said the chairman, somewhat
forcibly. “Let sleeping dogs lie. If you go to making any cracks about
this young feller that you can’t prove, he’ll wipe the earth up with you
next November. I’ve been in politics a long time and I know something
about the human race. You are banking on the big Democratic majority we
usually have in this county. I want to tell you right here and now that
if you start any ugly talk about young Baxter and can’t back it up with
facts, there won’t be a decent Democrat in the county that’ll vote for
you. And I guess we’re far enough south to be able to say that most of
us are decent.”

Mr. Gooch arose. “You said a while ago that he would stump this county
from end to end, calling me everything he can lay his tongue to. Well,
all I’ve got to say to you, Mr. Smith, is that he sha’n’t have it all
his own way.”

“There’s just this difference, Mr. Gooch. The voters will believe what
he says about you, and they won’t believe a blamed word you say about
him.”

“Good day, Mr. Smith!”

“Good day, Mr. Gooch.”

Two days later, Horace Gooch stopped his ancient automobile in front of
the Baxter Block in Rumley and inquired of a man in the doorway:

“Is young Oliver Baxter here?”

The loiterer turned his head lazily without changing the position of his
body, squinted searchingly into the store, and then replied that he was.

“Will you ask him to step out here? I want a word or two with him.”

Another searching look into the store. “He seems to be busy, Mister.
Leastwise, he’s talkin’ to a couple of men.”

“Tell him his uncle is out here.”

The citizen of Rumley started.

“The one he’s runnin’ against?” he demanded.

“Yes. His Uncle Horace.”

“Well, I guess I can do that much for you, Mr. Gooch,” drawled the other
generously, and shuffled slowly into the store. Presently he returned.

“He says to hitch your Ford to that telephone pole and come right in.
He’ll be disengaged in a couple of minutes.”

Mr. Gooch glared. “You tell him I swore never to enter that store again.
If he wants to see me he will have to come out here.”

The citizen disappeared. He was back in a jiffy, grinning broadly.

“Well?” demanded Mr. Gooch, as the messenger remained silent. “What did
he say?”

The citizen chuckled. “It ain’t fit to print,” said he.

“Well,” said Mr. Gooch, after a moment’s reflection, “I don’t mind
waiting a while. He’ll have to come out some time, I reckon.”

The citizen shrugged his shoulders and spread his palms in a gesture
disclaiming all responsibility.

Mr. Gooch shut off his engine and settled back in the seat, the
personification of grim and dogged patience.

Fifteen minutes passed. Passers-by, sensing something unusual, found an
excuse for loitering in front of nearby showwindows; several persons
entered Silas Link’s undertaking parlors next door and seemed deeply
interested in the rubber plants that adorned the windows; Marmaduke
Smith, the messenger-boy, with two telegrams in his book, pedaled his
bicycle up to the curb and, anchoring it with one thin and spidery leg,
sagged limply upon the handlebar and waited for something to happen. Mr.
Link came out of his office, and after taking one look at the hard-faced
old man in the automobile, hurried to the rear of his establishment. A
few seconds later he returned, accompanied by Joseph Sikes. They took up
a position in the doorway and, ignoring Mr. Gooch, gazed disinterestedly
down the street in the opposite direction.

At last Oliver October appeared. He glanced at his watch as he crossed
the sidewalk.

“Hello, Uncle Horace,” was his greeting. “Sorry to have kept you
waiting. And I’m in a bit of a hurry, too. Some friends coming down on
Number Seventeen. Mr. and Mrs. Sage—you remember them, no doubt. And
their daughter. The train’s due at 4:10—and it’s three minutes of four
now. Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?”

“Yes, there is,” said Mr. Gooch harshly. “I came over here to demand an
apology from you, young man—a public apology, printed over your
signature in the newspapers.”

“What’s the joke, Uncle Horace?” asked Oliver calmly.

“Joke? There’s no joke about it. You know what I mean. I demand an
apology for what you said in the letter you wrote in reply to mine of
the twenty-seventh inst.”

“Do you expect me to print my letter in the newspapers together with the
apology?”

“That isn’t necessary, young man.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Oliver, unruffled. “I’ll agree to
publish your letter to me and my reply, and I’ll follow them up with an
apology for mine if you’ll apologize to me for yours. That’s fair, isn’t
it?”

“Don’t beat about the bush,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “Don’t get fresh, young
man. I’m not here to bandy words with you. I wrote you a very plain and
dignified letter in which I told you what I thought of the underhanded
way you acted in regard to those dear old ladies, Mrs. Bannester and her
sister. You know as well as I do that it was my intention to restore
their property to them, absolutely tax free and without a single claim
against it. You simply sneaked in and got ahead of me, and now you are
giving people to understand that I meant to foreclose on ’em and turn
them out of house and home. You—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Oliver, looking at his watch again, “I know
that’s what you said in your letter—that and a lot of other things,
Uncle Horace.”

“And what did you say in reply to my simple, straightforward letter? You
said you wouldn’t trust me as far as you could throw a locomotive with
one hand, or something like that. You said—”

“Yes, I know I said that—and a lot of other things too. You don’t have
to repeat what I said. I’ve got a copy of the letter in my desk. It
wasn’t a very long letter, for that matter, and I can recall every word
of it. Do you want to continue this discussion, Uncle Horace? If you’ll
look around you will see that quite a little crowd is collecting. Don’t
you think you’d better drop the matter right here and now?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t care how big a crowd there is. The bigger the
better, far as I’m concerned. If I don’t have a written and published
acknowledgment from you that you deliberately misrepresented me, that
you played me an underhanded trick simply for political purposes,
I’ll—I’ll—”

“Well, what?”

“I’ll make it so blamed hot for you you’ll wish you’d never been born,”
grated Mr. Gooch, shaking his bony finger in his nephew’s face.

Observing this physical symptom of animosity, the Messrs. Sikes and Link
hastily stepped forth from the doorway and advanced toward the car.

“Keep your temper, Oliver,” called out the former warningly. “Hang on to
it!”

“Don’t forget yourself, boy,” cried Mr. Link.

Mr. Gooch glanced at the two old men.

“You stay away from here, you meddling old—” he started to shout.

“Blow your police whistle, Silas,” urged Mr. Sikes. “Blow it! We’ll see
if—”

“Never mind, Uncle Joe,” interrupted Oliver, with an airy wave of his
hand. “No need of a cop, is there, Uncle Horace?”

“Not at present,” replied his uncle grimly. “Later on we may need
one—but not just now.”

“Then we can end the discussion in two seconds. I decline to apologize,
I refuse to accept an apology from you, and I’ll see you in Jericho
before I’ll retract a word I’ve said about the Bannester affair. The
only thing I will say to you is that I hadn’t the faintest idea of
running for office when I helped those poor old ladies out of their
trouble. You can lump it if you—”

“And what’s more,” broke in Mr. Sikes, heatedly, “this nomination was
forced on Oliver against the wishes of his friends and family. When his
poor old father sees in the newspapers that Oliver is headed for the
halls of state, he’ll break his heart. No matter where Ollie is, he
grabs up the newspaper every morning of his life to see what the news is
from Rumley—”

“Is _that_ so?” snarled Mr. Gooch. “Well, I’m not so sure of that, Mr.
Swipes—I’m not so sure of it, and neither are a great many other
people. There are people in this county—yes, right here in this
town—that would like to know a lot more about what has become of my
poor brother-in-law than they know at present.”

“I am one of those people, Uncle Horace,” said Oliver quietly.

“And don’t you go calling Ollie Baxter a brother-in-law,” snorted Mr.
Sikes. “I won’t stand here and let you slander my lifelong friend by
calling him a brother-in-law. If you’ll get out of that automobile,
I’ll—”

“Hold your horses, Joe,” put in Mr. Link, clutching his crony’s arm.

“Oh, he can’t bulldoze me,” said Mr. Gooch loftily.

“Smash him, Mr. Sikes,” whispered young Marmaduke Smith, excitedly.

Horace turned to his nephew. “It rests with you, young man, whether a
certain investigation takes place or not,” he said, threateningly.

“What do you mean by investigation?” demanded Oliver, his eyes
narrowing. “Just what are you driving at?”

His uncle leaned forward and spoke slowly, distinctly. “Is there any
evidence that your father ever left this place at all?”

Oliver looked his uncle straight in the eye for many seconds, a curious
pallor stealing over his face. When he spoke it was with a visible
effort; and his voice was low and tense.

“There is no evidence to the contrary.”

“There’s no evidence at all,” said Gooch, “either one way or the other.
There has never been anything like a thorough search for him—in the
neighborhood of his own home. From all I can learn, you have run things
to suit yourself so far as the search around here is concerned. Well, I
am here to say that I’m not satisfied. I don’t believe Oliver Baxter
ever ran away from home. I believe he’s out there in that swamp of
yours. Now you know what I mean by an investigation, young man—and if
it is ever undertaken I want to say to you it won’t be under your
direction and it won’t be a half-hearted job. And the swamp won’t be the
only place to be searched. There are other places he might be besides
that swamp.”

“I think I get your meaning, Uncle Horace,” said Oliver, now cool and
self-possessed. “If I don’t do what you ask, you’ll start something, eh?
Your idea, I take it, is to impress the voters of the county with the
idea that my father may have met with foul play, and that I know more
about the circumstances than I’ve—”

“I am not saying or claiming anything of the sort,” broke in Mr. Gooch
hastily, with visions of a suit for slander looming up before him. “I am
not accusing you of anything, Oliver. All I want and all I shall insist
on is a thorough examination.”

“And if I agree to withdraw from the race and perjure myself in the
matter of the Bannester tax scandal, you will drop the investigation and
forget all about it—is that the idea?”

“I hate to take any drastic step that might involve my own nephew
in—er—in fact, I’d a good deal sooner not ask the authorities to take
a hand in the matter.”

“I see. The point I’m trying to get at is this, Uncle Horace,” went on
Oliver, relentlessly. “If I do what you ask, you will agree to let me
off scot-free even though I may have killed my own father? You can
answer that question, can’t you?”

“I am not here to argue with you,” snapped Mr. Gooch, his gaze sweeping
the ever-increasing group of spectators. “Your candidacy has nothing to
do with my determination to sift this business to the bottom,” he went
on, suddenly realizing that he was now committed to definite action. “I
shall appeal to the proper authorities and nothing you do or say, young
man, can head off the investigation. That’s final. I’m going to find out
what became of the money he drew out of the bank and where you got the
money to pay up for Mrs. Bannester and her sister. I’m going to find out
why you refuse to let the dredgers go farther out into the swamp, and
I’m going to—Oh, you needn’t grin! There are plenty of witnesses who
will swear that you and him were not on good terms, and that one day you
threatened to hire an aeroplane and take him up five miles and drop him
overboard if he didn’t quit pestering you with that story about the
gypsy. A lot of people heard you say that and—”

“It begins to look as though you were actually accusing me of murder,
Uncle Horace.”

“Good boy!” cried Mr. Sikes, appeasingly. “That’s the way to hold your
temper. He’s wonderful, ain’t he, Silas?”

“Wonderful, nothing!” said Mr. Link. “He ain’t had anything to get mad
about, far as I can see. The thing is, why ain’t he laughin’ himself
sick at the darned old nanny goat?”

“You go to grass!” shouted Mr. Gooch furiously.

Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link joined in the gale of laughter that went up from
the crowd.

Mr. Gooch, crimson with rage, shook his finger at Oliver. “That’s
right—that’s right! Laugh while you can, you young scoundrel. You think
you’re safe and that you got everything covered up, but you’ll be
laughing on the other side of the face before I get through with you.
I’m going to find out what happened to Oliver Baxter if it takes all the
rest of my life. You won’t be laughing so darned idiotically when the
prosecuting attorney begins asking questions of you. You bet you won’t.
Because he’ll be getting at the truth and the real facts, and that’s
what you don’t want, my laddie buck. I’m going to demand a complete
investigation before I’m a day older, and I’m going to show the people
of this here town that I mean business. The grand jury’s in session now.
I’ll have this business up before them to-morrow and I’ll demand a
complete investi—”

He broke off in the middle of the oft-repeated word and jerked his head
back. Oliver had taken that instant to snap his fingers under Mr.
Gooch’s nose, not once but thrice in rapid succession.

“Investigate and be damned!” cried the young man angrily. “You infernal
old buzzard! Go ahead and—”

“Whoa, Oliver!” shouted Mr. Sikes, in a panic. “Don’t lose your—”

“All right, Uncle Joe,” gulped Oliver—“all right! I came near letting
go of myself for a—”

“He would have killed me in cold blood if I’d been alone with him,”
exclaimed Mr. Gooch. “My God, when I think of poor old Oliver out there
on that lonely back road, trying to reason with him, I—”

“See here, Uncle Horace,” interrupted Oliver, in a calm, matter-of-fact
tone, “I’ll tell you what I will do. I will give you five thousand
dollars in cash if you find my father for me. It has cost me twice that
amount already—my own money, mind you—but I’ll give you—”

“Dead or alive?” demanded Mr. Gooch sternly, accusingly.

“Yes, dead or alive. Now, wait a second. I’ve got something more to say
to you. My father always said you were the meanest creature that God
ever let live, and I used to dispute it once in a while. I claimed that
a hyena was worse. Now I know he was right and I was wrong. Go ahead
with your investigation. Go as far as you like. You can’t bluff me. I am
in this race to stay and I’m going after you tooth and nail. Now I guess
we understand each other. I’m going after you because of the way you
treated my father and I’m—”

“And I’m going after you for the way _you_ treated him,” bawled Mr.
Gooch, throwing in the clutch viciously. Then he muttered an execration.

“If you’ll give Marmaduke Smith a dime he’ll crank it for you,” said
Oliver, turning on his heel. He glanced up at the clock on the bank down
the street. “Oh, thunder!” he exclaimed in dismay. “You’ve made me miss
the train!”

“If you crank that car, Marmaduke,” said Mr. Sikes menacingly, “I’ll
boot you all over town.”

So Mr. Gooch got out and cranked the car, and drove away to a chorus of
undesirable invitations.

“Where’s Oliver?” demanded Mr. Sikes, as the car turned the corner. “We
got to stick purty close to him from now on, Silas.”

“What for, Joe?”

“So’s we can be ready to establish an alibi in case anything happens to
Horace Gooch. Supposin’ some poor devil he’s made a beggar of takes it
into his head to put a bullet into—What say, Marmy?”

“Oliver took my wheel and beat it for the depot,” said Marmaduke Smith
happily.




                             CHAPTER XVIII


                     JOSEPHINE AND HENRY THE EIGHTH

The return of Mrs. Sage after an absence of twenty-three years was an
“event” far surpassing in interest anything that had transpired in
Rumley since the strange disappearance of old Oliver Baxter.

Hundreds of people, eager to see the famous Josephine Judge, crowded the
station platform, long before the train from Chicago was due to arrive;
they filled the depot windows; they were packed like sardines atop the
spare baggage and express trucks; they ranged in overflow disorder along
the sidewalks on both sides of the street adjacent. In this curious
throng were acquaintances of another day, those who remembered her as
the incomprehensible wife of Parson Sage when Sharp’s Field was a barren
outskirt and the trains for Chicago passed through Rumley at forty miles
an hour—a whistle, a rising and diminishing roar, a disdainful clanging
of bells, and then the tail end of a coach that left a whirlwind of dust
in its wake as it thundered away. The _Morning Despatch_ dug up an
ancient and totally featureless picture of Josephine Judge as she was at
the time of her last appearance in Chicago, some twenty years before,
and printed it, with rare tact on the part of the editor, in that
department of the paper devoted exclusively on Saturdays—and this was
Saturday—to church news and a directory of divine services. Inasmuch as
this sadly blurred two-column “cut” represented Miss Judge as a svelte
Salvation Army lassie, the editor may have been pardoned for giving it a
prominent position on the “Church page,” notwithstanding the fact that
said lassie was depicted in the act of tickling a tambourine with the
toe of her left foot. In any case, a great many people who were not in
the habit of reading the church section studied it with interest this
morning, and planned to take half an hour or so off in the afternoon.

The train pulled in. The crowd tiptoed and gaped, craned its thousand
necks, and then surged to the right. Above the hissing of steam and the
grinding of wheels rose the voice of Sammy Parr far down the platform.

“Keep back, everybody! Don’t crowd up so close. Right this way, Mr.
Sage—How are you? Open up there, will you? Let ’em through. Got my new
car over here, Mr. Sage—lots of room. Hello, Jane! Great honor to have
the pleasure of taking Mrs. Sage home in my car. Right over this way.
Grab those suitcases, boys. Open up, please!”

Mr. Sage paused aghast half way down the steps of the last coach but
one. He stared, open-mouthed, out over the sea of faces; his knees
seemed about to give way under him; his nerveless fingers came near
relaxing their grip on the suitcase handles; he was bewildered, stunned.

“In heaven’s name—” he groaned, and then, poor man, over his shoulder
in helpless distress to the girl behind him—“Oh, Jane, why didn’t we
wait for the midnight—”

But some one had seized the bags and with them he was dragged
ingloriously to the platform. Jane came next, crimson with
embarrassment. She hurried down the steps and waited at the bottom for
her mother to appear. As might have been expected of one so truly
theatric, Josephine delayed her appearance until the stage was clear, so
to speak. She even went so far as to keep her audience waiting. Preceded
by the Pullman porter, who up to this time had remained invisible but
now appeared as a proud and shining minion bearing boxes and traveling
cases, wraps and furs, she at length appeared, stopping on the last step
to survey, with well-affected surprise and a charming assumption of
consternation, the crowd that packed the platform. Recovering herself
with admirable aplomb, she rested her hand gracefully upon the brass
rail and bowed to the right and the left and straight before her; the
rigid smile with which every successful actress nightly envelops her
audience in response to curtain calls parted her carmine lips while her
big eyes ranged with sightless intensity over a void studded with what
their fatuous owners were prone to call faces. Just as she was on the
point of stepping down to the platform, her attention seemed suddenly to
have been caught and held by an object off to the left at an elevation
of perhaps ten feet above the heads of the spectators. She studied this
object smilingly for thirty or forty seconds. As many as a dozen kodaks
clicked during this brief though providential period of inactivity on
her part.

Now, a great many—perhaps all—of those who made up the eager, curious
crowd, expected to behold a young and radiant Josephine Judge; they had
seen her in the illustrated Sunday supplements and in the pictorial
magazines; always she was sprightly and vivid and alluring. They were
confronted, instead, by a tall, angular woman of fifty-two or-three,
carelessly—even “sloppily”—dressed in a slouchy two-piece pepper and
salt tweed walking costume, a glistening black straw hat that sat well
down upon a mass of bright auburn hair—(old-timers in the crowd
remembered her jet black tresses)—stout English oxfords somewhat run
down at the heel, and a neck piece of white fur. What most of the
observers at first took to be a wad of light brown fur tucked under her
right arm was discovered later to be a beady-eyed “Pekinese.”

But the minister’s wife was still a vividly handsome woman; the years
had put their lines at the corners of her eyes, to be sure, and had
pressed the fullness out of her cheeks, but they had not dimmed the
luster of her eyes nor sobered the smile that played about her mirthful
lips. She had taken good care of herself; she had made a business of
keeping young in looks as well as in spirit.

She had gone away from Rumley with a cheap and unlovely suitcase; she
came back with twenty trunks, her traveling bags of seal, her jewel box
and toilet case, hat boxes, shoe boxes, a pedigreed “Peke” named Henry
the Eighth, and an accent that could have come from nowhere save the
heart of London-town. In a clear, full voice, trained to reach remote
perches in lofty theaters, she spoke to her husband from the coach
steps:

“Herbert, dear, have you the checks for my luggage, or have I?”

“I—I will attend to the trunks—” he began huskily, only to be
interrupted by the indefatigable Sammy.

“Don’t give ’em another thought, Mr. Sage. I’ll see to everything. Give
me the checks and—right this way, please, Mrs. Sage.”

“Thank you—thank you so much,” said Mrs. Sage graciously, and, as Sammy
bustled on ahead, inquired in an undertone of Jane at whose side she
walked: “Is that the wonderful Oliver October I’ve been hearing so much
about?”

“No, Mother—that is Sammy Parr. I—I don’t see Oliver anywhere. I wrote
him the train we were coming—”

A few paces ahead Sammy was explaining loudly to Mr. Sage: “I guess
something important of a political nature must have turned up to keep
Oliver from meeting the train. We had it all fixed up to meet you with
my car and he was to be here at four sharp. Doc Lansing’s up at Harbor
Point, Michigan, for a little vacation. Won’t be back till Sunday week.
Muriel’s out here in the car, Mr. Sage. She’ll drive you home while I
see about the baggage.”

Mr. Sage had recovered his composure by this time. He leaned close to
Sammy’s ear and said gravely:

“Luggage, Sammy—luggage.”

“Sure—I get you,” said Sammy, winking. “But just the same I’ll call it
baggage till I’ve got it safely out of the hands of Jim O’Brien, the
baggage master. He doesn’t like me any too well as it is, and if I
called it—Here we are! Hop right in, Jane. Permit me to introduce
myself, Mrs. Sage. I am—”

“I remember you quite well,” interrupted the great actress (pronouncing
it “quate”). “You are Sammy Parr—little Sammy Parr who used to
live—ah—let me see, where was it you were living when I left Rumley,
Sammy?”

