Hervey Willetts

These rough, burly men accepted him as they would have accepted a stray dog and called him a mascot. He hiked to their camp each day and stayed among them till sunset. He wandered about and climbed trees and ate with them and fetched saw or sledge-hammer, and was always on the handcar when it went down the line to Clover Valley for provisions. When he told the men his name was Hervey, they dubbed him Nervy and he was fated to deserve the name. Of course, they liked him. He was serviceable when he wanted to be and it was all right when he elected to beguile himself in the dense woods that bordered the tracks.

It was unfortunate that Hervey could not have continued this harmless pastime which was interrupted by Harlem Hinkey. On a certain fateful evening he went to the second show with this young magnate who treated him to ice cream soda on the way home. This delayed his arrival till about eleven o’clock, and Mr. Walton was greatly annoyed. He had an old-fashioned idea that a boy should be home early at night, though occasionally he relaxed in this respect provided Hervey asked permission. But asking permission was a thing that Hervey did not know how to do. He breezed into the living room on this particular night presenting an amusing contrast to the ominous deliberation of his stepfather who leisurely folded his paper, laid it down precisely and addressed him.

“Where have you been, Hervey?”

“I went to the second show with a feller—some picture! Bimbo, all about ranches. That’s where I’d like to go—out west.”

“I wish you wouldn’t throw your cap in a chair, Hervey, dear,” said Mrs. Walton. “Can’t you hang it in the hall as you come in?”

He disappeared into the hall, and as he did go, Mr. Walton with a quietly determined look said, “I want to talk to Hervey alone a few minutes.” Mrs. Walton, with a gentle show of apprehension, went upstairs.

CHAPTER XXI
DISTANT RUMBLINGS

“Now Hervey, where have you been?”

“Gee, didn’t I tell you? I went to the second show.”

“It’s after eleven o’clock,” said Mr. Walton, “and you know you musn’t stay out till that time without our knowing where you are. If you want to go to the movies you must go to the first show. Wasn’t that understood? Now school is beginning—”

“In New York the fellers stay out till twelve, even one,” said Hervey. He had up-to-date information from Harlem Hinkey on this point.

“Well, they don’t here,” said Mr. Walton crisply; “not in this house anyway.”

“Isn’t it my house—when I grow up?” demanded Hervey.

This was high-handed to the point of insolence, but Mr. Walton was not angered. Instead he seemed thoughtful. He would have been justified in feeling hurt, for he had always been generous to this boy whose own mother had left just nothing except the house which would be Hervey’s some day. Mr. Walton had improved it and cleared it of a mortgage, thinking only of its future owner.

“I’m sorry you said that, Herve,” he remarked, “for it makes it hard for me to deal with you as I’m sure I ought to—as I promised I would. That is, with the single thought of your own welfare. Somehow I always feel that I have not full authority over you. I feel I have the right to help you and guide you, but not to punish you.”

“Sure, I don’t blame you,” said Hervey.

“Of course, this place is to be yours. But you want to be worthy of it, don’t you?”

“Believe me, I want to get away from it and go out west,” said Hervey; “there’s no fun in this berg. A feller I know says so too. And I know how I’m going to get the money too—I do.”

He was probably thinking of employment in the circus which was doing a three day stand in Clover Valley. Perhaps he had also some idea of identifying himself professionally with that camp of railroad workers whose duties sometimes took them far afield.

“Bimbo, you can have the place if you want it,” he said flippantly. “What’s the use of having it if I can’t stay out of it nights. Anyway, you’re not my father, are you?”

Still Mr. Walton kept his composure. “I think some boy has put that idea into your head,” said he. “You never said that before. I don’t think that comes from your heart, Herve.”

“Well, I’m not going to start going to school anyway. Lots of fellers my age do other things. Jiminies, I can’t stand that old four-eye Keller; he razzed me all last term. You say the Scouts and fresh air are good. Is it good to keep a feller in school till five o’clock. Bimbo, do you call that fresh air? Good night!”

Still Mr. Walton, unruffled, patient, reasonable, seemed to be trying to understand this boy and to be fair with him. He watched him with a keen scrutiny in his kindly, tired eyes. His forbearance seemed inexhaustible.