Sammy flushed with joy to the roots of his hair.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me, Mrs.—”

“Pairfectly,” said she. “Oh, thank you so much. What a lovely car you
have. Don’t come too close to Henry the Eighth—he has a vile way of
snapping at people, whether he likes them or not. My word, Sammy! Jane!
Herbert! Can I believe my eyes? Is this Rumley? Is this—”

“This is my wife, Mrs. Sage,” introduced Sammy, indicating the
bare-headed young lady at the wheel.

“How do you do, Mrs. Sage. I’m awfully thrilled to meet you. I saw you
act in London during the war. My first husband was an officer in the
American Army, you see. You were perfectly lovely. I shall never
forget—oh, dear, what was the name of the play? I ought to remember—”

“Don’t try,” interrupted Mrs. Sage. “I want to forget it myself. I say,
Herbert, old thing, you can’t make me believe this is Rumley. You are
deceiving me. I don’t recognize a single—Oh, yes, I do! I take it all
back. I would know that man if I saw him in Timbuktu. The old Johnnie in
the car we just passed. It was Gooch—the amiable Gooch—and, my word,
what a dust he was raising!”

Oliver, pedaling furiously, arrived at the parsonage ten minutes behind
the Sages. The minister greeted him as he came clattering up the front
steps.

“Sh!” he cautioned, his finger to his lips. “Don’t make such a noise,
Oliver—if you please. She’s—she’s resting. Sh! Do you mind tiptoeing,
lad? Jane and I have got quite in the habit of it the past two weeks. I
am happy to see you, my boy. She always rests about this time of the
day. You have come out for the senatorship, I hear. Especially if she’s
had a train trip or anything like that. Well, well, I hope you will go
in with flying colors. If she doesn’t get her rest right on the minute,
she has a headache and—”

“Where is Jane, Uncle Herbert?” broke in Oliver, twiddling his hat. He
was struck by the dazed, beatific, and yet harassed expression in the
minister’s eyes—as if he were still in a maze of wonder and perplexity
from which he was vainly trying to extricate himself.

“Jane? Oh, yes, Jane. Why, Jane is upstairs with her dear
mother—helping her with her hair, I think. I am sure she will not be
down for some time, Oliver. After the hair I think she rubs her back or
something of that sort. Do you mind toddling—I mean strolling—around
the yard with me, Oliver? I was on the point of taking Henry the Eighth
out for a little exercise—ten minutes is the allotted time, ten to the
second. He—”

“Henry the what?” inquired Oliver, still gripping the pastor’s hand.

“The Eighth,” said Mr. Sage, looking about the porch and shifting the
position of his feet in some trepidation. “Bless my soul, what can have
become of him? I hope I haven’t been standing on him. I should have
squashed him—Ah, I remember! The hatrack!”

He dashed into the hall, followed by Oliver, and there was Henry the
Eighth suspended from the hatrack by his leash in such a precarious
fashion that only by standing on his hind legs was he able to avoid
strangulation.

“I am so absent-minded,” murmured Mr. Sage, rather plaintively. “Poor
doggie! Was he being hanged like a horrid old murderer? Was he—”

“Hey!” cried Oliver. “He’s nipping your ankle, Uncle Herbert.”

“I know he is,” said Mr. Sage, smiling patiently. “He does it every time
he gets a chance. I’m quite used to it by now.”

“I’d kick his ugly little head off,” said Oliver.

“Oh, dear, no! You wouldn’t kick Henry the Eighth, I’m sure you
wouldn’t.”

They were out on the porch now, Mr. Sage holding the leash at arm’s
length and walking in a lopsided, overhanging sort of manner in order to
keep his ankles out of reach of Henry the Eighth’s sharp little
snappers. Oliver followed down the steps and out upon the sunburnt lawn.

“Does he snap at you like that all the time?” he inquired, sending a
swift, searching glance up at the second floor windows.

“I am afraid he does,” said Mr. Sage, dejectedly. “He doesn’t like me.”

“I’ll tell you what, Uncle Herbert,” began Oliver mendaciously; “you
just lead him around toward the back of the house, out of sight of those
windows up there, and I’ll show you how to break him of that. I love
dogs, and I know how to make ’em love me.”

“He will not allow you to pet him, Oliver,” said Mr. Sage hastily.

“I’m not going to pet him,” said Oliver grimly. “You want to break him
of biting, don’t you?”

“I should very much like to be on—er—friendly terms with him.”

“All right then. Bring him back this way. We’ll give him his first
lesson in politeness. The trouble with Henry the Eighth is he’s been
spoiled by women. What he needs is a good sound spanking.”

“Bless my soul, Oliver! You—”

“I guess it’s safe over there back of the woodshed, Uncle Herbert. They
can’t see or hear from the house. Many’s the time I’ve been taken out to
the woodshed, and I don’t believe Henry the Eighth is any better than I
was.”

“My dear boy, I—”

“Now, let him snap at you a couple of times—let him think he’s got you
trembling all over with fright. That’s the stuff! Gee, he’s a mean
little beast, isn’t he? He’s got the idea he’s a lion or a tiger. Now,
yank him up by the leash and take hold of the back of his neck with your
left hand—”

“You do it, Oliver. Really, I—I—can’t,” pleaded Mr. Sage.

“Go ahead! Yank him up—look out, sir! He came close to getting you that
time. That’s the way. You taught me the art of self-defense a long time
ago. Turn about is fair play, sir. I’m going to teach you the art of
self-protection. Now take the end of the leash and give him ten sharp
cuts with it. Go on! I’ll keep watch.”

And so, to the immeasurable astonishment of Henry the Eighth, ten
chastening lashes were administered to his squirming hindquarters, each
succeeding one being a little harder than its predecessor as the
minister abandoned himself to a most unseemly though delightful state of
malevolence. Half way through he decided to drag the performance out a
little by increasing the length of the intervals between lashes, thus
deceiving Henry the Eighth into the belief that each blow was the last
only to find himself lamentably mistaken a few seconds later.

“Keep a sharp watch, Oliver,” whispered Mr. Sage, between his teeth
somewhere along about the seventh lash.

“I will,” said Oliver, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of the west window
in what he knew to be Jane’s bed-chamber. “Don’t you worry.”

“For goodness’ sake, don’t—don’t let her catch me at it.”

“I’m awfully sorry I wasn’t at the station when Jane—when you got in,
Uncle Herbert. Did you have a comfortable trip down from—”

“Nine,” counted Mr. Sage, and then fifteen seconds later: “Ten. Now,
what shall I do with him, Oliver? If I let him down he’ll jump at me
like a rattlesnake and—”

“Oh, no, he won’t,” said Oliver, reluctantly withdrawing his gaze from
the window and joining the other beyond the corner of the woodshed.
“He’ll lick your hand if you hold it close enough to his nose. Let him
down. See that? He’s got his tail between his legs—or as much of it as
he can get there—and he’ll keep it there till he thinks you want him to
wag it.”

“I feel like a brute,” muttered Mr. Sage, but not as contritely as might
have been expected. “I hope I haven’t really injured the poor little
fellow.” Henry the Eighth, cringing flat on his little belly, peeped
anxiously but evilly up at his new master. “He doesn’t appear to be able
to stand on his feet, Oliver.”

“Does he know any tricks?”

“Oh my, yes. He’s really quite clever. He does quite a few for
Josephine. Rolls over, plays dead, jumps over her foot, sits up and
begs, and—”

“Tell him to roll over,” said Oliver sternly.

“Oh, he won’t do them for me. He growls at me whenever I attempt to—”

“Tell him to roll over.”

“Roll over, Henry—roll over, sir! Why—why, bless my soul, he’s doing
it.”

“Tell him to play dead.”

Henry the Eighth “played dead”—with his beady eyes wide open,
however—and then sat up on his haunches and begged.

“Now, see what he’ll do if you try to pat his head.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to risk—er—he is quite likely to nip my fingers
if I—”

“If he tries it, spank him once or twice.”

Henry the Eighth plucked up the courage to growl when the minister’s
left hand neared his head. An instant later, the flat of Mr. Sage’s
right hand came in contact with a portion of Henry’s anatomy that
already had suffered considerable pain and indignity. Whereupon he
squeezed out an apologetic little yelp and turned over on his back to
play dead again. Mr. Sage solemnly shook both of the feathery front paws
and called him a nice doggie. He had to call him a nice doggie three
times, and, besides that, had to show his teeth in a broad, ingratiating
smile before Henry was willing to trust his own eyes and ears. He wagged
his bushy tail weakly, experimentally.

“Nice doggie,” said Mr. Sage again.

“Don’t overdo it,” warned Oliver. “Don’t be too polite to him. He’ll be
thinking he’s a lion again, Uncle Herbert.”

“I wouldn’t have Mrs. Sage know that I’ve thrashed him for anything in
the world,” said the minister guiltily. “You won’t mention it, my lad?”

“I can’t promise not to tell Jane about it.”

“Oh, I don’t mind your telling Jane. She’s been at me for a week to
paddle him—”

“I say, Uncle Herbert, don’t you think Jane may have
finished—er—rubbing Mrs. Sage’s back by this time?” inquired the
impatient Oliver.

“Possibly,” said the other. “Come along, doggie—let’s romp a bit. Oh,
by the way, before I forget it, Oliver, Mrs. Sage prefers to
be—er—called Miss Judge.”

Oliver’s face fell. “Oh, thunder! Am I not to call her Aunt Josephine?”

“Certainly—certainly, my boy. I mean, Miss Judge in public. It seems to
be a—er—a theatrical custom. On the train coming down a gentleman from
Hopkinsville joined us for a few moments and I was obliged to introduce
her as ‘my wife, Miss Judge.’ Come along, Henry—there’s a nice dog!
Jump over my foot! Good! He did it splendidly, didn’t he, Oliver?”

Meanwhile, Jane, having brushed her mother’s hair, was now employed in
the more laborious task of rubbing the lady’s back—a task attended by
grateful little grunts and sighs on the part of the patient and a rather
expressive tightening of the lips and crinkling of the brow on the part
of the impatient daughter.

“You have a great deal of magnetism in your hands, my dear,” droned Mrs.
Sage, luxuriously—the sort of thing one invariably purrs when one’s
head is being rubbed. “As I say, my maid always did it for me in London,
but God bless my soul, she never had the touch that you have. Really, my
dear, it was like being scraped with sandpaper. The right shoulder now,
please.”

“I think Oliver is downstairs with father,” began Jane wistfully.

“She was my dresser, too,” went on Mrs. Sage drowsily. “Really, I wonder
now that I endured her as long as I did. And I shouldn’t, you may be
sure, if she hadn’t—a little lower down, dear—if she hadn’t—ah—what
was I going to say? Oh, yes; if she hadn’t been so kind to Henry the
Eighth. I do hope your father is giving him a nice little romp in the
front—”

“Shall I run down and see, Mother?” broke in Jane eagerly.

“Presently, my dear, presently. I shall be taking my tub in a few—you
say we have a bathroom now? Dear me, how the house has grown. It used to
be a sort of stand-up process in a wash-tub half full of warm water and
suds. Ah me! What a change time has wrought. You must take me all over
the house to-morrow, Jane dear. I sha’n’t be quite up to it this
evening, don’t you know. How many servants have we?”

“One,” said Jane succinctly.

“One?” gasped Josephine. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“One is all we need, and besides one is all we can afford. I am afraid
you will have a lot to put up with, Mother dear.”

Josephine was silent for a long time. Suddenly she lifted her head and
looked up into her daughter’s face.

“My dear,” she said, with a wry little twist at the corner of her
generous mouth, “I’ve come home to stay. I daresay you will find me
capable of taking things as they are. I did it once before and I can do
it again. Now, if you will draw me a nice warm tub; I’ll—I’ll—” she
yawned voluptuously—“I’ll get in and sozzle a bit. And that reminds me,
Jane. I shall never in any way interfere with you as housekeeper here.
Your father assures me that you are a perfect manager. I was a very poor
one in my day. I daresay we’d better let well enough alone. Don’t make
it too hot, my dear—and do see if you can find my bath slippers in that
bag over there by the door.”

The express wagon with Mrs. Sage’s trunks arrived as Oliver, in despair,
was preparing to depart as he had come, on Marmaduke Smith’s bicycle. He
took fresh hope. Here was a chance to see Jane after all. With joyous
avidity he offered to help Joe O’Brien lug the trunks upstairs.

“Where do you want ’em, Jane?” he shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
There was no answer. “Where shall we put them, Uncle Herbert?” he asked,
his hands jammed deep in his pockets.

“Bless my soul, I—I haven’t an idea,” groaned Mr. Sage, passing his
hand over his brow. This act seemed to have cleared some of the fog from
his brain. “Unless you put them in my study,” he suggested brightly.
“They will fill it to overflowing, but—but I can think of no other
place. Dear me, what a lot of them there are.”

Fifteen minutes later, the trunks being piled high in the pastor’s
little study, Oliver mopped his brow and expressed himself feelingly to
Mr. Sage from the bottom of the porch steps.

“I’ll make Uncle Horace sweat for this,” he growled. “If he hadn’t come
nosing around this afternoon, I would have—At the same time, Uncle
Herbert, I think Jane might have been allowed a minute or two to say
hello to a fellow. Good Lord, sir, is—is this to be Jane’s job from now
on?”

“Sh! The windows are open, Oliver.”

“Is she to be nothing but a lady’s maid to Aunt Josephine?”

“We are so happy to have her with us, my dear boy,
that—er—nothing—er—”

“I understand, Uncle Herbert,” broke in Oliver contritely, noting the
pastor’s distress. “I’m sorry I spoke as I did. Tell Jane I’ll call her
up this evening. And please tell Aunt Josephine I am awfully keen to see
her. I used to love her better than anything going, you know.”

“It’s different now,” said Mr. Sage. “You are both considerably older
than you were. Will you come up to-night?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll come up and move the trunks for you, Uncle Herbert. So
that you can have room to write next Sunday’s sermon,” he said, with his
gay, whimsical smile.

Then he pedaled slowly away on Marmaduke’s wheel, looking over his
shoulder until the windows of the parsonage were no longer visible.




                              CHAPTER XIX


                            OLIVER COMPLAINS

Three days later, the Sheriff of the County served papers on Oliver
October. The prosecuting attorney had refused to lay the matter before
the grand jury, as requested by Horace Gooch, but had grudgingly acceded
to his demand that an official investigation be instituted and carried
to a definite conclusion by the authorities.

“I want you to understand, Oliver,” explained the Sheriff, “that this is
none of my doing. Gooch has obtained an order from the court, calling
for a search of the swamp and your premises, basing his affidavit on the
suspicion that his brother-in-law came to his death by foul means
and—er—so on. He doesn’t charge anybody with the crime, as you will
see by reading a copy of the order. I guess it won’t amount to much. You
will have to submit to an examination, answer a lot of questions, and
refrain from any interference whatsoever with the search that is to be
conducted. In plain English, the order means that you are to have no
voice in the matter and that you are to take no part in the search. It’s
in the hands of the law now. I am authorized to begin the investigation
at once and not to stop until old Gooch is thoroughly satisfied that a
crime has not been committed. As I was saying a few minutes ago, he
agrees to pay all the costs arising from this investigation in case
nothing comes of it. On the other hand, if your father’s body is found
and there is any evidence of foul play, the county naturally is to
assume all the costs. The court made him sign a bond to that effect—a
regular indemnifying bond. The old man has hired two detectives from
Chicago to come down here and take active charge of the work. I hope you
won’t have any hard feelings toward me, Baxter. I am only doing my duty
as ordered by the court.”

“Not the slightest feeling in the world, Sheriff,” said Oliver warmly.
“I wish you would do me a favor, however. The next time you see my
uncle, please remind him that my offer to give him five thousand dollars
if he finds my poor father—dead or alive—still holds. You can start
digging whenever you are ready, Sheriff. You are at liberty to ransack
the house and outbuildings, dig up the cellars, pull up the floors,
drain the cistern and well—do anything you like, sir; I sha’n’t
interfere. If any damage is done to the property, however, I shall be
obliged to compel my uncle to pay for it. Don’t forget to tell him that,
will you?”

The sheriff grinned. “I wonder if this old bird knows how many votes
he’s going to lose by this sort of thing.”

Oliver frowned. “His scheme is to throw suspicion on me, Sheriff. That’s
what he is after. It is possible that a good many people will hesitate
about voting for a man who is suspected of killing his own father.”

“Don’t you worry, Baxter,” cried the sheriff, slapping the young man on
the back. “My wife was talking to a prominent county official this
morning—a good Democrat and a candidate for reëlection—and she made
him promise not to vote for old Horace Gooch next November. She made him
swear on his sacred word of honor not to do it. He went even further and
swore he would vote for you, and it will be the first time he has ever
voted for a Republican. Well, so long. Here’s a reporter for the
_Evening Tribune_ waiting to interview you. He came down with me. He’s a
nice feller and he’ll give you a square deal in spite of the fact his
paper is opposed to you politically. Of course, he’ll have to play this
business up, so don’t get sore if you see your name in the headlines
to-night.”

“I sha’n’t,” said Oliver, but more soberly than before. “I suppose there
won’t be a day from now on that there isn’t something in the papers
about the sensational Baxter case. I tell you, Sheriff, it hurts. I may
act as if it doesn’t hurt—but it does.”

“I know it does, Baxter,” said the sheriff sympathetically. “I’m
sorry—mighty sorry.”

Fully a week passed before a move was made by the authorities. The
newspapers devoted considerable first page space to the new angle in the
unsolved Baxter mystery, but not one of them took the matter up
editorially. The principal Democratic organ, _The Tribune_, hinted at a
possible disclosure, but went no farther; the Republican sheets withheld
their fire until the time seemed ripe to open up on old man Gooch.

Notwithstanding the reticence of the press, the news spread like
wildfire that Horace Gooch was actually charging his nephew with the
murder of his father. The town of Rumley went wild with anger and
indignation. A few hotheads talked of tar and feathers for old man
Gooch.

And yet deep down in the soul of every one who cried out against Horace
Gooch’s malevolence lurked a strange uneasiness that could not be shaken
off. The excitement over the return of Mrs. Sage was short-lived on
account of the new and startling turn in the Baxter mystery. Acute
interest in the pastor’s wife dwindled into a mild, almost innocuous
form of curiosity. At best, she was a three days’ wonder. If she had
lived up to expectations by appearing on the streets in startling gowns
and hats, or if she had behaved in public as actresses are supposed to
behave, she might have held her own against the odds; but she did none
of these. She wore what the women of the town called very unstylish
clothes; she behaved with sickening propriety; she was a real
disappointment. People began to wonder what on earth all those trunks
contained that Joe O’Brien had hauled up to the parsonage. If they
contained clothes, where was she keeping them and why didn’t she put
them on once in a while?

Ladies of the congregation, after a dignified season of hesitation,
called on her—that is to say, after forty-eight hours—and were told by
the servant that Miss Judge was not at home. She would be at home only
on Thursdays from three to six. Some little confusion was caused by the
name, but this was satisfactorily straightened out by the servant who
explained that Miss Judge and Mrs. Sage were one and the same person,
and that she was married all right and proper except, as you might say,
in name. Mrs. Serepta Grimes, being an old friend, was one of the first
to call. And this is what she said to Oliver October that same evening:

“You ask me, did I see her? I did. I saw her sitting at a window
upstairs as I came up the walk. She didn’t try to hide. She just sat
there reading a book. I told the hired girl to say who it was and that
I’d just as soon come upstairs as not if she didn’t feel like coming
down. The girl said she wasn’t home—and wouldn’t be till Thursday. So I
says, ‘You go up and tell her it’s me.’ In a minute or two she came back
and told me the bare-facedest lie I ever heard. She knew she was lying,
because I never saw a human being turn as red in the face as she did.
She said Mrs. Sage wasn’t at home. She said Mrs. Sage asked her to say
would I please come on Thursday next and have tea with her. She said
Thursday was her day. Well, do you know what I did, Oliver? I just said
‘pooh’ and walked right up the stairs and into her room. She got right
up and kissed me five or six times and—well, that’s about all, except I
stayed so long I was afraid I’d be late for supper. She’s a caution,
isn’t she? I declare I don’t know when I’ve had a better time. She
didn’t talk of anything else but you, Oliver. She thinks you’re the
finest—”

“Did you see Jane?” broke in Oliver.

“Certainly. Don’t you want to hear what Josephine said about you?”

“No, I can’t say that I do. By the way, Aunt Serepta, there is something
I’ve been wanting to ask you for quite awhile. Do you think Jane is
pretty?”

Mrs. Grimes pondered. “Well,” she said judicially, “it depends on what
you mean by pretty. Do you mean, is she beautiful?”

“I suppose that’s what I mean.”

“What do you want to know for?”

“Eh?”

“I mean, what’s the sense of asking me that question? You wouldn’t
believe me if I said she wasn’t pretty, would you?”

“Well, I’d just like to know whether you agree with me or not.”

“Yes, sir,” said she, fixing him with an accusing eye; “I do agree with
you—absolutely.”

“The strange thing about it,” he pursued defensively, “is that I never
thought of her as being especially good-looking until recently. Funny,
isn’t it?”

“There are a lot of things we don’t notice,” said she, “until some one
else pinches us. Then we open our eyes. I guess some one must have
pinched you. It hurts more when a man pinches you—’specially a big
strong fellow like Doc Lansing.”

A pained expression came into Oliver’s eyes. “The trouble is, I’ve
always looked upon her as a—well, as a sort of sister or something like
that. We grew up just like brother and sister. How was I to know that
she was pretty? A fellow never thinks of his sister as being pretty,
does he?”

“I suppose not. But, on the other hand, he never loses his appetite and
mopes and has the blues if his sister happens to take a fancy to a man
who isn’t her brother. That’s what you’ve been doing for two or three
weeks. If you had the least bit of gumption you’d up and tell her you
can’t stand being a brother to her any longer and you’d like to be
something else—if it isn’t too late.”

“Gee!” exclaimed he, ruefully. “But suppose she was to say it is too
late?”

“That’s a nice way for a soldier to talk,” said Mrs. Grimes scathingly.

He saw very little of Jane during the days that followed Mrs. Sage’s
return. Her mother demanded much of her; she was constantly in
attendance upon the pampered lady. Oliver chafed. He complained to Jane
on one of the rare occasions when they were alone together.

“Why, you’re nothing but a lady’s maid, Jane. You’ve been home five days
and I haven’t had a chance to say ten words to you. Now, don’t
misunderstand me. I’m fond of Aunt Josephine. She’s great fun, but, hang
it all, she’s right smack in the center of the stage all the time. It
isn’t fair, Jane. You can’t go on being a slave to her. She—”

“She has always had some one to wait on her, Oliver,” said Jane. “I
don’t mind. I am really very fond of her. And she is just beginning to
care for me. At first, I think she was a little afraid of me. She
couldn’t believe that I was real. The other day—in Chicago—she
suddenly reached out and touched my arm and said: ‘It doesn’t seem
possible that you ever squalled and made the night hideous for me and
your poor father. I can’t believe that you are the same little baby I
used to fondle and spank when I wasn’t any older than you are now.’
Besides, Oliver, I like doing things for her. It makes father happy.”

“But it doesn’t make me happy,” he grumbled. Then his face brightened.
“Wasn’t she great last night when she got started on Uncle Horace
and—and all this hullabaloo he’s stirring up?”

The fourth day after his wife’s return to Rumley, Mr. Sage blurted out
the question that had lain captive in his mind for weeks.

“If it is a fair question, my dear, would you mind telling me just why
you came back to me?”

She leaned back in her chair and studied the ceiling for a few minutes
before answering.

“I may as well be honest about it, Herby,” she said, changing her
position to meet his perplexed gaze with one that was absolutely free
from guile. “I came back because they were through with me over there. I
was getting passé—in fact, I was quite passé. They were beginning to
cast me for old women and character parts. Two or three years ago they
started my funeral services by seeing what I could do with Shakespeare.
I played Rosalind and Viola with considerable success. The next season
they had me do Lady Macbeth, and last season there was talk of reviving
Camille with me in the title rôle. I was through. My musical comedy days
were over. The stage was crowded with young women who could dance
without wheezing like a horse with the heaves and whose voices didn’t
crack in the middle register. People didn’t want to see me in musical
comedy any longer and they _wouldn’t_ see me in anything else. I’m
fifty-three, Herbert—between you and me, mind you—and just the right
age to be a preacher’s wife. So I made up my mind to retire. I used to
have a hundred pounds a week. Good pay over there. I was offered twenty
pounds a week for this season to tour the provinces in a revival of
Peter Pan—and that was the last straw. Peter Pan! When an actress gets
so old that she can’t stand on one leg without expecting people to
applaud her for a feat of daring, they send her out into the woods to
revive poor Peter, the boy who isn’t allowed to grow old. You notice,
Herby, I didn’t cable to ask if I could come home—I cabled that I was
on the way. Now, you know the secret of my home-coming. The time has
come when I must submit to being buried alive, and I’d sooner be buried
alive in Rumley than in London. It’s greener here. Besides you are a
human Rock of Ages, Herby. I’m going to cling to you like a barnacle. I
haven’t forgotten what lovers and sweethearts we were in the old days.
I’ve been faithful to you, old dear. If I hadn’t been faithful to you I
would never have come back. By the way, I’ve put by a little
money—quite a sum, in fact—so you mustn’t regard me as a charity
patient. We’ll pool our resources. And when the time comes for you to
step down and out of the pulpit for the same reason that I chucked the
stage—you see, Herby, audiences and congregations are a good deal
alike—why, we’ll have enough to live on for the rest of our days. You
won’t have to write sermons and preach ’em, and I sha’n’t have to listen
to them. It’s an awful thing to say, but we’ll both have to mend our
ways if we want our grandchildren to love us.”

He laid his arm over her shoulder and gently caressed her cheek.

“You are still pretty much of a pagan, Jo,” was all that he said, but he
was smiling.

“But you are jolly well pleased to have me back, aren’t you?”

“More overjoyed than I can tell you.”

“No doubts, no misgivings, no uneasiness over what I may do or say to
shock the worshipers?”

“I have confidence in your ability as an actress, Josephine,” he said.
“I am sure you can play the part of a lady as well as anything else.”

She flushed. “Score one,” she said. Then she sprang to her feet, the old
light of mischief in her wonderful eyes. “But, my God, Herby, what’s
going to happen when I spring all my spangles on the innocent public?”

“I shudder when I think of it,” said he, lifting his eyes heavenward.

“I saved every respectable costume I’ve worn in the last ten years—and
some that are shocking. Twelve trunks full of them. I’ll knock their
eyes out when I come on as the Princess Jalinka—last act
glorification—and as for the gold and turquoise gown that caused old
London to blink its weary eyes and catch its jaded breath—my word,
Herby, old thing, they’ll have me up for wholesale murder. They’ll die
all over the place.”

“I really ought to caution you, Josephine—”

“Never mind, old dear. I sha’n’t disgrace you. I’ve got a few costumes I
will put on in private for you—and I wouldn’t feel safe in putting ’em
on privately for any one except a preacher in whom I had the most
unusual confidence. Bless your heart, Herby, don’t look so horrified.
I’ve still got my marriage certificate—though God only knows where it
is.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ve got it, my dear. You neglected to take it
away with you when you left.”

She smiled. “Well, I daresay it was safer with you than it would have
been with me.”




                               CHAPTER XX


                            DETECTIVE MALONE

It was the fourth week in September when the detectives arrived in
Rumley; Oliver’s dredgers had completed their contract; the swamp was
clear of men, machines and horses.

The city editor of the _Despatch_ interviewed Detective Malone, the
chief operative in charge of what the newspaper man and others,
including Oliver October, were jocosely inclined to classify as the
“expedition.”

“Where do you intend to begin excavating, Mr. Malone?” inquired the
editor, notebook in hand. They were in the lobby of the Hubbard House.
“And when?” he added.

Mr. Malone was very frank about it. “In China,” said he. “We’re going to
work from the bottom up. If you’ll go out to the swamp to-morrow or next
day and put your ear to the ground—and hold it there long
enough—you’ll hear men’s voices but you won’t understand a word they
say. They’ll be speakin’ Chinese. We’ve got thirty-five thousand coolies
digging their way up from Shanghai, and according to schedule they ought
to be here by to-morrow morning unless they’ve had a cave-in or stopped
off in hell for breakfast.”

The editor eyed him in a cold, inimical manner. “Umph!” he grunted,
flopping his notebook shut. “It’s a good thing you’ve got your Chinese
army, because you won’t be able to get anybody to work for you in this
town. That’s how we feel about this business, Mr. Malone—rich and poor,
high and low. There isn’t a dago here who will lift a spade to help
you.”

“I guess that’s up to the authorities,” said the detective coolly. “I’m
here to boss the job, that’s all.”

“You won’t find anything.”

Mr. Malone grinned. “Exactly what those two old codgers out there on the
sidewalk said to me not ten minutes ago.”

That afternoon the sheriff and the prosecuting attorney stopped
electioneering long enough to pay a hasty visit to Rumley. They found
Oliver waiting for them at his home.

“Of course, Mr. Baxter,” said the prosecutor, “you have a right to
refuse to answer every question I put to you. So far as I am concerned,
I merely intend to examine you as I would examine any disinterested
witness. As I say, you may decline to answer.”

“I will answer any question you may choose to put to me, Mr. Johnson.”

The sheriff interposed. “Better have your lawyer here, Baxter. I am
obliged to warn you that anything you say may be used against you in
case—er—in case—”

“I understand. In case I am charged with crime.”

“Exactly,” said the sheriff.

“You can refuse to answer on the ground that it may tend to incriminate
you,” explained the prosecutor.

“I have consulted a lawyer,” said Oliver. “He advises me to help you in
every way possible, Mr. Johnson. He wanted to be here this afternoon,
but I told him I knew of no surer way to incriminate myself than to hire
a lawyer to see that I didn’t. Go ahead; ask all the questions you like.
No one wants to see this mystery cleared up more than I do.”

Half an hour later, the sheriff looked at his watch and reminded his
companion that they would be late for the meeting at Monrovia if they
didn’t start at once—and off they sped in haste. Detective Malone and
his partner, who had joined the county officials at the Baxter house,
remained behind. They were smoking Oliver’s cigars.

“How long do you figure it will take you, Mr. Malone, to finish up the
job?” inquired the young man.

Malone squinted at the tree-tops. “Our instructions are to work slowly
and surely. We are not to leave a stone unturned. It may take six or
eight weeks.”

“In other words, you are not expected to be through before election
day.”

“Unless we find what we are after before that time, Mr. Baxter,” said
the other. He had been out at the back of the house, surveying with his
eye the stretch of swamp land. “It is a big job, as you can see for
yourself. Like looking for a needle in a haystack, eh, Charlie?”

His partner nodded his head in silent assent.

“We’ll go out and take a walk around the swamp to-morrow,” said Malone.
“If you’ve got the time to spare, Mr. Baxter, you might stroll out with
us now to the place where you last saw your father. That will have to be
our starting point. Then I’ll want to question your servants. It seems
that he is supposed to have come home to change his clothes after he
said good-by to you.”

“He did not say good-by to me,” corrected Oliver. “He didn’t even say
good night. Please get that straight, Mr. Malone. He was angry with
me—and I do not deny that I was angry myself. We parted in anger.”

“Do you know a man named Peter Hines, Mr. Baxter?” asked Malone
abruptly.

“Pete Hines? Certainly. He is a tenant of my father’s. Lives in a shack
up at the other end of the swamp. He has done odd jobs for us ever since
I can remember. Wood-chopping, rail-splitting and all that. He also does
most of the drinking for the estate,” he concluded dryly.

“A souse, eh?”

“I’ve never known him to be completely sober—and I’ve never heard of
him being completely drunk. He’s that kind.”

“Do you remember seeing him the night your father disappeared?”

“No. I did not see him.”

“By the way, have you ever seen me before to-day?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Well,” said Malone, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ve been hanging
around this burg since last Monday—five days, in all. I’ve done quite a
bit of sleuthing, as they say in the dime novels. I’m the fellow that
sold your housekeeper, Mrs. Grimes, the beautifully illustrated set of
Jane Austen’s works day before yesterday. I also sold an unexpurgated
set of the Arabian Nights to Mr. Samuel Parr, the insurance agent. He
tells me your father carried a fifteen thousand dollar life policy. I
tried to sell a set of Dickens to the Reverend Mr. Sage, and succeeded
in having a long talk with his daughter about the book entitled ‘The
Mystery of Edwin Drood.’ That led up, quite naturally, to the mystery of
Oliver Baxter. I’ve had dealings with Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link, Banker
Lansing, John Phillips and a number of other citizens, male and female.”
He laughed quietly. “Of course, the books will never be delivered, Mr.
Baxter—but as it is understood that no payments are to be made until
the first two volumes are delivered, I can’t be charged with swindling.
I can face my victims with perfect equanimity—but I don’t believe
they’ll recognize me. I was in your store last Tuesday, but you were off
on political business. Shall we stroll down to the swamp, Mr. Baxter, or
would you rather wait a day or two? Suit your own convenience. We’re in
no hurry, you see.”

“That is obvious,” said Oliver curtly. “I must notify you, Mr. Malone,
that if you or any of your workmen slip into one of those pits of mire
out there and never come up again, I am not to be held accountable. If
you venture out beyond the safety zone you do so at your own risk.”

“Right-o!” said Malone cheerily. They were well around the corner of the
house on their way to the swamp road before he spoke again. “How many
people have lost their lives out there?” he inquired.

“None, so far as I know.”

“But there must have been any number of men who have ventured out
there.”

“What makes you think so? I don’t know of a single soul who has had the
courage—or the folly—to go anywhere near those sink-holes.”

“Then, how do you know that those so-called bottomless holes exist?”

“I suppose it’s tradition,” said Oliver. “I have heard of animals—such
as horses and cattle—sinking out of sight. My father has often told me
of such things.”

“Maybe he was just scaring you, so’s you’d keep out of the swamp.”

“Well, he scared me all right.”

“You are a trained civil engineer, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve never gone out there to satisfy yourself whether those pits
are real or just something people like to talk about?”

“I’ve never been out beyond that row of posts you see over there,” said
Oliver, pointing. “I had a wire fence stretched along those posts last
spring, Mr. Malone. You are at liberty to go as far out as you please,
however.”

“I shall,” said Malone crisply. “I am an old hand at this business. I
don’t believe such a thing exists as a bottomless pit. Before I get
through with this job, you will find, Mr. Baxter, that there isn’t a
spot in that slough out there that is more than six or eight feet deep.
Of course, that is deep enough to bury a man, or a horse or a cow. So,
you needn’t expect me to step into every mud puddle I come across out
there, just to see if it’s over my shoe tops. Now, just where was it
that you and your father parted company that night? As I understand it,
you and he sat for some time on that log over there. It was a clear
night and the road was very dusty. There had been no rain in over three
weeks. Am I right?”

Oliver stared at him in amazement. The other detective had turned down
the slope and was striding off toward the nearest ditch.

“You seem to be pretty well posted,” said he, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, I am an inquisitive sort of cuss,” drawled Malone. “And I’m not
what you’d call an idle person.”

“Who told you we were sitting on that log? I don’t remember ever having
mentioned it. As a matter of fact, I’d forgotten it completely. We did
sit there for ten or fifteen minutes. That was before we began to
quarrel. Then we got up and walked on a little farther down the road. To
the bend on ahead about fifty yards. We stood there arguing for nearly
half an hour. I left him standing there. I went on to Mr. Sage’s. But
who told you we sat on that log?”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll not answer that question,” said Malone.

“You asked me a while ago if I had seen Pete Hines that night. Was it
Pete Hines?”

Malone hesitated. “Well, it was Pete Hines who is supposed to have seen
you, Mr. Baxter, but it was not he who told me about it. I went out to
see him yesterday, but his shack was boarded up and there was no sign of
him anywhere. Now this may interest you. There was—and still is, as far
as I know—a piece of pasteboard tacked on his front door, with these
words printed on it in lead pencil: ‘Beware. This house is full of
snakes.’ That bears out your statement that he is never completely
sober, Mr. Baxter. Now, you say this is the place where you parted that
night—here at the turn. You left him standing here, you say. In the
middle of the road?”

“Yes.”

“And you walked off in this direction. Did you look back?”

“I did not.”

“Just kept right on—in the middle of the road, eh?”

“That’s right.”

Malone changed the subject abruptly. “That’s a great fish story they
tell about the gypsy prophesying you’d be hung before you were thirty.
Of all the bunk I ever heard, that’s the worst. Mr. Gooch says he was
present when she told your fortune that night.”

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Malone, I must be getting back to the house.
It’s nearly seven o’clock and I am expecting people to dine with me,”
said Oliver a little coldly.

“I’m sorry I’ve detained you,” said the detective apologetically. “I
wish you had mentioned it, Mr. Baxter. This could have waited till
another day. I’ll stroll back with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Where is your partner?” inquired Oliver, looking out over the swamp.

“Charlie? Oh, he’ll be along directly. There he is, over near the wire
fence. He is seeing about how long it would take a man to walk out to
the edge of the mire and back,” said Malone coolly.

Oliver looked at him sharply. “So that’s the idea, eh?” he remarked,
after a moment.

“We intend to conduct this investigation in an open and above-board
manner, Mr. Baxter. Cards on the table, sir, all the way through. We’re
looking for a dead man, not a live one, if you see what I mean.”

“And I shall be open and above-board with you, Mr. Malone,” said Oliver,
a trace of irony in his voice. “I hope, therefore, that you won’t take
it amiss if I suggest that the sensible thing for your man to do would
be to make his calculations at night, when progress would naturally be a
great deal slower and infinitely more hazardous. Besides, you ought to
take into account the fact that this part of the swamp was not drained
at the time my father disappeared. There were a lot of chuck-holes and
mud flats between here and that wire fence.”

“I’ve taken that into account—mud and everything,” announced the
detective, looking straight ahead. “I was about to say that it’s going
to take a good deal of tight squeezing, Mr. Baxter, to get you indicted,
tried and executed inside of the next thirty days. The time is pretty
short, eh?” He laughed jovially.

Oliver turned on him. “I’ll knock your damned head off, Malone, if you
make any more cracks like that. Remember that, will you?” he cried
hotly.

Malone was genuinely surprised. He went very red in the face.

“Yes,” he said thickly, “I’ll be sure to remember it.”

Oliver apologized to Malone as they were on the point of separating in
front of the house. They had traversed the hundred yards or more in
silence.

“I am sorry I spoke to you as I did, Mr. Malone. I hope you will
overlook it.”

Malone held out his hand. “I’ve been spoken to a good bit rougher than
that in my time, Mr. Baxter, and never turned a hair,” he said
good-naturedly. “I don’t blame you for calling me down. I guess I was
fresh. But I assure you I didn’t mean to be.”

“It’s my infernal temper,” explained Oliver, taking the man’s hand. “You
would think that after twenty years’ training of the most drastic
character I might be able to control it, wouldn’t you? But every once in
a while it slips.”

“Well, there’s no hard feelings on my part. Still I hope you don’t mind
my saying that a lot of men have tried to knock my block off without
success.”

“All the more reason why I should apologize,” said Oliver, with his old,
disarming smile.

“Forget it,” said Mr. Malone magnanimously.

A little later on Oliver sat on his front porch waiting for his guests
to arrive. Mrs. Grimes, in her snug-fitting black silk dress, rocked
impatiently in a chair nearby. The guests were late.

“It’s Josephine Sage,” she observed crossly, breaking a long silence.
Oliver was startled out of his reflections. “She’s the one that’s making
’em late. Mr. Sage was telling me the other day that actresses are
always late to a party. He’s just got onto it, he says. He says it’s
what they call an entrance, though what that means I don’t know.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s only half-past seven, Aunt Serepta.
They’re only fifteen minutes late. I’ve been losing my temper again,” he
said gloomily. “Probably made an enemy of that detective, Malone.”

“What difference does that make? He’s not a voter in this county,” said
the old lady composedly.

“Did you know that Pete Hines has gone away?”

“I didn’t even know he’d come back,” said she.

“Come back? What do you mean?”

“He was away all last week. They say he’s making corn whisky somewhere
up in the hills back of Crow Center. At any rate, he’s been peddling it
around town for a couple of months.”

“I thought it was gasolene he’s been selling.”

“Maybe that’s why Abel Conroy calls it fire-water. Here they come.
Goodness! The way that Parr boy drives! He ought to be locked up for—”

But Oliver was at the bottom of the steps waiting for the automobile. It
swung around the curve in the drive and came to an unbelievably gentle
stop—almost what might be called a tender stop—in precisely the right
spot. Oliver reached out his hand and opened the front door of the car
without changing his position so much as an inch.

“Perfect!” said Mrs. Sage, who sat beside the driver.

“The best trained automobile in America,” said Sammy, with his customary
modesty. “Kindness is what does it.”

“So sorry to be late,” said she, as Oliver ceremoniously handed her out
of the car. “Good evening, Mrs. Grimes. Is the soup cold?”

“It was all Sammy’s fault,” cried Sammy’s wife. “He poked along at only
forty miles an hour.”

“Bless my soul,” said Mr. Sage, drawing his first full, free breath; “we
were exactly three minutes coming from my house to—”

“Had to slow down a bit on Clay Street,” explained Sammy. “Evening, Mrs.
Grimes. Step lively, Muriel! You’re holding up the procession.” He gave
two short, imperative honks. “That means full speed ahead.”

“What is this I hear, Oliver?” said the minister as he stepped out of
the car. Jane and Mrs. Sammy had preceded him. “Is it true the
detectives are here and expect to start this ridiculous search
to-morrow?”

“They’re here all right,” replied Oliver. “One of them tried to sell you
a set of Dickens the other day.”

“What!” cried Jane, gripping Oliver’s arm. “Was that man a detective?”
She was startled.

“No less a person than Mr. Sherlock Hawkshaw Malone, the renowned
sleuth,” said Oliver, smiling.

“The—the beast!” she cried hotly. “Good heavens! That accounts for the
interest he took in your father’s disappearance. Oh, dear me, I—I
wonder what I said to him! He was so pleasant and so interested.”

“You’re not the only one he fooled, Jane. He got Sammy for a set of
books and Aunt Serepta and Mr. Lansing—and I daresay he talked about
the case with every one of them. I haven’t had the nerve to spring it on
Aunt Serepta. She’s so happy over the prospect of getting Jane Austen
with illustrations, that she’ll die when she hears she’s been tricked.”

“At any rate,” said Mr. Sage, complacently, “he did not succeed in
selling us a set of Dickens.”

Jane started to say something, but, instead, abruptly turned away and
joined the other women on the porch. A queer little chill as of
misgiving stole over her.

“Hey, Oliver!” called out Sammy from down the drive where he was parking
the car. “Come here a minute, will you? Say,” he went on, lowering his
voice as Oliver came up, “I’ve just picked up something rich. Fellow
came in day before yesterday and showed me a volume of the Arabian
Nights, absolutely unexpurgated, with some of the gosh-darnedest
illustrations you ever—”

“I know. And you fell for it, didn’t you?”

“Sh! Not so loud. My wife doesn’t know a thing about it. I’ll have to
keep ’em at the office. In the safe. But say, who told you about it?”

“It’s all over town,” said Oliver mendaciously.

“Gee whiz!” gulped Sammy. “Impossible! It’s a dead secret. He said he
could be arrested for selling ’em—”

“Aha!” broke in Oliver. “That explains everything. The man who told me
is a detective.”

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake!” whispered Sammy in great agitation. Then in a
tone of relief: “Oh, but I’m all right. All I’ve got to do is to cancel
the order. I wasn’t to pay anything until—What’s the joke?”

Then Oliver told him. Sammy leaned against the mudguard and swore
softly.

“Say, I wish I could remember what I said to that guy about—about your
father. Lord, he had me talking a blue streak. Darn my fool eyes! You’d
think I’d have sense enough to—Oh, well, go ahead and kick me, Ollie.
Right here. Just as hard as you like.”

“Come on. They’re waiting for us. You needn’t worry about the books, old
boy. You’ll never get them. I say, have you ever seen anything as
gorgeous as Mrs. Sage is to-night?”

“Knocked me cold when she came down the parsonage steps,” said Sammy.
“The Queen of Sheba never had anything on her, Ollie. I was standing at
the bottom of the steps with Jane. Mr. Sage was out on the sidewalk
chinning with Muriel. Jane and I joshed along for ten or twelve minutes,
waiting for Mrs. Sage—I mean, Miss Judge. Suddenly the servant popped
out and held the screen door open. She was carrying that blue opera wrap
you saw on Mrs. Sage just now. Half a minute later, out strolled Mrs.
Sage, walking as slowly as if she were following a coffin filled with
royalty. I lost consciousness—honest to God I did. Wait till you see
her! She’s dressed in pure silver from head to foot. When I came to she
was standing right under the porch light, holding out her arms for the
girl to slip on the opera coat, and she was bowing to Jane and me all
over the place besides. ‘Good evening, Samuel,’ she said in a voice such
as I’ve never heard before—it was so deep and musical. And say, boy!
She’s got a figure! I don’t know how old she is, but all the same she’s
got Venus backed off the boards. I’ll bet my last dollar if you was to
put a dress on Venus she’d look like a cripple alongside of Mrs. S. Wait
a second. There’s no rush, and I want to prepare you. Well, sir, she
starts down the steps—me standing there with my mouth open and batting
my eyes. She reaches down and lifts her skirt up to her knees and wraps
it around them, and, by gosh, Ollie, she’s got on silver slippers and
light blue stockings with diamond garters—”

“Sammy!” piped a shrill, commanding voice from the doorway above.
“Hustle along! Don’t be all night. You can talk politics with Oliver
after dinner.”

“Politics!” muttered Sammy, rolling his eyes. “And to see her in her
street clothes you’d swear she hadn’t as much shape or style as—all
right, Muriel! Coming!”




                              CHAPTER XXI


                         LOVE WITHOUT JEALOUSY

The young men entered the sitting-room. Mrs. Sage was standing almost
directly under the chandelier, talking to dumpy little Mrs. Grimes; the
light from above fell upon her auburn crown, flooded her magnificent
shoulders and arms, and then wavered timidly, almost helplessly, as it
first came in contact with resplendent opposition. The actress was a
head taller than Mrs. Grimes, who nevertheless bravely stood her ground
and faced comparison with all the hardihood of the righteous. Oliver’s
housekeeper succeeded in disguising the astonishment occasioned by the
gown of silver spangles, but she could not master the wonder and the
admiration that filled her eyes as she gazed upon the smooth, alabaster
arms and neck and bosom of the magnificent Josephine. Nor could she
understand the soft, warm cheeks, or the dusky shadows under the
sparkling eyes, or the moist black lashes that sometimes veiled them.

Mr. Sage, with a distinctly bewildered and somewhat embarrassed
expression keeping company with the proud and doting smile that seemed
to be stamped upon his lean visage, stood across the room with his
daughter and Mrs. Sammy, his hands behind his back, his feet spread
slightly apart the better to allow him the unctuous relaxation of
frequently rising on his toes and then slowly settling back upon his
heels again—another and simple means of indicating partnership in
pulchritude.

“I can remember when there wasn’t a dinner jacket or a dress suit in
Rumley,” said Josephine as the two tall young men approached. “And the
only men who parted their hair in the middle were the ones who didn’t
have any hair in the middle at all, at all. Most of the male member’s of
Herbert’s congregation left the price tags on their Sunday suits for a
whole winter so that people could tell when they were dressed up. Do you
mean to tell me, Oliver, that those blighters intend to begin digging up
your place to-morrow?”

The mere thought of it caused her to waft her handkerchief in front of
her nose, stirring the air with the rare, pungent odor of _nuit de
chine_.

Oliver laughed. “I think we’ll all rather enjoy the excitement, Aunt
Josephine,” he said. “Besides, now that I am in politics, I want to keep
as much in the limelight as possible. I suppose they’ll begin prying up
the kitchen floor to-morrow, or digging trenches in the cellar, or
tearing up the flower-beds. It will be worth coming miles to see.”

She looked at him narrowly. “What utter rot! Do they expect to find your
father buried in the cellar or under the kitchen floor?”

“They don’t expect to find him at all,” replied Oliver, with
unintentional shortness.

“There will be trouble,” said Mrs. Grimes, the light of battle in her
eye, “if they make a mess around this house.”

“Aunt Serepta will fix ’em,” said Oliver, putting his arm around the
little woman’s shoulders. “Won’t you, Auntie?”

“She’ll boil ’em in oil,” said Sammy, very gravely.

Oliver glanced over his shoulder at Jane. Their eyes met and their gaze
held for some seconds. He detected the clouded, troubled look in hers
and was suddenly conscious of what must have seemed to her a serious
intensity in his own. Without a word, he left Mrs. Sage and went to
Jane.

“Don’t worry,” he said to her in a low tone. “You couldn’t have said
anything to Malone that—”

“It isn’t that,” she interrupted nervously. “It is the feeling that we
are all being spied upon.” She hesitated a moment. “I remember one
thing. He asked me what kind of a night it was.”

“Well, there wasn’t any harm in telling him, was there?” he chided.
“That is, if you remembered.”

“I do remember. He said that some one had told him it was a rainy,
stormy night. I assured him he had been misinformed—that it hadn’t
rained for weeks. He—he seemed surprised.”

“Well, what of that?”

Her wide-set gray eyes wavered. They steadied instantly, however, and
she smiled—a confident, disarming smile.

“I suppose it’s the finding out that he was a detective and that he was
pumping me,” she explained.

“Anyhow, you are smiling again,” he half whispered, “and that makes me
want to sing and dance for joy.” He was once more aware that his voice
was throaty and unsteady.

A faint wave of color spread to her cheek and brow, but she did not look
away. When she spoke again it was at the conclusion of a long, deep
exhalation; the sentence ended in a fluttering, breathless murmur.

“Don’t you think mother is perfectly wonderful, Oliver?”

He nodded. He felt that he could not trust his voice. He knew now that
he was in love—that he always had been in love with Jane, that he
always would be in love with her. He compressed his lips and fought
against the strange, mad impulse to shout that he was in love with her,
that she was his—all his—and that no man should take her away from
him.

And she? She was thinking of that dry, hot night when he came to see her
after leaving his father, out of breath, his shoes covered with fresh
black mud. There had been no rain for weeks. The roads were thick with
dust. And Lansing too had noticed that his shoes were muddy. He had
spoken to her about them, he had wondered where Oliver had been to get
into mud up to his shoe tops! And she, herself, had never ceased to
wonder.

Mr. Sage was speaking to Mrs. Sammy. “Yes, my dear Muriel, I can’t quite
believe I am awake. It all seems like a dream.”

His wife not only overheard this remark but obviously the one that led
up to it.

“Oh, I say, old dear,” she exclaimed, “you must get over the notion that
you are asleep. It’s not complimentary to me to have you going about
everywhere pinching yourself to see whether you’re awake or not. And the
worst of it is, he pinches me every now and then to see whether I am
flesh and blood or merely a hallucination.”

Sammy cleared his throat gallantly. “Permit me to say, Miss Judge, that
you _are_ a dream, and if I was Mr. Sage I’d _never_ wake up.”

She lifted her lorgnon and regarded him with languid interest. “After
that, my dear Sammy, I am sure your wife will like me much better if you
call me Aunt Josephine. Even though I am old enough to be your mother,
I—Why, when I look at Jane I doubt my own eyes. That I, Josephine
Judge, should have a daughter as big as Jane is more than I can grasp. I
am filled with wonder. I—”

“It’s more of a wonder, Josephine Sage,” broke in Mrs. Grimes tartly,
“that you haven’t got any grandchildren.”

“My dear Mrs. Grimes, don’t blame me for that,” said Josephine.

“Supper’s ready,” shouted Lizzie Meggs, the “help” from the center of
the dining-room. Lizzie had a strong voice and she believed in using it.
It saved her many a needless step. She was nearly thirty and thought she
was good enough for Oliver, or any other young man in Rumley. Her
parents brought her up in just that way—with the aid of the movies.

At table the conversation quite naturally dealt with the advent of the
detectives and the task that had been set for them by the universally
despised Mr. Gooch.

“It’s all bally nonsense,” said Mrs. Sage, at Oliver’s right. “Your
father will turn up one day and—Why, look at me. Didn’t I turn up?
Didn’t I come back? Here am I as big as life, after twenty-three years,
and dear old Herbert goes about the house all day long saying that
nothing—absolutely nothing is impossible.”

“Well, you see, Aunt Josephine,” began Oliver, in his good-humored
drawl, “Uncle Herbert did an awful lot of praying.”

“Morning and night I prayed,” said Mr. Sage earnestly. “I prayed, and
then I prayed that my prayers might be answered. God saw fit to—”

“My dear Herbert, when a woman reaches my age she begins to appreciate
the advantages of a husband. If she hasn’t got one, she begins
desperately to look for one. I could have had a dozen or more if I’d
been of a mind, but those were in the days when husbands were looking
for me. I mean other women’s husbands. When it so happens, as in my
case, that a perfectly good and reliable husband has been mislaid in the
haste and confusion of youth, why, Fortune smiles, that’s all. It wasn’t
your praying. I should have come back if you hadn’t prayed a lick.”

“Do not say that, Josephine. I have already begun to pray that you will
never go away again.”

“Don’t let me catch you at it, old dear,” she warned. “I dare say I
shall get jolly well fed up with Rumley, especially after Jane is
married. Besides, I am living in the hope that you may get a call to
Chicago or New York.”

“I shall never leave Rumley, Josephine.”

“That’s what I said about London.”

“What was that you said about Jane?” demanded Oliver.

“Jane? Oh, yes; about her getting married? She absolutely refuses to
tell me who she is going to marry. I fancy I can make a fairly good
guess, however.”

“So can I,” cried Mrs. Sammy. “Oh, you Jane!”

Oliver swallowed hard. “How about it, Jane? Come on! ’Fess up. You’re
among friends.”

Jane smiled mischievously. “I promise, Oliver, to tell you first of all.
I sha’n’t keep you in suspense any longer than I can help.”

“Before you tell your own mother,” cried Josephine.

“Much as I love you, Mother dear, I feel that I must tell Oliver first.
He is my oldest and best friend.”

“I have just been thinking, Josephine,” began Mr. Sage, guiltily and
irrelevantly, “that I quite forgot to take Henry the Eighth out for his
walk this evening. And even worse, I fear I left him hanging by his lead
from the top peg of the hatrack.”

“I really shouldn’t mind, my dear, if he were to expire before we get
home,” said she. “He is a traitor. Would you believe it, Oliver, the
little beast has taken such a fancy to your Uncle Herbert that he has
completely turned against me. Snaps at me, growls at me, barks at me
every time I try to pat him. Hanging is too good for him.”

“Speaking of hanging,” said Sammy, “old Joe Sikes says he’s got a
perfect alibi for you, Ollie, in connection with that murder up in Grand
Rapids. I mean the chap who was found in a hotel room last night with
his throat cut. Joe says he can prove by thirty reputable witnesses that
you were not within four hundred miles of Grand Rapids last night.”

Oliver grinned. “That’s all he and Silas Link think about these
days—fixing up alibis for me. They grab up the morning paper to see
where the latest murder has occurred and then they hustle out and
establish an alibi for me.”

“How perfectly delicious,” cried little Mrs. Sammy. “Don’t you think it
is really perfectly delicious, Mr. Sage?”

“I beg your pardon?” stammered the pastor apologetically. “I am afraid I
was thinking about Henry the Eighth.”

“Oh, you are _so_ literary, Mr. Sage,” shrieked Mrs. Sammy admiringly.

Oliver was strangely restless during dinner, and immediately after the
company arose from the table at its conclusion he asked Jane to come
with him for a little stroll in the open air.

“I want to speak to you about something,” he urged. “Better throw
something over your shoulders. The night air—”

“Ought you to go off and leave the others, Oliver?” she began, a queer
little catch, as of alarm, in her voice. “Muriel and Sammy—”

“Come along,” he pleaded. “They won’t mind. I must see you alone for a
few minutes, Jane.”

“I will get my wrap,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “It may be
chilly outside.”

“Why, you’re shivering now, Janie,” he whispered anxiously, as he threw
her wrap over her shoulders. “Are you cold?”

She did not reply. He followed her out upon the porch and down the
steps. No word passed between them until they had turned the bend in the
drive and were outside the radius of light shed from the windows. He was
the first to speak.

“See here, Jane,” he blurted out, “I’m—I’m terribly troubled and
upset.” That was as far as he got, speech seeming to fail him.

She laid her hand on his arm.

“Is it about—about the detective, Oliver?” she asked tremulously.

“No,” he answered, almost roughly. “It’s about you, Jane. You’ve just
got to answer me. Are you going to be married?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice so low he could scarcely hear the
monosyllable.

They walked on in silence for twenty paces or more, turning down the
path that led to the swamp road.

“I—I was afraid so,” he muttered. Then fiercely: “Who are you going to
marry?”

She sighed. “I am going to marry the first man who asks me,” she
replied, and, having cast the die, was instantly mistress of herself.
“Have you any objections?” she asked, almost mockingly.

If he heard the question he paid no heed to it. She felt the muscles of
his strong forearm grow taut, and she heard the quick intake of his
breath. She waited. She began to hum a vagrant little air. It seemed an
age to her before he spoke.

“Jane,” he said gently and steadily, “if you were a man and in my
place—I mean in my predicament—would you go so far as to ask the girl
you love better than anything in all the world to marry you?”

“I don’t know just what you mean.”

“I mean, supposing they find my father out there in the swamp and there
are indications that he met with foul play, and I stand the chance of
being accused—”

“Don’t be silly,” she cried.

“Well—would you ask her?”

“There couldn’t be any harm in asking her. She could refuse you, you
know.”

“That’s so. She could, couldn’t she. I—I hadn’t thought of that. Still
you said you were going to marry the first man who asks you.”

“Yes, Oliver, I am—but, of course, I am expecting the man I love to ask
me.”

“There’s the gypsy’s prophecy,” he murmured thickly. “It—it may come
true, Jane.”

“It—it cannot come true,” she cried. “It cannot, Oliver.”

“Still it is something to be considered,” he said heavily and
judicially. His hand closed over hers and gripped it tightly. “If you
were in my place wouldn’t you hesitate about inviting her to—to become
a widow?”

“Oh, I love you, Oliver, when your voice sounds as if it had a laugh in
it,” she whispered.

“In a month I will be thirty,” he went on, his heart as light as air. “I
might ask her to give me a thirty day option, or something like that.”

“You goose!”

He pressed her arm to his side, and was serious when he spoke again,
after a moment’s pause.

“I have never asked a girl to marry me, Jane. Never in all my life. Do
you know why?”

She buried her face against his shoulder. A vast, overwhelming thrill
raced through him. Her warm, supple body suddenly and mysteriously
became that of another woman—a strange woman so unlike Jane that his
senses swam with wonder. What magic was this? This was not Jane—not the
Jane he had known forever! Something incredibly feminine, sensuous,
intoxicating—His arms went about her and drew her close.

“God! Is—is this you, Jane?” he whispered. “Is it really you?”

She lifted her head. A little sob of joy broke on her lips. Gazing up
into his eyes, bright even in the darkness, she murmured a bewildered
question.

“Yes—you are some other girl,” he replied, dazed by ecstasy. “You can’t
be Jane Sage. You don’t feel like Jane Sage. You don’t—”

She laughed softly. “Do you think you ought to be holding a strange girl
in your arms—and do you think I could possibly allow you to do it if I
were not Jane Sage?” A pause, then, faintly: “Oh, Oliver—dear Oliver!”

“You—you are sure there isn’t any one else, Janie? I—I am not too
late? Tell me.”

“There never has been any one else, Oliver. It has always been you.”

“I never realized it, Jane—I never even thought of it till just a
little while ago—but now I know that I have always loved you. That’s
why I’ve never asked any one else to—to marry me. I understand now why
I couldn’t possibly have asked any one else. All these years it has been
you—and I never knew. It was settled long ago—ages ago, without my
knowing it, that there was but one girl I could ever ask to be my
wife—only one girl that I could ever really love.” He drew in a deep,
long, quivering breath.

Her arm stole up about his neck, she raised her chin.

“I began calling myself your wife, Oliver, when I was a very little
girl—when we first began playing house together, and you were my
husband and the dolls were our children. That was twenty years ago. I
have been true to you ever since—all these years I have been a true and
faithful wife.” Their lips met—their first kiss of passion, of love
exalted. Then, a little later on, breathlessly: “Do you realize that
this is the first time you have kissed your wife since she was ten years
old?”

He kissed her again, rapturously. “It—it wasn’t like this when you were
ten, Janie darling—nothing like this! Oh, my God!” he burst out.
“You’ll never know how miserable I have been these last few weeks—how
horribly jealous I’ve been.”

She stroked his cheek—possessively. “I haven’t been very happy myself,”
she sighed. “I—I wasn’t quite sure you would ever give me the chance to
say I loved you, Oliver—I wasn’t sure you would ever ask me to be your
wife.”

“That reminds me,” he cried boyishly. “Will you marry me, Miss Sage?”

“Of course I will. Didn’t I say I would marry the first—What was that?”

As she uttered the exclamation under her breath, she drew away from him
quickly, looking over her shoulder at the thick, shadowy underbrush that
lined the road below them.

“I didn’t hear anything,” said he, turning with her. “It must have been
my heart trying to burst out of its—”

“I heard some one—or some thing,” she said, in a voice of dismay. “Oh,
Oliver, some one saw you kiss me, some one heard what we—”

“Suppose he did,” cried he jubilantly. “Why should we care? I’d like the
whole world to know how happy—how absolutely happy—I am, Jane. I’ve
half a notion to start out right now and run through the streets
shouting that I’m in love with you and am going to marry you. When will
you marry me, Jane? _When?_”

The woman in her replied. “I must have time to get some clothes and—”

“You don’t need any,” he broke in. “I mean any more than you have now.
I’m not marrying your clothes, dear—I’m marrying _you_. Sh! Listen!
There _is_ some one over there in the brush. Damn his sneaking eyes!
I’ll—”

“Don’t! Don’t go down there!” she cried, clutching his arm. “You must
not leave me alone. I’m—I’m afraid, Ollie. I am always afraid when I am
near that awful swamp. No matter if some one did see us. Let him go.
Besides, it may have been a dog or some other animal—”

“Let’s walk down the road a little way, Jane,” said he stubbornly.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll stick close beside you.”

“You won’t go down into the swamp?” she cried anxiously.

“No. Just along the road.”

They ran down the little embankment into the road. She clung tightly to
his arm, feeling strangely secure in the rigid strength of it—and proud
of it, as well. The night was dark, the road among the trees darker
still. After fifteen or twenty paces, Oliver pressed her arm warningly
and stopped to listen. Ahead of them, some distance away, they heard
footfalls—the slow, regular tread of a man walking in the road.

“I will not go a step farther,” she whispered, holding back as he
started to go forward.

He submitted. They stood still, listening. Suddenly the footfalls
ceased.

“He knows we have stopped,” said Oliver. “He’s listening to see if we
are following.”

She was silent for a moment. “You remember what I said about being spied
upon, Oliver. I feel it, I feel it all about me. You are being watched
all the time, Oliver. Oh, how hateful, how unfair!”

He put his arm around her. “Jane dear, I am just beginning to
understand. They really suspect me. They really think I may have had a
hand in—Why, curse them, they—”

“Hush, Oliver!” she cried softly. “The very worst thing you can do is to
fly into a rage over this silly—”

“Oh, my Lord!” he gasped, drawing back in sheer astonishment. “_You_
too, Jane? I’ve heard nothing for twenty years but—Hang it all, dear, I
_want_ to get mad! I want to rage like a lion and tear things to pieces.
Every time I frown the whole blamed town smooths my back and says
‘Now-now!’ And Joe Sikes and Silas Link—”

“I know, I know,” she interrupted gently. “But you mustn’t, just the
same. You must treat this thing as a—a sort of joke.”

Many seconds passed before he spoke. “It’s pretty difficult to see
anything humorous in being suspected of—Oh, I can’t even say it! It’s
too awful—too unspeakable!”

“We’d better be going back to the house, Oliver,” she began.

“See here, Jane, I’ve been thinking. It’s wrong for me to ask you to
marry me till all this mess is over. It’s wrong for me to even ask you
to consider yourself engaged to me. We must wait. I mean it, dear. I’m
under a cloud. There’s no getting around that fact. The—”

“Nobody believes you had anything to do with—”

“My dear girl, nobody knows _what_ to believe,” said he seriously.
“That’s the worst of it. My father is gone. I was, so far as any one
knows, the last to see him. As you say, no one may believe that I had
anything to do with it, but—_where is he?_ That’s the question they are
all asking—and no one answers. He is somewhere, living or dead. That’s
sure. He may be out there in that swamp. And, Jane, here’s the horrible
part of it. If he is out there, no one will believe he committed
suicide. No one will believe that he made way with himself deliberately.
He may have wandered into the swamp while out of his head—but he was
not contemplating suicide. If that had been his intention, why did he
draw all that money out of the bank? A queer thing has just happened.
You know Peter Hines—that queer old bird who has always lived in the
cabin at the lower end of the swamp? You can see it from the road in the
daytime. He has skipped out. Boarded up the door and windows and—”

He started violently, the words dying on his lips. Off to the south,
beyond the almost impenetrable wall of night, gleamed far-off lights in
the windows of Peter Hines’s shack.

“He must have returned,” he said, in an odd voice. “Those lights—”

“Let us go in, dear,” she pleaded. “I—I hear something moving among the
weeds down there. It’s grisly, Oliver—creepy.”

They were at the foot of the porch steps when he kissed her tenderly.
“We must wait a little while, Janie, before telling them about—us. Till
all this is cleared up and I am—”

She faced him, her hands on his shoulders.

“I shall tell them to-night,” she said resolutely. “To-morrow I shall
tell everybody I know. What do you think I am? A fraidy-cat?”

He laughed quietly. “Have your own way, dear. You always have had it
where I am concerned. But,” and here he dropped into his dry, whimsical
drawl, “if I were you I wouldn’t begin getting a trousseau together
until after my birthday next month. You might be wasting a lot of time
and money.”

“Oh, Oliver, don’t say such things!” she cried hotly. “I wish that old
gypsy were here. I’d wring her neck!”

Mrs. Sage was holding forth in her most effective English as they
entered the sitting-room. She may have eyed them narrowly for a second
or two, but that was all. She had an attentive audience; the division of
interest due to the return of absentees was of extremely short duration;
she knew how to hold the center of the stage once she got it.

“As a matter of fact, they’re shorter in Rumley than they are in London.
I’ve seen more knees since I got back to Rumley than I saw all the time
I was in London. And that, my dear Mrs. Grimes, despite the fact that
London has more knees than any other city in the world. My daughter has
provided me with a hundred surprises since—I don’t mean that she has a
hundred knees, of course—what I mean to say is that Jane merely yawns
when I begin in a hushed voice to tell her of the very latest crazes and
vices of London. She yawns, I say, and proceeds to inform me that they
are all old in Rumley—_old_, mind you. It really seems that just about
the time poor old London is struggling to learn a new dance, Rumley is
completely fed up with it. I go about in a sort of daze. I wish—I
devoutly wish—I could remember all the things I’ve learned since I got
back to Rumley. Poor Herbert maintains that—”

At this juncture Sammy Parr, who had been observing Oliver very closely,
got up from his chair and marched across the room, his hand extended.

“Congratulations, old man!” he shouted joyously.

And little old Mrs. Grimes, from her place on the sofa, remarked as she
leaned back with a sigh of content:

“Well, goodness knows it’s about time.”

Proving that since the entrance of the lovers the great Josephine had
failed signally to hold her audience spellbound.




                              CHAPTER XXII


                           THE CORPUS DELICTI

The ensuing three weeks were busy ones for Oliver. He was off
“electioneering” by day and out speechmaking by night in district
schoolhouses, in town-halls, and at mass meetings held at the county
seat. The opposition press, stirred to action by the harassed Mr. Gooch,
printed frequent reports of the progress made by the authorities in
their search for old Oliver Baxter. They made sensation out of two or
three minor discoveries—such as the finding of an old straw hat in one
of the pools; the unearthing of a stout spade handle at the edge of the
swamp not far from where the old man and his son parted company; the
turning up among the weeds at the roadside of a small notebook which,
despite months of exposure to rain, snow and sun, was identified as the
property of the missing man. It was Oliver October who unhesitatingly
identified this notebook. He recalled that his father had made notations
in it before they left the house on that all-important night. The
weather had rendered these and other notes illegible.

Strange to say, Peter Hines’s cabin was still boarded up. The morning
after Oliver and Jane observed the motionless lights across the swamp,
the former motored over to the shack. He was amazed to find the door and
the windows nailed up securely; there was nothing to indicate that they
had been opened or tampered with during the night. He went to Malone
with the puzzle. The detective promptly declared that neither he nor his
partner had been down at the shack the night before and could offer no
explanation. The cabin was watched every night for a week, but the
lights did not reappear.

Oliver was astonished to find that no one in Rumley was surprised by the
announcement that he and Jane were engaged to be married. Apparently the
whole town knew about it weeks before he himself was aware of it! Quite
a number of people seemed to be frankly annoyed because they had not
announced their engagement a year ago.

Meanwhile, Malone and his gang of Italian laborers were leisurely
conducting the quest. The chief operative was bored. He admitted that he
was bored—admitted it to Oliver and Mrs. Grimes and Lizzie Meggs and to
the high heavens besides.

Mid-afternoon of a windy day in October—it was the 19th to be exact—he
sat in the shelter of the kitchen-wing, his chair propped against the
wall, reading a book. He yawned frequently and seemed to be having great
difficulty in keeping his pipe going. From time to time he dozed. Some
one had told him he ought to read this book. It had been recommended to
him as a rattling good detective story. The only thing that kept him
awake was the thud of pick-axes under the kitchen porch just beyond
where he was sitting—not that he wasn’t accustomed to the thuds and
could have slept soundly in spite of them, but there was always the
possibility that Lizzie Meggs might carry out her threat to “douse”
everybody with hot water if the noise got to be more than she could
bear.

His partner, Charlie What’s-his-name, was out in the swamp directing the
efforts of eight or ten men who were sounding the scattered “mudholes”
with long poles or digging at random in sections where the earth was
sufficiently solid to bear the weight of man or beast. These men were
now far out beyond the wire fence, within a hundred yards or so of the
pond. They had advanced across the dangerous terrain with the aid of
planks, and they worked with such extreme caution that even Horace
Gooch, on the one surreptitious visit he paid to the locality, was
satisfied with the progress they were making: they could not possibly
complete the job before election day.

Mr. Malone’s rest was disturbed shortly before three o’clock by the
arrival of Oliver October. The two had become quite good friends.

“Say, Malone, would you mind calling off these gravediggers of yours for
half an hour or so? I am expecting a committee here at three o’clock.”

“Sure,” said Malone. He got up slowly. “Hey!” he shouted over his
shoulder. “Come out o’ that! Knock off! It’s four o’clock. In New York,”
he added in an aside to Oliver. “As I’ve said before, Mr. Baxter, it’s
all damned foolishness digging up your place like this.”

“Mrs. Grimes says the house is likely to fall down on our heads at any
minute,” said Oliver. “How is your lumbago, Malone?”

“Better. Mrs. Grimes almost succeeded in putting a mustard plaster on me
yesterday. She had me gargling my throat last week. I’m never going to
complain again as long as I’m around where she is.”

“By the way, she notified me this noon that our hired girl, Lizzie
Meggs, has decided to give up her place unless your men fill up some of
the graves they’ve dug in my cellar. She says that every time she goes
down for a pan of potatoes or a jar of pickles she has to jump over a
grave or two, and it’s getting on her nerves.”

“I’ll have ’em put some planks over those holes,” said the detective.
“That reminds me. Now that they’ve stopped work under the porch, you
might call off your watch-dog. Give the old boy a little much needed
rest. He’s been sitting back there on the kitchen steps ever since one
o’clock—and he’s here every morning before we begin work.”

Oliver walked to the corner. Joseph Sikes was sitting on the back steps,
his coat collar turned up about his throat, his aged back bent almost
double, his chin resting on the mittened hands that gripped the head of
his cane, his wrinkled face screwed up into a dogged scowl.

“Better step into the kitchen, Uncle Joe, and ask Lizzie for a cup of
hot coffee. Work’s over for to-day.”

“The hell it is,” growled Mr. Sikes, without changing his position.

“Let him alone,” said Malone, good-naturedly. “He’s hatching out some
new trouble for me. Reminds me of a crabbed old hen setting on a basket
of eggs. As for the other one—the chubby undertaker—he’s down there in
the swamp from morning till night, supervising the whole blamed job.”

“They are the best friends I’ve got in the world, Malone,” said Oliver
earnestly.

“Well, we’ll clear out so’s you can have your committee meeting in
peace,” said the detective.

Two soiled Italians had crawled out from beneath the porch and were
making off with their coats and dinner-pails in the direction of the
barn.

“I have put it up to County Headquarters, Malone,” said Oliver, in an
emotionless tone, “as to whether I should stay in the race or withdraw.”

“What do you mean withdraw?” asked the detective sharply.

“Well, it’s only fair to give them a chance to put some one else on the
ticket in my place if they feel—”

“Come off! In the first place, they can’t put anybody in your place now.
It’s too late. And in the second place, you’ve got old Gooch licked to a
standstill, so what the devil’s got into you? You must be off your nut.
We’re not going to find your father’s body, my boy. Why? Because it
isn’t—”

“How do you know you are not going to find it?” was Oliver’s surprising
question.

Malone stared. “What has caused you to change your tone like this,
Baxter?”

“It’s getting on my nerves, Malone—I don’t mind saying so,” said the
younger man, frowning. “At first I laughed at all this fuss, but lately
I’ve been lying awake thinking that maybe we’ve been wrong all the time
and that he is out there—My God, Malone, it—it turns the blood cold in
my veins.”

“I get you,” said Malone, sympathetically. “It does give a fellow the
shivers. But now about this getting off the ticket. Don’t you do
anything of the sort, Baxter. Don’t lay down. You’ve got this election
sewed up—and say, what if we do accidentally find your old man—what’s
that got to do with it? Haven’t you been looking for him for over a
year? Supposing he did wander off into the swamp that night—”

“Malone, I can feel it in the air that a great many people believe I
know what became of him. It’s in the air, I say. There may be people who
believe that I had something to do with putting him out of the way.
People like to believe the worst. The Democratic speakers are mighty
decent and so are the newspapers. They haven’t uttered a word or printed
one that isn’t fair and square. But back in the minds of a lot of people
is the thought that perhaps, after all, I did murder my father. You
can’t blame—”

Mr. Sikes, who had shuffled around the corner, overheard the remark. He
fairly barked:

“It don’t make a particle of difference what they believe provided
nobody is able to find the corpus delicti. I don’t want to hear you say
another word about murder, young man—not another damned word. They’ve
got to dig up your father’s corpus delicti before—What in thunder are
you laughing at, sir?”

Malone, to whom this question was addressed in Mr. Sikes’s most
aggressive manner, put his hand to his mouth and, after a brief
struggle, succeeded in replying with as straight a face as possible:

“I’ve been reading an awfully funny book, Mr. Sikes. It’s about
detectives.”

Now, for the past two weeks Mr. Sikes and other overripe citizens of
Rumley had made frequent and profound allusions to the corpus delicti.
They didn’t know what it was at first but Mr. Link soon found out. He
said it was French for “body.” Corpus delicti sounded so well—after
considerable practice—that most people preferred to use it instead of
“remains”; besides, it wasn’t quite so personal.

There is no telling what Mr. Sikes would have said to Mr. Malone about
detectives in general if the delegation from Republican headquarters had
arrived a minute or two later. He could have said a great deal in a
minute or two.

The automobile came swinging up the drive on the tail of Mr. Malone’s
defensive explanation. Oliver hurried off to greet the occupants of the
car, Mr. Sikes hobbling along in his wake. Malone refilled his pipe as
he strode across the stable yard. In the lee of the barn he scorched his
fingers. His gaze was fixed on the swamp. Far out in the “danger zone” a
number of men were compactly grouped. A solitary figure was running
toward the Baxter house, while from the main highway to the right of the
slough a dozen or more scattered people were picking their way gingerly
across the intervening space. The detective dropped the charred match
and started briskly down to meet the runner. He was no longer bored. He
was an alert, vital, keen-sensed hunter of men.

Mrs. Grimes appeared on the front porch as the three committee-men
stepped out of the car. She knew one of them, James Parsons, a lawyer.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Grimes,” said he, coming up the steps. “Baxter
here?”

“He’s around back. I’ll call—”

“Just a second. I’d like a word with you in private. Hello, here he is.”
There were handshakings, and then Parsons motioned with his head for
Serepta to remain behind as the others entered the house. “Say, have you
got any influence over him, Mrs. Grimes?”

“Not a bit,” said Serepta. “What have you men decided he ought to do?
Drop out?”

“We’ve decided—the whole Central Committee—that he’d be a damned fool
to drop out of the race. Excuse my French.”

“With pleasure. Now, let me give you a piece of advice.” She looked over
her shoulder to make sure that Oliver was out of hearing. “Don’t plead
with him. Act as mad as you know how. Don’t go in there and tell him
he’d be a damned fool to drop out—excuse _my_ French—don’t go at him
that way. Tell him he’d be an ornery, low-lifed skunk if he left you in
the lurch like that. Make it strong. Nobody on earth minds being called
a damned fool, Mr. Parsons, but it is something awful to be called a
skunk. He is really serious about withdrawing. You mustn’t let him. All
he needs is your encouragement and he’ll—”

“You think it will encourage him if we call him a skunk?”

“I didn’t say you were to call him one,” said she tartly. “I said you
were to tell him he’d _be_ one.”

“If you have the slightest influence—”

“I told you I haven’t a bit. You men got him into this race and it’s
your business to keep him in it. I guess you’d better go in. They’re
calling you.”

Mr. Sikes ambled up as Parsons disappeared through the door. He stopped
short in the gravel walk just below where Mrs. Grimes was standing.
After an instant’s hesitation, he drew nearer to the rail, treading
ruthlessly upon the frost-ravaged peony bed that skirted the porch. He
felt that it was necessary to lower his voice.

“We’ve only six more days to go, Serepty,” he said. “This is the
nineteenth.”

“Yes. He will be thirty on the twenty-fifth. I hope you’ll be satisfied,
Joe Sikes.”

He pondered gloomily. “Setting back there on the kitchen steps I got to
thinkin’ about the last time I was up here before old Ollie disappeared.
I wonder if you remember what he said to me and Silas, setting right
here on this porch.”

“He said a lot of things, Joe.”

“Do you remember him telling us he was getting so he hated to go to
sleep at night in this house? Maybe he said he was afraid to go to
sleep, but no matter. Do you remember?”

“I remember the poor old thing saying he couldn’t go to sleep nights
because he was afraid a mob would come up to the house and take Oliver
October out and hang him for something he’d never done.”

“I guess maybe that was it. And another thing. Didn’t he say he wouldn’t
blame Oliver if he up and beat his brains out for letting that gypsy
queen lift the veil and cause all this worry?”

“What are you trying to get at, Joe Sikes?”

“Oh—nothin’ particular. Only somehow I’ve got the queerest feelin’ that
something’s going to happen, Serepty—and I—I just thought I’d warn you
not to say anything about our talk that night, ’specially what he said
about Oliver beatin’ his brains out.”

“Good gracious, man! Why should I say anything—”

“I mean,” began Mr. Sikes solemnly, “if—if you was called as a
witness—in court. If you was put under oath and had to testify. That’s
what I mean. I mean,” he repeated sternly, “that you and me and Silas
never heard him say anything like that—then or any other time.”

“What’s got into you, Joe? What do you mean by a trial in court and—”

“I’m just giving you a few instructions, Serepty, in case anything
_does_ happen. I’ve been a little worried over you, anyhow.”

“Worried over me?”

“Yes. You’re so darned good and conscientious, as the saying is, that
I’ve worried myself sick over you. I mean about swearing to a lie. Of
course Silas and I would swear to a thousand of ’em if necessary, but
would you? That’s what’s worryin’ me. Would—”

“I would swear to a million of them,” she cried, “if it would be any
help to Oliver October.”

“Birds of a feather,” said Mr. Sikes, rather proudly.

An automobile, packed with men and running at a high rate of speed,
flashed past the Baxter house and was almost instantly lost to sight
around the bend.

“They ought to be locked up,” cried Mrs. Grimes, scandalized.

Mr. Sikes seized the opportunity to utter one withering word—and on his
lips it had all the ferocity of a curse.

“Prohibition!” he snarled, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

Mrs. Grimes drew her shawl a little closer about her throat.

“Seems to me it’s turning a lot colder, Joe,” she said.

“Better go in the house, Serepty,” he advised quickly.

“Come in and have a cup of coffee, Joe,” said she.

“I guess I’d better go ’round the back way, Serepty, so’s not to disturb
Ollie and the committee. Has he set the day for the wedding?”

She came down from the porch and together they started for the rear of
the house.

“No, he ain’t,” said she.

“I thought he had. He’d ought to.”

“He’s not the one to do the setting, Joe Sikes. It’s none of his
business. That’s the girl’s lookout. Jane has named the day, if that’s
what you want to know. It’s to be the tenth of November.”

“He’s a lucky feller,” said the old man. “Think of a feller being able
to get married to as purty a girl as Jane and still not have any
brother-in-laws.”

“I wish you’d get tired talking about brothers-in-law all the time,” she
said, severely. “Don’t forget that you are a brother-in-law yourself,
Joe Sikes. You are a brother-in-law to two men and—”

“What are you trying to do, Serepty Grimes? Insult me? Make a mortal
enemy out of me? For two cents I’d refuse to drink a mouthful of your
coffee. And what’s more—”

“Look out yonder, Joe—in the swamp,” she broke in, pointing through the
fringe of trees. “There’s a crowd—”

“Serepty!” he cried bleakly. “They—they have found something out
yonder. I feel it in my bones. The corpus delicti. I guess I won’t have
any coffee. I’ll just mosey out there and see what’s happened.”

“Wait a minute. Isn’t that Silas Link coming across the swamp?”

He groaned. “If it is, he’ll never get here. He’s too old and fat to be
hurryin’ like that. He’ll drop dead. He’s got a weak heart.”

“Sit down, Joe,” she said suddenly, after a quick look at his paling
face.

“I guess maybe I’d better,” he said weakly. “Just for a second or two.
My legs seem sort of wobbly and—”

“Don’t sit down yet,” she cried. “Wait till we get to the steps. You’ll
break a hip or something if you sit down—”

“Ain’t your legs sort of weak and—”

“No, they’re not,” she interrupted tartly. “Lean on me, Joe.”

“I’ll be dogged if I do!” he snorted vigorously. “What do you take me
for? Lean on a woman! Blast your eyes, Serepty Grimes—how many more
times are you going to insult me to-day? Let me tell you one thing more.
I’m not going to set down as long as Silas Link is on his feet. I am no
quitter!” he bellowed, squaring his broad old shoulders. “Not by a
blamed sight!”

They stood and waited. In due time, Silas Link panted his way up the
incline and came shuffling toward them. He stopped at the corner of the
barnyard, leaning against the fence to get his breath. Mr. Sikes stalked
forward, followed by Mrs. Grimes.

“Well?” demanded the former.

“They—fished—up—a—carcass,” puffed Mr. Link.

Absolute silence—except for the painful wheezing of the last speaker.

“Ollie’s?” asked Mr. Sikes at last, and quickly hooked his arm through
that of the tottering Mrs. Grimes.

“No telling. Unrecognizable. Been in the mire for a long time, according
to my best judgment.”

“Sure it’s a—a human being?”

“Certainly.”

“Male or female?”

“Didn’t I tell you it had been in the mire for a long time?”

“It must have had clothes on,” put in Mrs. Grimes stoutly. “Wouldn’t you
know Ollie Baxter’s clothes if you—”

“Hasn’t got any clothes on. Not a stitch. Shoes or anything. It ain’t
got _anything_ on. Not even flesh.”

“A—a skeleton?” gulped the old lady.

“No clothes on?” demanded Mr. Sikes. “Then it can’t be Ollie. He had his
new suit on.”

Mr. Link hesitated. “That detective says the chances are that whoever
did the killing stripped the body and burnt the clothes,” he said
slowly, weightily.

A longer silence than before. Mr. Link’s listeners seemed turned to
stone. Finally Mr. Sikes moistened his stiff lips.

“What do you mean, Silas, by—by killing?”

“If you feel sort of squeamish, Serepty,” began Mr. Link considerately,
“maybe you’d better—”

“I’m not squeamish,” retorted the redoubtable little woman. “Go on.”

“The top of the skull is smashed in—split wide open,” announced the
newsbearer, in a hushed, sepulchral voice. Then, apparently eager to get
it over with, he hurried on: “Couldn’t have died a natural death.
Couldn’t have committed suicide. Somebody hit him over the head—”

“Say _it_,” corrected Mr. Sikes. “You don’t know whether it’s a man or
woman.”

“—with a heavy instrument. Most likely an ax or a hatchet. Buried six
or eight feet deep in a mudhole. They pulled up a hand first with one of
them poles with a hook on it. Then they set to work scooping out the
hole with shovels. Wasn’t long before they got down where they could—”

“Don’t tell any more—don’t tell any more!” quaked Mrs. Grimes, covering
her eyes.

“Lean on me, Serepty,” said Mr. Sikes, who, if anything, was weaker than
she.

“They’ve sent for the police and for my men,” went on Mr. Link. “And
they’re telephoning for the sheriff and coroner and everybody else. Why,
the news must be all over town by this time. Look at the automobiles
rushing down that way—and people running on foot—and—oh, my Lord,
Joe! If it should turn out to be Ollie it will—it will look mighty bad
for Oliver October.”

Mr. Sikes was thoughtful. “Did you get a good look at it, Silas?”

“I did.”

“Wouldn’t you recognize Ollie’s Adam’s apple if you saw it—dead or
alive?”

“Not if it had been dead as long as this one has. Your Adam’s apple
ain’t a bone, Joe. It’s a cartilage.”

“A cartridge?”

“I guess we’d better tell Oliver,” said Mrs. Grimes briskly. She had, as
usual, risen to the occasion.




                             CHAPTER XXIII


                        THE BREWING OF THE STORM

The news spread like wildfire. Before nightfall every one in Rumley knew
that the body of old Oliver Baxter had been found and that he had been
foully murdered.

With darkness came the inevitable gathering of excited, bewildered
people in the downtown streets. Groups of men, conversing in lowered,
guttural voices, discussed the astounding and unexpected discovery.
Women and children hung about the edges of these groups, or hurried from
one to the other, drinking in the varied comments and opinions. They
listened to men putting two and two together; they heard them connect
seemingly unimportant details and weld them into convincing facts—for
on all sides men were recalling once vague impressions and giving them
now the value of convictions.

They were talking of Oliver October’s muddy shoes, of his strange
behavior on the Lansing porch, of his unwillingness to allow the
ditchers to go beyond a certain point in the swamp, of the rumor that
Pete Hines had heard the violent quarrel between father and son, of the
notebook found in the grass on the slope leading down into the slough,
of the broken spade handle (they scowled with the thought of a blow
forcible enough to splinter a stout hickory handle) and of the singular
and significant fact that the heavy metal portion of the spade had never
been found.

Every group had its individual who professed to be able to explain away
certain of these “discrepancies.” He had it from persons who were in a
position to know, having been present or within hearing distance when,
earlier in the evening, Oliver October had accounted to the sheriff and
his men (in the presence of his lawyer) for some of the suspicious
features of the case. These peregrinating individuals—assuming no
responsibility and by no means vouching for Oliver’s veracity—informed
their dubious hearers that Oliver remembered stepping into a puddle of
mud and water back of Josiah Smith’s house, said puddle having been
created by Josiah’s street sprinkling wagon which always occupied the
same spot between sunset and daybreak and invariably leaked all over the
unpaved alley (a claim substantiated by the town sprinkler, himself, who
admitted that he left his wagon out there every night and that it did
leak dreadfully up to the time he had it repaired, but who also said he
was not to blame if people preferred to walk up an alley instead of on
the sidewalk). And Oliver had a very good reason for stopping the
ditchers where he did: he had inspected the slough out beyond and was
convinced, as an expert, that it could only be reclaimed at a far
greater cost than the land was worth or ever would be worth. Moreover,
the son of old man Baxter unhesitatingly and emphatically had declared
that it wasn’t his father’s body at all, and refused point blank to have
anything to do with it. The word passed up and down Clay Street that
three doctors, including young Doc Lansing, had examined the corpus
delicti and pronounced it to be that of a man in his seventies.

And then came the startling rumor that old man Baxter had gone to his
safety deposit box in the vaults of the bank three days before his
disappearance and had removed five one thousand dollar Liberty bonds!
Rumor, pure and simple, yet accepted as fact by those who roamed the
streets. The old man’s life insurance policy was discussed; and there
was a story that he had openly threatened to make a new will,
disinheriting his son. A grave, unanswered question, too, had to do with
the money so lavishly spent by young Oliver—several thousand dollars in
cash. Where had it come from? His father had called him a loafer, had
charged him with coming back to Rumley to be supported in idleness. If
Oliver had come home from the war “dead broke,” how was it that he had
acquired several thousand dollars in cash? Thirty-five hundred dollars
in banknotes—the whole town knew that the hardware merchant had drawn
that amount from the bank—and five Liberty bonds that could be readily
turned into money. Eighty-five hundred dollars! Simple as rolling off a
log! Ha! There wasn’t much doubt as to where and how Oliver got his
ready cash! But to split his own father’s head open with a spade, and
throw him into a supposedly bottomless pit, and burn his clothes!

For now all those who thronged the streets were saying that Oliver
October had murdered his father.

Across the street from the Baxter Block, where Link’s Undertaking
Establishment was located, a morbid, motionless crowd eyed the doors
guarded by two policemen. A single electric bulb at the rear of the main
reception room shed a feeble and rather ghastly light over the dim
interior. Every one knew that back of the reception room was the
stock-room, lined with caskets standing on end behind glass doors, and
beyond that was the workroom where a grim and awful thing was
lying—alone!

The street leading to the Baxter residence was alive with
people—curious, silent, awe-struck men and women who stared intently at
the windows of the house and wondered what was going on behind the
yellow shades. The slow, solemn shuffle of aimless feet, passing,
pausing and repassing the house on the knoll, began early in the evening
and seemed endless. Automobiles filled with people moved slowly along
the highway skirting the dark, terrifying swamp—all eyes turned toward
the loathesome tract as if expecting to glimpse some ghostly reënactment
of the afternoon’s scene.

Inside the brightly lighted house a small company was assembled. It was
not a cheerful company, nor yet a gloomy one. Acting on the advice of
the delegation from Republican headquarters, Oliver reluctantly had
canceled an engagement to address a mass meeting at the county seat.
While no actual charge had been made against him, there was small reason
to doubt that the grand jury, then in session, would bring in an
indictment against him, perhaps on the morrow. The coroner, who now had
charge of the body—or skeleton—had announced that he would hold an
inquest on the following day. The sheriff had returned to the county
seat after cautioning Oliver to keep his head and await developments.

“It looks pretty bad for you, Baxter,” he had said at the end of a long
interview, “but there’s only one thing for you to do. People don’t want
to believe you killed your father, and that’s a big advantage. So it’s
up to you to stand your ground and face whatever comes. Don’t talk. Keep
your trap closed. I called your uncle up on the telephone just before I
came here this evening. He is coming over to-morrow morning to see if he
can identify the body. Of course he can’t. You seem to be dead sure that
it isn’t your father. So is Mr. Sikes and Undertaker Link. You all claim
that your father was shorter by several inches and had lost several of
his teeth. But your lawyer will look after all these points. Just sit
tight, Baxter, and keep cool. Don’t leave town. Understand?”

The company in Oliver’s sitting-room included the redoubtable and
venerable Messrs. Sikes and Link, Judge Shortridge, Mr. and Mrs. Sage
and Jane, Dr. Lansing and Mrs. Grimes. Sammy Parr was expected. He was
to bring in the news of the streets.

Oliver, a trifle pale but with a stubborn frown on his brow, listened
calmly to the animated conversation that went on about him. He sat
beside Jane on the sofa in the corner of the room. From time to time Mr.
Sikes got up—with many a groan—and poked the blazing logs in the
fireplace. He too was frowning. Mr. Link was cheerful.

“If the worst comes, Bill,” said the latter, repeating himself for
perhaps the third time, “we can certainly prove that there is insanity
in the family. There’s his uncle, old Horace Gooch. He’s as crazy as a
loon.”

This was addressed familiarly to Judge William Shortridge, one time
Justice of the Peace and now the Baxter lawyer.

Mr. Sikes snorted. “Only by marriage, only by marriage,” he growled.
“Insanity by marriage is no defense.”

“I should like to know,” put in Mrs. Sage, “what possible motive Oliver
could have had for killing his father.”

“Oliver has not been accused of killing his father, Madam,” Judge
Shortridge reminded her.

“But if he _did_ kill him,” announced Mr. Link earnestly—“now, mind
you, I’m not even hinting that he did—but, the thing is, if he _did_ do
it, why, we can prove that he had the best motive in the world.”

“In God’s name,” gasped the Judge, startled out of his judicial
composure, “what are you saying, Link? What motive could he have—”

“The best motive in the world, I claim,” said Mr. Link emphatically.
“Insanity!”

“Don’t you know that insanity is not a motive?” snapped the Judge.

“As for Pete Hines saying he heard Oliver and his father quarreling that
night,” said Mrs. Grimes, who had been silent for a long time, “I
wouldn’t believe him on oath. If I was to meet him on the street and he
was to say it was a nice, bright, sunshiny day, I’d hurry home and take
off my rain-soaked clothes.”

“Help yourself to another cigar, Judge,” said Oliver from the sofa.

“Any objections, ladies?” In turn, each lady shook her head. “I was
about to say, my friends” (with a fixed stare at Mr. Link), “that in
case the grand jury finds a true bill against Oliver, I consider myself,
as his counsel, quite capable of deciding what kind of a defense we
shall put up—and it will not be insanity, Silas Link.”

“Well, what _will_ it be?” demanded Mr. Link.

“Patience,” returned Judge Shortridge.

“That’s no defense,” protested the undertaker. “Whoever heard of a man
being acquitted of murder on the grounds of patience?”

“Will it make it any clearer to you if I state that all we have to do is
to be patient while the State is trying to prove this absolutely unknown
and absolutely unidentified carcass is that of Oliver Baxter? We’ll make
’em prove that it is his skeleton. We’ll make ’em prove to the day just
how long it has been out there in the swamp. We’ll be able to prove that
Oliver October had in the neighborhood of fifteen thousand dollars on
deposit in a Chicago bank and that he spent a lot of it hunting for his
father. And, as I said before, we’ll make ’em prove that Oliver Baxter
is dead. They’ll have a hell of a time—er—a very difficult time
proving that our old friend is dead. For all we know—or anybody else
knows—that body may have been out there for ten or fifteen years. Doc
Lansing here says it’s possible, and Doctor Robinson the same thing.
They can’t, to save their lives, produce a medical expert who will swear
positively it was out there only a year and four months. Isn’t that a
fact, Doc?”

“Yes,” replied young Lansing. “The processes of disintegration are so—”

“And this skeleton is said to be that of a fairly tall man,” said Mr.
Sage, “whereas I should unhesitatingly say that Brother Baxter was not
more than five feet six.”

“We must not overlook the fact,” said Lansing, pursing his lips, “that
old age may have caused Mr. Baxter’s frame to shrink somewhat from its
original stature—er—ah—we all know that he was considerably bent and
shriveled and that he was decidedly—er—bow-legged. Now the bone
structure of a human being more or less assumes deceptive proportions
after—er—the confining tissue, the cartilages and so forth
have—ah—we will say disintegrated—permitting the—”

“Ollie was never more than five foot six or seven,” interrupted Mr.
Sikes impatiently. “In his stocking feet. Now, as I said before, if I
was sure it is Ollie’s corpus delicti they have got and if it could be
proved to me that he was murdered by that boy setting over there in the
corner, I would be one of the first men to head a mob to string him up
to the limb of a tree.”

He glared around the room as if challenging any one present—including
Oliver—to question his right to do just what he said he would do—if!

But nobody paid any attention to him. They had heard him say it before.

“I don’t see how you can be so unmoved, so calm, Oliver dear,” whispered
Jane in her lover’s ear. “Just think what they are talking about—and as
if you were not here at all.”

He stroked her hand. “I’ve been thinking of something else, Jane.”

“Of me, I suppose, and the silly notion you have of releasing me from my
promise.”

“I _do_ release you, dear.”

“I refuse to release _you_—so that’s that, as mother says. I am ready
and willing to have father marry us to-night, Oliver.”

“We will have to wait, dear,” he said, rather wistfully.

Lizzie Meggs appeared at the sitting-room door.

“That’s the third time the telephone has rung, Oliver,” she announced.
“Hadn’t I better answer it?”

He shook his head. “No, Lizzie. Let ’em ring. It’s probably the
newspapers—”

“You’d better let her answer, Oliver,” broke in Mrs. Grimes anxiously.
“It may be some of your friends calling up to sympathize—”

“All my real friends are here, Aunt Serepta—except Sammy. We can’t be
answering the telephone all night.”

“This last one sounded like long distance, Oliver,” said Lizzie.

“How does long distance sound, Lizzie?” he asked, with a smile. “Never
mind. You needn’t answer. Let ’em ring. Orders is orders. I told you
half an hour ago not to take that receiver off the hook.”

Mrs. Grimes followed the servant out of the room, closing the hall door
after her.

“How many times, Lizzie Meggs, do I have to tell you not to call Mr.
Baxter Oliver when there’s company here?” she said sharply.

“I can’t help it. He’d drop dead if I called him Mr. Baxter. We’ve
called each other by our first names ever since we were kids in school
together. Say, how would it sound if he was to begin calling me Miss
Meggs? It’s the same thing, isn’t it? We went to high-school together
and—”

“Now don’t be saucy, Lizzie. I admit it’s nicer to be democratic and all
that but it’s not proper, and you know it. I don’t know what we’re
coming to. That young fellow that comes up here to see you calls me
Serepty and then he turns around and calls you Miss Meggs. I don’t
see—”

“He has known me only a few weeks and he’s known you all his life,”
retorted Lizzie stiffly.

The front door opened suddenly and in walked Sammy Parr. Both women
uttered a startled exclamation.

“Excuse haste,” he said, tossing his hat and gloves on a chair. “I’m
back. Say, gee whiz, everybody in town is out on Clay Street, Aunt
Serepty. Lots of them down this way, strolling past—”

“What are people saying, Sammy?” she broke in, grasping his arm.

“Well,” he began, after a moment’s hesitation, “there’s a good deal of
talk—but let’s go in where the others are.”

Lizzie Meggs followed them into the sitting-room, nervously twisting her
hard and capable fingers.

“Much excitement downtown, Sammy?” inquired Oliver, arising.

“The streets are crowded. Not much excitement, however. Everybody seems
to be sort of knocked silly.”

“What are they saying?” demanded Judge Shortridge.

“Well, I hate to tell you, but as far as I can make out, Judge, there
seems to be a general feeling that—that Oliver did it,” said Sammy,
wiping his moist forehead with the back of a hand that shook slightly.

“Snap judgment,” said the lawyer, after silence had reigned for a few
seconds. “That is always the way with the ignorant and uninformed.
Nothing to worry about, Oliver. They will be on your side to-morrow when
they understand the situation a little better. It’s always the way with
a crowd.”

Josephine Sage spread her hands in a gesture of contempt. “‘What fools
these mortals be,’” she declaimed theatrically.

“But we cannot ignore public opinion,” cried Jane miserably. “It is hard
to fight public opinion. Oh, Oliver, I am so—so worried.”

“Don’t you worry, Janie,” he said softly, putting his arm about her.
“Nothing will come of all this. We will sweep away every suspicion—”

“Public opinion changes over night,” said Mr. Sage. “The light of
understanding—”

“The public!” broke in his wife scornfully. “What is the public? I can
tell you, my friends. It is the most fickle thing in all this world. No
matter how long, how faithfully you serve the public, it turns upon you
in time, like the adder, and stings you to death. It feeds you with
praise, it fattens you with applause, it clothes you in garments of
gold, and then it strips you clean and leaves you to starve. It turns
its back on you and fattens another favorite. You can’t tell me anything
about the blooming public. I know it to the core, and I am jolly well
fed up with it.”

“Bravo!” cried the Judge. “And let me add, Miss Judge, it’s easy to put
a ring through the public nose and lead it around in circles.”

“Yes, but the thing is,” broke in Mr. Link, “they’re accusing Oliver of
murder. If they make up their minds he’s guilty—well, it’ll take a lot
of evidence to convince ’em he ain’t.”

“My dear man,” said Mrs. Sage, “I was the defendant in the most
celebrated murder trial ever known in London.”

“Bless my soul, Josephine!” gasped her husband, startled.

“And I was sentenced to be hanged by the neck till dead,” she finished
in tragic tones.

“Mercy!” cried Mrs. Grimes weakly.

“My dear wife, have you gone stark, staring mad?”

“Not a bit of it. Would you like to know how I got out of it in the end?
I was able to show that my beast of a husband committed the murder.”

“Bless my soul!” again fell from the lips of the poor minister.

“The magistrate was such a bally ass. He brayed all through my best
scene during an uninterrupted run of forty weeks—and there was nothing
I could do about it. You see he was an actor-manager and there is
nothing in heaven or on earth that can keep an actor-manager from
hogging—”

“Thank God!” murmured Mr. Sage, mopping his brow. “It was in a play?”

“Certainly, my dear,” said she patiently. “I wore this very dress in the
trial scene.”

It was after eleven o’clock when Oliver’s friends departed. He stood on
the porch and watched them drive off in the two automobiles. A few
persons had stopped at the bottom of the drive to see who were in the
cars. The flaring head-lights fell upon white, indistinct faces and then
almost instantly left them in pitch darkness.

“I wish you had let Mr. Sage marry you and Jane to-night, Oliver,” said
Mrs. Grimes, at his side on the top step. “You have the license and
everything, and it could all have been over in a few minutes. And Jane
begged you so hard.”

“I couldn’t do it, Aunt Serepta,” he said dejectedly. “I don’t know what
is ahead of me. I may be in jail before I’m a day older.” He gave her a
wry, bitter smile as he put his arm over her shoulder and walked beside
her into the house. “Pleasant thought, isn’t it, old dear?—as the
celebrated Miss Judge would say.”

Clay Street was almost deserted as Lansing and Sammy Parr drove through
it after leaving the Baxter place. The Sages were in the former’s car.
In front of the hotel Sammy, who was some distance ahead and who had
dropped the two old men at Silas Link’s home, slowed down and waited for
Lansing to draw alongside.

“Say, Doc, it seems queer to me that there’s practically nobody in the
streets,” he said. “An hour ago you couldn’t have got through here
without blowing the horn every ten feet. Women and children all over the
place.”

“It’s after eleven, Sammy. I daresay the thrill has worn off and
everybody’s gone home to bed.”

“Rumley is not an all night town,” remarked Mrs. Sage from the back
seat. “It used to go to bed _en masse_ at nine o’clock. I daresay the
movies keep them up later than prayer-meeting did in the old days.”

“I don’t mind saying to you all that there was a lot of ugly talk
earlier in the evening,” said Sammy uneasily. “A lot of nasty talk. I
didn’t tell Oliver, but I heard more than one man say he ought to be
strung up.”

“Oh, Sammy, do you think—” began Jane, in a sudden agony of alarm.

“Nonsense!” cried the minister, instantly sensing her fear. “Such things
don’t happen in these days and in this part of the country. The people
will let the law take its course. Have no fear on that score.”

“Well, anyhow, it looks mighty queer to me,” said Sammy, tactlessly
shaking his head. “I don’t like this awful stillness. It isn’t like this
even on ordinary nights.”

Jane clutched Lansing’s arm and shook it violently.

“Doctor Lansing,” she cried, “we must return to Oliver’s house
immediately. He will have to come over to our house—Better still,
Sammy, you must drive him up to the city. To-night. At once. I am
frightened. Something terrible is afoot. I know it. I feel it. It is so
still. Look! Why aren’t the street lamps in Maple Avenue lighted? It is
as dark as—”

“By jingo, Lansing!” exclaimed Sammy, starting up from his seat to peer
over the windshield. “See that? Men running across Maple Avenue. ’Way up
yonder where that arc light is at Fiddler Street. Three or four men.
Didn’t you see them?”

“We must beat it back to Oliver’s,” half shouted Lansing, excitedly.

“Take the women home first,” ordered Sammy, “and then come back. I’ll go
on ahead.”

“Wait!” commanded Mr. Sage. “Drive on up Maple, Sammy. Follow those men.
See what they are up to. They are headed for the swamp road. Lansing and
I will follow you in a jiffy. Drive like the devil!” he shouted in
ringing tones.

“No, no, no!” screamed Jane. “The other way! To Oliver’s! I will not go
home. I am going to him! Turn around—turn around! Do you hear me?”

“Where in God’s name are the police?” cried Josephine.

“We can’t take you back there,” cried Lansing. “Hell may be to pay. It’s
no place for women, Jane. Sit still! I’ll have you home in two minutes.”

“I will jump out! I swear to heaven I will,” she cried shrilly.

“Turn back!” commanded Jane’s mother. “I am not afraid of them. Jane is
not afraid. We cannot desert Oliver if he is in danger. Please God he
may not be. Turn back, I say!”

“Yes!” cried the minister. “We must go to Oliver—all of us!”

The two cars made reckless turns in the narrow street and were off like
the wind.




                              CHAPTER XXIV


                              THE HANGING

The mob, grim, silent and determined, advanced upon the house from the
upper reaches of the swamp, a swaying, unwieldy mass that surged up the
slope and thinned into a compact, snake-like column in the narrow road.
Since ten o’clock men by twos and threes and fours had been making their
way through back streets and lanes to an appointed spot an eighth of a
mile east of the Baxter home, the tree-bordered swale that marked the
extreme northern end of the slough. There were no lights, and none spoke
save in cautious whispers, nor was there one in all the grim three
hundred who did not tremble under the strain of suppressed
excitement—as the dog trembles when he is held in leash with the scent
of the quarry in his quivering nostrils.

Scouts, creeping up to the house, had witnessed the departure of
Oliver’s guests. Like swift, scarcely visible shadows they sped back
through the darkness of the swamp road with their report. Whispers
swelled into hoarse, guttural mutterings as the mob, headed by its
set-faced, scowling leaders, left the swale and started on its deadly
march. Followed the shuffle of a multitude of feet through dry grass and
over the loose surface of the dirt road; the harsh breathing of hundreds
of throats through tense nostrils or open, sag-lipped mouths; the swish
and rustle of dead leaves; in all, the hushed thunder of men in motion.

The leaders—two men from the hardware store of Oliver Baxter!—strode
out in front, crowded close by the swift-moving horde that from time to
time almost overran them in its eagerness to have the dirty business
over with. There were guns and axes and sledge-hammers in the hands of
men at the head of the column.

Sight of the lighted upstairs windows threw the mob into a frenzy. They
had come to kill and their prey was up there behind a thin barricade of
glass and parchment-colored linen! And they were near three hundred
strong! A few scattered ill-timed shouts, were checked by a mighty,
sibilant hiss that swept through the crowd; those who had ignored strict
orders fell back into pinched silence.

Quickly the house was surrounded. No avenue of escape was left
unguarded. A small, detached group advanced toward the porch, above the
roof of which were lights in the windows of what every one knew to be
young Oliver Baxter’s bedroom.

A loud voice called out:

“Oliver Baxter!”

The hush of death settled upon the crowd. Even the breathing seemed to
have ceased.

A window shade flew up in one of the windows and the figure of a man
stood fully revealed. He stooped, his face close to the pane as he
peered intently out into the blackness below. Shading his eyes with one
hand, he continued his search of the night. He was without coat or vest;
his white shirt was open at the throat.

A man in the crowd below took a fresh grip on the rope he carried in his
hand.

Again the loud, firm voice:

“Come out! We want to see you, Oliver Baxter.”

Oliver raised the window and leaned out. “Who is it? What do you want?”
he demanded.

“We are your father’s friends,” came the reply. “That’s all you need to
know. Come out!”

“What have you got down there? A mob? I’ll see you in hell before I’ll
come out! If you’re after me, you’ll have to come and get me. But I warn
you! I’ve got a gun up here and, so help me God, I’ll shoot to kill. I’m
not afraid of you. Wait till to-morrow, men. You will be glad if you do.
It is not my father’s body they found. It will be proved to you. Go
home, for God’s sake, and don’t attempt to do this thing you are—”

A deep growl rose from a hundred throats, stilled almost instantly as
the clear voice of the leader rang out again.

“We will give you one minute to come out. If you are not out here on the
porch by that time we’ll smash your damned doors in and we’ll drag you
out.”

Oliver glanced over his shoulder. Mrs. Grimes and Lizzie, with blanched
faces, had come to his bedroom door.

“Telephone for the police, Lizzie,” he cried out sharply. “No! Wait! Get
out of the house yourselves. Don’t think of me. You mustn’t be here if
that mob breaks in and—”

He did not finish the sentence. In the middle of it he uttered a shout
of alarm and sprang toward the bureau on the opposite side of the room.
There was a rush of footsteps in the hall, then the two women were flung
aside and into the room leaped three, four, half a dozen men. As Lizzie
fell back against the wall, she shrieked:

“The back door! I forgot to—”

Oliver knocked the first man sprawling, but the others were upon him
like an avalanche.... As they led him, now unresisting, from the room
his wild, beaten gaze fell upon the huddled form of Serepta Grimes lying
inert in the hall.

“For God’s sake, be decent enough to look after her,” he panted. “Don’t
leave her lying—”

The crash of splintering blows upon the outer door, the jangle of
shattered glass, the suddenly released howls of human
hounds—pandemonium so devilish that Oliver’s fearless heart quailed and
he began to cry for mercy.

“Don’t kill me like this! Don’t! Don’t! Give me a chance! Let me speak!
Oh, my God!” Then rage succeeded terror. “Let go of me, you dirty dogs!
Let go of me, Charlie! Steve! God damn your souls to hell—give me a
chance!”

They dragged him down the stairs. The front door gave way as they neared
the bottom and over the wreckage stumbled men with sledges, grunting,
snarling men whose teeth showed between stretched, drawn lips, and who
stopped short at sight of those descending.

“We’ve got him,” shouted one of his captors. “Make way! Let us through!”

There was no light in the hall, only that from the open bedroom door
above. Some one below flashed an electric torch on the face of the
captive. It was ghastly white.

“It’s him, all right,” cried several voices. “Open up! We’ve got him!
Make way out there!”

Out of the house and down into the yard they hurried him. There they
paused long enough to tie his hands securely behind his back. An awed
silence had fallen upon the crowd—the shouts ceased, curses died on
men’s lips. They had him! Tragedy was at hand. More than one heart
quaked in the presence of it, and more than one stomach turned in
revolt. It was grim business that lay ahead of them and they were good
citizens!

“No lights!” shouted a loud-voiced man. “Come on! Hustle up! Let’s get
it over with.”

Oliver strained at his bonds. His chest heaved, his throat swelled.

“In Christ’s name, men—what are you going to do with me?” he cried out
in a strange, piercing voice.

“Shut up!”

“You are making a horrible mistake,” cried the captive, as he stumbled
along between the men who held his arms. “You are committing the most
horrible—”

Something fell upon his head, scraped down over his face. He stifled a
scream. He felt the slack noose tighten about his bare throat.

“Damn you all to hell,” he raged, sinking his heels in the earth and
holding back with all his might. “You beasts! You damned fools! Let go
of me! Let me speak! Isn’t there a sensible man among you? Are you
all—”

He was shoved forward, protesting shrilly, impatiently.

They had picked the spot: the place where father and son parted on that
distant night. And the tree: the sturdy old oak whose limbs overhung the
road. They had picked the limb.

There was no delay.... The stout rope was thrown over the limb, the
noose was drawn close about his neck by cold, nervous fingers.... A
prayer was strangled on his writhing lips. Strong hands hauled at the
rope. He swung in the air....

A great white flare of light burst upon the grewsome spectacle—the roar
of a charging monster—the din of shrieking klaxons—and then the
piercing scream of a woman.

The dense mob in the road broke, fighting frantically to get out of the
path of Lansing’s car. Some were struck and hurled screaming aside—and
on came the car, forging its way slowly but relentlessly through the
struggling mass.

A man standing up in the tonneau was crying in a stentorian,
far-reaching voice:

“Fools! Accursed fools! Ye know not what ye do! Stop this hideous
outrage! God forgive you if we are too late! God forgive—”

Again the woman’s scream.

“He is hanging! Hanging! Oh, God!”

Up to the swaying, wriggling form shot the car, a force irresistible
guided by a man who thought not of the human beings he might crush to
death in his desire to reach the one he sought to save.

“Let go of that rope!” yelled this man.

Behind him came another car. Panic seized the mob. The compact mass
broke and scattered. Like sheep, men plunged down the slope—now a
frightened, safety-seeking horde of cowards.

A writhing, tortured figure lay in the middle of the road, a loose rope
swinging free from the limb. The bewildered, startled men who had held
it in their hands fell back—uncertain, bewildered.

Lansing, unafraid, sprang from the car and rushed to the prostrate form.
In a second he was tugging at the noose, cursing frightfully. No one
opposed him. The mob seemed suddenly to have become paralyzed, afflicted
by the stupor of indecision. Many were already fleeing madly from the
scene—down the road, across the slough—yellow-hearted deserters whose
only thought was to escape the consequences of recognition. A few score,
falling back a little in stubborn disorder, stood glowering and blinking
outside the shafts of light. Men with guns and pistols and axes they
were, but cowed by the swift realization that they dared not use them.

The tall, gaunt figure in the tonneau was praying, his hands uplifted.
By his side stood a woman.

Now a woman flung herself down beside the man with the rope around his
neck, sobbing, moaning, her arms straining to lift his shoulders from
the ground.

A baffled roar went up from the mob. Men surged forward and hands were
laid upon the rope—too late. The noose was off—and Sammy Parr standing
over the doctor and the distracted girl, had a revolver in his hand.

“Come on!” he yelled. “Come on, you dirty cowards! You swine! You damned
Huns! Come on and get a man-sized pill!”

From all sides boomed the shouts and curses of a quickly revived
purpose.

“Rush ’em!”

“Kill the—”

“Beat their heads off!”

“Get him! Get him!”

“String him up!”

Suddenly a strange voice rose above the clamor. A voice that seemed to
come from nowhere and yet was everywhere—the like of which no man there
had ever heard before. Rich, full, vibrant, it fell upon puzzled ears
and once again there was pause. The keyless chorus of execrations ceased
abruptly, as if a mighty hand were clapped upon a hundred mouths.

All eyes were upon the owner of this wondrous, clarion voice. A
startling figure she was, standing erect upon the front seat of
Lansing’s car. Magically tall and mysterious as she towered above and
out of the path of light thrown by the car behind.

“Men of Rumley! Hold! Hold, I command you! Is there one among you who
has not heard of the gypsy’s prophecy of thirty years ago? Let him speak
who will, and let him speak for all.”

A score of voices answered.

“Aye!” she went on. “You all have heard it. It is as familiar to you,
old and young, as the story of the Crucifixion. There are old men among
you. Men who were here when that truthful prophecy was uttered thirty
years ago. You old men heard of the gypsy’s prophecy within twenty-four
hours after it was spoken in the house you have ravished to-night. You
heard it word for word, faithfully repeated by men and women who were
present and who have never forgotten what she said. I ask one of
you—any one of you—to stand forth and tell the rest of this craven mob
what the gypsy fortune-teller said on that wild and stormy night.”

Two or three men stepped forward as if fascinated.

“She said the baby son of Oliver Baxter would be hung for murder before
he was thirty years old,” bawled one of them.

“He killed his father. He ought to be hung. The gypsy was right,”
shouted another.

“And what else did she say?” rang out the voice of Josephine Judge.

“Oh, a lot of things that don’t matter now,” yelled a man back in the
crowd. “Get busy, boys. We can’t—”

“Stop! Wait, and I will tell you what she said. She said one thing that
all of you old men ought to remember. It was the most important thing of
all, the most horrible. I was there. This man of God, my husband, was
there. Other honest people, friends of yours, were there. They heard her
words and they repeated them to you the next day. Silence! Listen to me,
varlets! You believe she spoke the truth when she uttered that prophecy?
Answer!”

“Yes!” came from a hundred throats.

“Then, in God’s name, =why are you murdering oliver october
baxter?=”

“We gave him a fair trial,” answered one of the leaders. “We know all
the facts. He is guilty of killing his father. We don’t need any more
proof—”

“Are you one of the men who heard the story thirty years ago?”

“Yes, I am—and I heard it straight.”

“Then you must know that this poor boy was adjudged innocent of this
crime on the day he was born,” fell slowly, distinctly from the lips of
Josephine. “I will repeat the words of the gypsy woman. She said: ‘He
will not commit a murder. He will be hanged for a crime he did not
commit.’ Speak! Are not those the words of the gypsy?”

Absolute silence ensued. It was as if the crowd had turned to stone.

“And so,” she cried, leveling her finger at the men in the front rank,
“you have done your part toward making the prophecy come true. You have
hung Oliver October Baxter in spite of the fact that you were told
thirty years ago that he would be innocent. It has all come out as the
fortune-teller said it would. She read his future in the stars. She read
it all from his own star—and, look ye, fools of Rumley, in yonder black
dome a single star is shining. See! With your own blind eyes—see!”

She lifted a hand and pointed majestically. Every eye followed the
direction indicated by that dramatic forefinger. A star gleamed brightly
in the southern sky, a single star in a desert of black.

“That is the star of Oliver October Baxter. He was born under that star
and, God help us all, I fear he has died beneath it. Out of all the
great and endless firmament, that one star reveals itself to-night.
Slink home, assassins! Murderers all! May the curse of that shining star
fall upon ye—now, henceforth and forever! May ye never escape from the
light of that great accusing eye, looking down upon you from Heaven!
Slink home to your wives and children and tell them what ye have done
this night!”

But the mob stood rooted to the ground. A sudden shout went up from
those in the front rank—a strange shout of relief.

Oliver October was struggling to his feet, assisted by Jane and Lansing.
His arms, released from their bonds, were thrown across their shoulders,
his chin was high, he was coughing violently.

“He’s all right!” yelled a man, and started eagerly forward only to fall
back as Jane Sage held up her hand and screamed:

“Keep away! You will have to kill me before you can touch him again, you
beasts!”

“Aw, I only want to help get him into the car—”

“Stand back!” commanded Lansing. “We don’t need your help.”

Three or four eager voices cried out shakily and in unison:

“Take him to a doctor’s!”

Then a tenser silence than before fell over the scene, for Jane was
crying:

“Are you all right, Oliver? Can you speak? What is it, dearest? What are
you trying to say?”

“Don’t try to speak yet, Baxter,” cautioned Lansing. “Plenty of time.
You’re all right. You’ll be yourself in a few minutes. Thank God, we got
here when we did.”

“Keep quiet!” ordered a voice in the mob. “He wants to say something.
He’s alive, and he wants to say something. Sh!”

“Drop that rope!” roared Sammy as one of the crowd left the circle and
hastily reached for the rope. The fellow leaped back as if stung.

“I was only meanin’ to take it back to Ollie’s store,” he whined. “It
belongs to him.”

“Take him to a doctor’s!” roared a dozen anxious men.

“Clear the road!” roared others.

“Slink back into the foul fastnesses of yon accursed swamp,” rang out
the voice of the great Josephine Judge. They got Oliver into the forward
car, where he huddled down between Jane and her mother. They heard him
whisper hoarsely, jerkily:

“Never mind about me—I’m—all right. They won’t try—it again. Look
after Aunt—Serepta first. She’s hurt. They left her—lying up—”

“Don’t worry, old top,” cried Sammy eagerly. “I’ll go back and look out
for her. You go along with Doc. He’ll fix you up. All you need is a good
stiff—”

“Clear the road!” roared a score of voices as Lansing’s car moved slowly
forward, and off the sides, down the slope and up the bank, slunk the
obedient lynchers. Down through the lane of men who carefully shielded
their faces from the glare of the head-lights, Lansing’s car advanced.
It picked up speed and soon the little red tail-light was lost to sight.
Having watched it until it disappeared, the mob, as one man, turned its
anxious eyes heavenward—not in supplication but for a somewhat
surreptitious look at Oliver’s shining star. They stared open-mouthed. A
miracle had happened. The sky was full of merry, twinkling little
stars—and more, like fairies, came out to play and dance even as the
watchers below gazed up in wonder.

Two men slouched side-by-side behind all the others as the once
bloodthirsty horde bore off swiftly, apprehensively, but still dubiously
through the night which now seemed to mock them with its silence. One of
these men said to the other:

“I’ve worked in that store for twenty-two years. Where the dickens do
you suppose I’ll find another job at my age?”

“You won’t need one,” said the other gloomily, “if my prophecy comes
true.”

“Your prophecy? What are you talking about?”

“I prophesy we’ll all be in jail for this night’s work.”

A long silence. “Well,” said the other, “old man Sikes and Silas Link
can rest in peace from now on. He’s been hung.”

“Yep. He’s out of all his troubles and ours are just beginning. I guess
it must have been a lucky star he was born under.”

An hour later Sammy Parr expressed himself somewhat irrelevantly in the
parsonage sitting-room.

“Say, Miss Judge, you were great. I never heard anything like that
speech of yours. And your voice—why, it gave me the queerest kind of
shivers.”

Josephine was pacing the floor, her fine brow knitted in thought. She
was muttering to herself. Oliver, lying on a couch, smiled up into
Jane’s lovely eyes. She sat beside him, holding his hand in both of
hers. Serepta Grimes, having stubbornly refused to go to bed, sat in a
morris chair across the room and, perhaps for the first time in her long
life, was being forced to accept her own medicine at the hands of a
suddenly important Samaritan in the person of Lizzie Meggs, who, without
rime or reason, had been plying her with aromatic spirits of ammonia for
the better part of an hour, reserving to herself the diminishing
contents of a silver hip-flask produced by the efficient Mr. Parr. The
Reverend Mr. Sage stood apart with Dr. Lansing, deep in a low-voiced
argument as to whether God or man, Providence or science, had saved the
life of Oliver October. In the crook of the parson’s arm snuggled Henry
the Eighth, who, between intermittent fits of dozing, licked the hand
that had spanked devotion into him.

Miss Judge paused.

“It was rather good, wasn’t it?” she observed. “I am trying to fix that
speech in my mind. I shall have a play written around it. I know the
very man who can do it. He has been eager to write a play for me. I
shall telegraph him to-morrow to come to Rumley at once. In my mind’s
eye I can visualize that remarkable scene, I can—”

“Josephine!” cried Mr. Sage, aghast. “You are not thinking of going
back—going back—”

She held up her hand. “Not to London, old thing—not to London. It is
possible I may consent to make a farewell tour of America. Sarah
Bernhardt, Ellen Terry—why not I? My own company—”

At this juncture, Oliver sat up and claimed the audience.

“Sammy,” he cried out thickly but with the ring of enthusiasm in his
voice, “do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure,” cried Sammy, springing to his feet.

“Stand up with me. I’m going to be married. I’ve been best man for you
twice—”

“Great!” cried Sammy. “I’ll not only stand up with you, old boy, but
I’ll let you lean on me.”

“Now?” gasped Serepta Grimes, in great agitation.

“At once,” declared Oliver, struggling to his feet. “I came near to
losing her to-night. I’ll take no more chances.”

“Yes—now!” cried Jane softly, and for the first time that night the
color came back to her cheeks.




                              CHAPTER XXV


                     MR. GOOCH SEES THINGS AT NIGHT

Horace Gooch was going to bed. He had had a hard day, and it was nine
o’clock. He had a notion he was not likely to sleep very well. The
sheriff of the county had telephoned earlier in the evening—in fact, he
was at supper—that a body had been found in one of the marsh pools. The
news rather took his appetite away. He had a weak and treacherous
stomach to begin with, and the mere thought of going over to Rumley in
the morning to see if he could identify the grewsome object caused him
to suddenly realize that he had a much weaker stomach than he had ever
suspected before. He had, besides, an absurd notion that he was going to
be haunted all night long by the ghastly remains of his brother-in-law.

While he always had contended that Oliver Baxter did not have much of a
head to speak of, the fact that it had been split wide open with an ax
or something of the sort was very likely to cause him to see things even
with his eyes closed and the bedroom in pitch darkness. He decided to
leave the light burning in his room, and then, after further
deliberation, concluded, that as long as it had to be lit anyway it
would be a very sensible thing on his part if he were to put in the time
reading instead of wasting electricity.

Mr. Gooch slept in a night-shirt. He didn’t believe in new-fangled
things. He was a plain man. No frills for him.

The windows of his bedroom looked out on to an extensive lawn, formerly
a rather pretentious and well-kept half-acre but now unkempt, weedy and
in a state of dire neglect. Mr. Gooch had cunningly allowed his yard to
fall into a sort of groveling, imploring decrepitude, indicative of
poverty rather than parsimony. He wanted the voters to understand that
he was by no means as rich as the unprincipled opposition said he was.
He regarded it as a very telling piece of political strategy.

Before retiring to the large four-poster bed—which, now that he was a
widower, seemed needlessly commodious and would have been disposed of
long ago but for a thrifty far-sightedness that took into consideration
the possibility that he might get married again—before retiring, he
peeped out between the window curtains to see whether the arc light was
burning at the street corner above. It was, and he experienced a
singular sensation of relief. Then he put on his spectacles and got into
bed. He had a book, a well-worn copy of “David Harum,” but he did not
begin reading at once. He was thinking of the many dark and lonely
nights old Oliver Baxter had spent in Death Swamp. It gave him a creepy
feeling. He tucked the covers a little more tightly under his chin—but
still the creepy feeling persisted.

Just as he was beginning to wish that they had not found his unfortunate
brother-in-law, a pleasant and agreeable alternative presented itself
and he noticed an immediate increase of warmth in his veins. Strange
that he had not thought of it sooner. It was most consoling, after all,
this finding of the corpus delicti. If they hadn’t found it he would
have been obliged to pay all costs arising from the search and
investigation. He had agreed to do so. But now that the “body of the
crime” had been unearthed he would be relieved of this onerous
obligation. The county would have to pay for everything. That was
understood. He smiled a little, turned the covers down from his chin,
and took up his book.

“Hey, Horace!”

He lay perfectly still for a few seconds, his eyes glued to the page. An
icy chill, starting in his abdomen, spread all over him, slowly at
first, then with consuming swiftness. He bit hard on his teeth to keep
them from chattering. The voice sounded as if it were just outside his
chamber window. He waited.

“Hey, Horace!”

A deep groan issued through Mr. Gooch’s stiffening lips. He shrank down
into the bed and pulled the covers up over his head. He was haunted!
There was no other voice in the world like it. He would know it among a
million. Oliver Baxter had come to haunt him! He had a horrifying mental
vision of the unforgettable figure of his brother-in-law floating in the
air just outside—this changed instantly to an even more appalling
spectacle: old Oliver emerging from his grave in the swamp and speeding
through the black night to pay him a visit—with his skull split wide
open—

Some one was knocking at the front door. Even through the thick
bed-covers he could hear the sharp tapping—not the tapping of
flesh-covered knuckles but of bare bones!

Mr. Gooch’s grizzled head popped out from beneath the covers. He
remembered that his bedroom door was unlocked. Anybody—any_thing_ could
walk right in—He climbed out of bed with a spryness that would have
amazed him if he had been able to devote the slightest thought to it.

Again the voice, but this time reassuringly remote from his window-sill.
He stopped irresolute half way to the door. If he waited long enough, he
reasoned, the ghost would go away thinking he was not at home. There was
not the slightest doubt that it was farther away now than when it spoke
the first time. Besides there was something more or less human in this
last cry from the night. It wasn’t at all spookish. It seemed to express
wrath.

“All right! You can go to Jericho.”

Mr. Gooch went to the window. He was still shivering and he had a queer,
unpleasant notion that his hair was wilting—a most astonishing
sensation. He hesitated a moment, then boldly drew the curtains apart.
The light from the arc light at the corner, fairly well-spent after
traversing a couple of hundred feet, was of sufficient strength to flood
the lawn with a dim radiance. A shadowy object half way down to the gate
resolved itself into the figure of a man as Mr. Gooch gazed upon it with
bewildered, incredulous eyes.

“Hello, Horace,” came wafting up to Mr. Gooch—apparently from this
shadowy object. “That you? Say, open up and let me in.”

Mr. Gooch grasped the window frame for support.

“Good God!” he gulped, but in a voice so strange and hollow that he did
not recognize it as his own. In a sudden panic he threw up the window
and screeched—in an entirely different voice but equally as
unrecognizable:

“Go away! Leave me alone!”

“Say, don’t you know who it is? It’s me.”

The figure drew nearer the house. At the same time Mr. Gooch stuck his
head out of the window and bawled:

“Help! For God’s sake, somebody come and chase it away! Help!”

“What’s the matter with you, you darned old fool!” barked the indistinct
visitor. “You’ll wake the dead, yelling like that.”

“Wake the dead!” repeated Mr. Gooch in a low, sepulchral voice.

“I’m Ollie Baxter. For goodness’ sake, Horace, don’t tell me you’ve
forgotten your only brother-in-law. I—”

“Go away! You’re dead. I don’t want any dead people coming around here
to—”

A shrill, lively cackle came up from the murk. Mr. Gooch clapped his
hand to his forehead.

“Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” he groaned.

“Ain’t you going to let me in? I’m not going to ask you again, you
darned old skinflint. I hate you anyhow, and always did—but I thought
maybe after me being away for more than a year you’d be hospitable
enough to—”

“Stop talking!” commanded Mr. Gooch. “You always did talk too much. Now,
listen to me. Are you really alive?”

“Course I am. What ails you?”

“I don’t believe it. They found your body this afternoon.”

“You don’t say so!” gasped the object under the window.

“Horribly decayed,” added Mr. Gooch sternly.

“Well, I’ll be danged!”

“So you simply _can’t_ be alive. Go away!”

“This is mighty queer. Are they positive it’s me?”

“Hey?”

“I mean are they sure it’s my body?”

“There’s no evidence to the contrary. Seems to be absolutely no doubt
about it.”

“Well, well! Where did they find me?”

“You know as well as I do.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind. It’s news to me, Horace.”

“See here, Oliver, what’s the sense of lying to me? You know you’re dead
and—”

“Well, suppose I am,” broke in the other irascibly; “that’s no reason
why you should stick your head out of a window and tell the whole town
of Hopkinsville about it. You come down here and let me in. I’ll derned
soon show you I’m not dead. What’s more, I never have been dead. So they
couldn’t have found my body.”

Mr. Gooch was now convinced. It was Oliver Baxter and he was very much
alive.

“Well, what do you want?”

“I want to come in and spend the night with you, that’s what I want.”

“There’s a good hotel up on Jackson Street,” began Mr. Gooch, but
curiosity getting the better of him he abruptly called out for Oliver to
wait till he had put on his pants and he would come down and let him in.

As he hurriedly started to slip on his trousers he heard his
brother-in-law whistling a strange and jaunty melody out in the yard. He
never had heard anything like it before.

A sudden, desolating thought struck him as he sat on the edge of the
bed. His trousers were but half on when the shock came. He knew not how
long he sat there, powerless and inactive, staring at nothing. A shout
from outside aroused him. He groaned and then slipped the other leg into
his trousers.

Calamity! His cake was dough! The return of Oliver Baxter meant his
political doom. Young Oliver, vindicated, would be carried into office
by an unprecedented majority, riding serene and triumphant on a wave of
popularity that would sweep all opposition before it. Somewhere back in
his mind lurked a very distasteful phrase that ended with “cocked hat,”
although he could not quite remember the rest of it. He could and did
remember young Oliver’s campaign boast, for it was very recent and
distinct and unnecessarily public. “Skin him alive” was the heathenish
slogan.

As he descended the stairs he tried to think of some means to avert the
calamity. He thought of locking his brother-in-law in the cellar and
keeping him there until after election day. He wondered if he could
persuade the old man—for a substantial cash consideration—to remain in
seclusion or wander off again or—But, no; he had sunk too much money
already, and there was still an additional thousand or two to be paid
out for the search and—

He stopped suddenly, reeling as from a blow. The lighted candle, held
almost directly in front of his face, witnessed a most astonishing
transformation. Mr. Gooch’s harassed visage slowly lighted up; it became
almost radiant. He hurried to the door and unbolted it quickly, for he
was now afraid that old Oliver might have taken it into his head to
disappear again!

He had just remembered Oliver October’s promise to pay him five thousand
dollars in cash if he produced his father, dead or alive! He was
actually smirking as he pressed the electric light button. The wind blew
the candle out as he threw the door open.

“Come right in, Oliver,” he cried, quite heartily but still with a trace
of apprehension. He had not recovered from his scare and half-expected
Mr. Baxter to float past him into the hall.

A bent, disreputable-looking figure shuffled in, thumping his cane on
the floor.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Gooch, holding the doorknob in one hand and
the candle-stick in the other—making it obviously impossible for him to
shake hands with what might after all turn out to be a cadaver.
“You—you certainly gave me quite a scare.”

He peered narrowly, intently at the weather-beaten face of his wife’s
brother. Old Oliver was looking around the hall as if inspecting a most
unfamiliar place. Mr. Gooch, closing the door, risked a timid slap on
the other’s shoulder, and was greatly relieved to find that it was
solid. Mr. Baxter did not take kindly to this demonstration. He winced.

“Say, don’t do that,” he said. “I’ve got rheumatism in that shoulder.
Comes from sleeping out in the open air a good bit of the time this
fall.”

Mr. Gooch stepped back, the better to survey his brother-in-law’s
person. There was every indication that Mr. Baxter had taken the
precaution to sleep in his clothes pretty steadily all fall. They were
wrinkled and dusty and hung limply, crookedly on his graceless frame.
The coat collar was turned up and held tight to his throat by a thick
red muffler. He wore a sad-looking green Homberg hat with a perky red
feather sticking up from the band.

“Take off your muffler,” said Horace, desiring indisputable evidence.

“Oh, it’s there all right,” divined Mr. Baxter. “You can feel it if you
don’t believe me. It’s just as well you didn’t offer to shake hands with
me, Horace. I swore I’d never shake hands with you.”

“Come out to the kitchen,” said Gooch, scowling. “It’s warm there, and
besides you might like a cup of hot coffee.”

“All I want is a bed to sleep in. I haven’t slept in a regular bed for
the Lord knows how long. Thank God, I’ll be sleeping in my own to-morrow
night.”

He followed the puzzled Mr. Gooch to the kitchen and at once drew a
chair up to the stove.

“Where have you been all this time?” murmured Horace, generously
replenishing the fire.

“Oh—traveling,” said Mr. Baxter casually. He removed his hat and placed
it on the floor beside the chair.

Mr. Gooch leaned over and scrutinized the top of his guest’s head. Then
he deliberately felt of it.

“What are you doing?” demanded Mr. Baxter sharply.

“Oh—I was just wondering if—But never mind. Now, Ollie, tell me all
about yourself. We’ve been hunting for you all over the—”

Oliver’s cackle interrupted him.

“Like chasing a flea, wasn’t it?” he chuckled. “Before we go any
farther,” he went on seriously, “tell me about my boy Oliver. How is he?
Hasn’t been hung yet, has he?”

“Not yet,” said Mr. Gooch sententiously. He placed a chair on the
opposite side of the stove and sat down.

“Well, he’s in no danger now,” said Mr. Baxter. “And what’s more, he
never was in any danger of being hung. That gypsy woman lied.”

“That’s what I said at the time. Didn’t I tell you what a darned fool
you were?”

“How’s my boy, and where is he? I telephoned him three times to-night
but the doggoned system’s always out of order. Couldn’t get any answer.”

“He’s over in Rumley,” said Mr. Gooch shortly. “I guess he’s all right.
Leastwise he was up to this evening.”

“That’s good. By glory, I’ll be glad to see him. I’ve got some great
news for him. Took me over a year to get it and cost me a lot of money,
but it was worth it. My mind is at rest. Say, do you know I’ve been from
one end of this country to the other? On the go every minute of the
time. It wasn’t till about a month ago that I run across the right
band.”

“Band?”

“Yep. Band. Struck ’em over in eastern Ohio. I guess I must have tracked
down seventy-five or a hundred bands before I got the right one.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Gypsies,” said Mr. Baxter briefly, holding his gnarled red hands out to
the fire. “You said something about coffee, Horace.”

Mr. Gooch eyed him fearfully for a few moments.

“Crazy as a loon,” he muttered.

“Who? Me?”

“No, no!” cried Mr. Gooch hastily. “Don’t get excited now, Ollie. Keep
calm. I’ll put the coffee pot on right away. Just you keep quiet—”

“Is that what you were feeling my head for?” demanded Mr. Baxter
shrewdly.

“Not at all, not at all, just—affection, Ollie.”

“Umph! Well, I’m not crazy—not on your life. Hurry up with that coffee.
Mind if I light my pipe?”

“Certainly not. Go ahead,” urged Mr. Gooch, whose antipathy to tobacco
was so pronounced that no one ever thought of smoking in his house.

Mr. Baxter stretched out his wrinkled legs, and filled his pipe and lit
it, all the while keeping his keen little eyes on his brother-in-law.
Mr. Gooch splashed considerable water upon the hot stove as he filled
the coffee pot. The visitor seemed to find pleasure in exhaling great
clouds of rank-smelling smoke.

“Yes, sir,” he began presently; “I hunted this country over before I
found her. She remembered everything. She even remembered you, Horace.”
He cackled. “I’d hate to tell you what she said about you.”

Mr. Gooch was silent.

“It took me nearly two weeks to get her to admit that she lied,” went on
Mr. Baxter. “And I guess she wouldn’t have done it then if I hadn’t
offered her a hundred dollars to tell the truth. You see, Horace, it was
this way. As my boy Oliver grew up to be a man I realized that she had
lied dreadfully about one thing, so that set me to thinking that she
must have lied about others. She said he would grow up to be the living
image of his father. Well, he didn’t. He’s a hundred per cent better
looking than I am or ever was. That’s a fact, ain’t it?”

“Are you talking about the gypsy who told his fortune?” inquired Mr.
Gooch, comprehending at last.

“Yes. Queen Marguerite. Mrs. Tobias Spink in private. One of the most
interesting queens I’ve ever met, and, by gosh, I’ve met a lot of ’em in
my travels. As I was saying, I got it into my head that if she could be
wrong about Oliver looking like me she could have been wrong about
everything else. So I made up my mind to find her and—”

“So _that’s_ what you’ve been up to, you blamed old idiot!” exclaimed
Mr. Gooch. “Sneaking away and leaving everybody to wonder what had
become of you. You ought to be cow-hided, Oliver Baxter. All the trouble
and anxiety and worry you’ve caused me and your son and everybody else!
All the money your son spent looking for you—to say nothing of what
I’ve spent myself lately. Why, you old—”

“Keep your shirt on, Horace,” advised Oliver blandly. “Don’t get
excited. I just had to do it. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I would
have lost my mind long before Oliver was thirty if I had sat around
waiting for a year and more to see if he was really going to be hung.
Besides, it’s none of your business anyhow. You say Oliver spent a lot
of money trying to find me?” He put the question eagerly, wistfully.

“And so did I,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “I’m not saying Oliver spent his own
money. He probably—”

“I don’t care whose money he spent,” cried Mr. Baxter joyously. “I’ll
pay back all that you spent, so don’t you worry, you derned old
skinflint. Every nickel of it.”

“You will?” cried Mr. Gooch. “Is that a promise?”

“Certainly. And my word is as good as my bond,” said Mr. Baxter proudly.

“I’ve always said you were an absolutely honest man, Oliver,” said Mr.
Gooch ingratiatingly. “Never knew you to go back on your word. If you
say you’ll pay, I know you will.”

“Figure it up and let me know,” said Mr. Baxter. “I guess my business is
still prospering. I had a kind of notion Oliver October would step in
and take hold of it in my place after I went away, so—But never mind
about that. Yes, sir, I finally got the queen to confess that
_everything_ she said that night was false. She wanted two hundred, but
I wouldn’t give it. Said she was ruining herself by confessing, and all
that. Oliver ain’t going to be hung any more than you or I. All spite
work, she says. Got mad at all of us. He’s not even going to be a
general in the army, or a great and successful business man, or enter
the halls of state, or—”

“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Gooch quickly, hopefully.

“—or look exactly like me,” concluded Mr. Baxter. “She’s going to make
an affidavit to it soon as we get to Rumley to-morrow.”

Mr. Gooch started, casting an anxious look toward the kitchen door.

“Say, you—you don’t mean to tell me you’ve got her with you,” he
rasped. “If that’s so, I want to tell you right now, Ollie Baxter, I
won’t have you bringing any strange women into my house. My house is a
respectable—”

“She’s out at the camp,” interrupted Mr. Baxter. “We’ve camped just
south of town. I’ve been sleeping with her father for nearly a month—on
rainy nights, I mean, when we had to get into the caravan. His name is
Wattles. Eighty years old and still the best horsetrader in the tribe.”

Mr. Gooch groaned.

“I’ll fix up the sofa in the parlor for you to sleep on, Ollie,” he said
after a long and thoughtful pause. “The bed in the spare room isn’t made
up. In fact, it’s down altogether—being repaired,” he went on lamely.

“You’ve got a double bed in your room, haven’t you?” said Mr. Baxter.

“Well, it’s boiling at last,” evaded Mr. Gooch. “Now, we’ll have some
nice hot coffee. Like it pretty strong?”

“Middling,” said Mr. Baxter reproachfully. “I was counting on sleeping
in a nice, warm, soft bed to-night, Horace.”

His host pondered. “I was just thinking that maybe I could bring down a
mattress from the attic, Ollie, and fix you up in the hall just outside
my bedroom door. I’ll leave the door open. Plenty of blankets and—”

“All right, all right,” broke in Mr. Baxter, and gulped down some of the
hot coffee. “I want to get an early start to-morrow morning, so you
don’t need to mind about giving me a breakfast. We figure on getting
away a little after sunrise.”

His host remonstrated. “I won’t listen to it,” he said. “You will go
over to Rumley with me in my car just as soon as we’ve had breakfast.
Your friends—I mean the gypsies—can follow along later. Not another
word, old boy. I insist on it. You will want to see your son as soon as
possible. I have to go to Rumley in the morning anyway.” He hesitated a
moment, eyeing his guest keenly, and then proceeded: “Although I guess
it won’t be necessary for me to look at that—Ahem! Ah—er—I was just
wondering whose body it is, since it can’t possibly be yours. The one
they found in the swamp yesterday, I mean.”

Mr. Baxter checked a yawn to inquire with sudden interest: “In the
swamp, eh? Out in one of the pools? Well, by ginger!” He started up from
his chair in a state of great excitement. “Why, it must be Tom Sharp’s
body. Of all the—”

“Tom Sharp? Who is Tom Sharp? Besides, it isn’t a body. It’s a skeleton,
so they say—with its head split open.”

“Tom Sharp,” declared Mr. Baxter with conviction. “Old Wattles told me
all about it. Tom Sharp was killed with an ax right out there on the
edge of the swamp thirty years ago. Same night the queen came to my
house. He—”

“Can’t be,” broke in Mr. Gooch. “The doctors say this fellow has been
dead only a year or so.”

“How does anybody know how long a skeleton has been dead?” demanded Mr.
Baxter severely. “Of course it’s Tom Sharp. He got smashed over the head
with an ax that night by another gypsy whose wife he had run away with.
The husband caught up with him at Rumley, after chasing him for months.
It’s against the gypsy law for a man to steal another man’s wife. So
they never said anything about the killing. Just took Tom Sharp out in
the swamp and—er—sort of left him. The fellow that killed him joined
the band and went back to living with his wife, who was a girl named
Magda. Maybe you recollect her. She was up to my house that night. Her
husband died five or six years ago. His widow—Say, Horace, if they
think that body is mine, who is supposed to have killed me?”

Mr. Gooch experienced a strange and unsuspected softening of the heart.

“A man that used to work around your place,” said he, after a moment’s
hesitation. “He skipped out a few weeks ago,” he added, generously
enlarging upon the lie.

Silence fell between them. Mr. Baxter was thinking profoundly, his brow
wrinkled, his eyes fixed on one of his bony hands.

“Just so it wasn’t—Oliver,” he said at last, swallowing hard. He had
removed the gaudy muffler. His Adam’s apple rose and fell twice
convulsively. “I’d hate to have people think he did it.”

“Your pipe’s gone out, Ollie,” said Mr. Gooch brusquely.

“You can’t blame it,” sighed Mr. Baxter, yawning again. “I’m too tired
to keep it going.”

Horace busied himself about the stove and at the sink over by the
window.

“I guess you won’t mind my asking a question, Ollie,” he said, turning
to his brother-in-law. “Seeing that you hate me, what put it into your
head to come here to-night and ask for lodging in my house, knowing that
I hate you as much as you do me—or more?”

“Well, you see,” began Mr. Baxter, very wistfully and yet shamefacedly,
“I’ve been among strangers for so long, Horace, and I’ve been so
homesick for some of my own folks that I—well, I sort of felt I’d like
to see even you.”

Mr. Gooch pulled at his whiskers for a long time.

“Come to think of it, Ollie,” he said, rather loudly, due to the
discovery that the other was having great difficulty in keeping his eyes
open, “I guess I’ll have you sleep in that big feather bed in
the—er—in my second spare room. How will that suit you? And I’ll let
you have a nice, fresh night-shirt. Come along. Better get to bed.”

Mr. Baxter looked at him in a sort of mild, sleepy wonder.

“Why, you’re not half as stingy as I thought you’d be,” said he slowly.

“Anybody that says I am stingy don’t know what he’s talking about,” said
Mr. Gooch magnificently.

He escorted his guest up the back stairs and ushered him into the one
and only spare room the house afforded.

“Get undressed, Ollie,” said he. “I’ll be back in a minute with the
night-shirt.”

He hurried off to his own room. As he opened the door he
stopped—aghast.

“Darn my fool hide!” he grated under his breath. “I left that light
burning and it’s been going all the time I was downstairs.”

                                THE END




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES


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