“Hervey,” said he finally, “why did you try to sell your bicycle?”

Hervey was quite taken by surprise. “M—my—why did I try to—when did I try to sell it?” he stammered.

“You tried to sell it to Mr. Berly,” said Mr. Walton. “I met him to-day and he told me so.”

“He—he said that?” Hervey was right on the edge of a lie, but he sidestepped it. “Gee, what good is it?” he said.

“You said only last week you were going to take a long ride on it. Don’t you remember—at the supper table—when Mrs. Tennet was here?”

“As long as I can’t go anywhere and stay out, what’s the good of it? Riding around the green isn’t any fun.”

Mr. Walton disregarded this insincerity. “And that’s why you tried to sell it? The bicycle that your mother promised you when you reached fifteen, and which I gave you in memory of her—to carry out her wish?”

Hervey was silent. For a moment he seemed to be reached.

“You didn’t think you could get enough for it to take you out west, did you? When you’re old enough if you want to go out west, I’ll give you the money to go. I’m afraid you’ll never find what you want out there, but if you want to go, I will be willing—when you get through school. I can’t make you stay in the Scouts—”

“Good night on that outfit,” Hervey interrupted.

“But of course, you must finish school—and high school.”

“Goooood night!”

“And I want you to think about what you’ve said to me to-night,” said Mr. Walton soberly; “about this being your house and about my not being your father. And about trying to sell your bicycle that was really like a present from your own mother—her wish. I want you to ask yourself whether you—I think you call it playing a game, don’t you—? Whether you’re playing the game right with me, and with Mumsy, who worries so much about you. But whether you think of these things or not you must be ready to go to school when it opens. And you must be in the house each night at half past nine. You must pay as much attention to what I tell you as to what some chance acquaintance tells you. You see, Hervey, I’m giving you credit for not originating some of these things you have said to me. Good night.”

Hervey did not move away. He was just embarrassed enough to avoid drawing attention to himself by leaving the room. He did not feel like saying good night, and he did not like to go without saying good night. It was not an unworthy embarrassment and Mr. Walton respected it. He rose, a gaunt, bent form, and went out into the kitchen. Hervey could hear him winding the old-fashioned clock that stood on the shelf over the stove. Then he could hear the woodshed door being bolted. Still he stood just where he was. Mr. Walton came slowly through the hall and Hervey could count his slow footfalls on the stair. When the coast was clear he went upstairs himself.

CHAPTER XXII
WORDS AND ACTIONS

Hervey did not ponder upon any of those matters. There was no action in pondering, and he believed in action. He had never intended to rebel against going back to school; his remarks along that line had been quite casual. First and last, he had a good deal of fun in school. I suppose you might call playing hooky part of the fun of going to school.

Nor did he have any serious intentions at that time of going west. His remarks on that score had also been quite casual. The thought that did linger with him was that New York (especially Harlem) must be a wonderful place. For the honor of Farrelton and Massachusetts, he was resolved that Harlem Plinkey’s face should be washed with the very first dare he offered. Harlem Hinkey was all that was left now before the opening of school.

For several days Hervey walked the straight and narrow path, and though he roamed at large in the evenings, he was always home on time. He was a deft performer on the harmonica and could play Home Sweet Home in funeral time, in march time and in waltz time. He would sit on the counter in his father’s store on evenings when Mr. Walton was at home and play for the two salesgirls to dance. They liked him immensely and adored his outlandish hat.

He was on his way home from one of these impromptu affairs one night when he encountered Harlem Hinkey standing in front of the Hinkey million dollar theatre.

“Want to go in to the second show?” Hinkey asked.

“Nope, I’ve got to be home before ten,” said Hervey.

They walked up the street together and turned into Milligan Street which ran through to Hart Street on which Hervey lived. Another block and he would have been safely at home. Milligan Street was but one block long; it was dominated by the big square wooden Congregational church which had stood there a good hundred years before any of the chain of Hinkey million dollar theatres had been dreamed of. Its white bulk and the massive roof-high pillars before its spacious portal loomed in the darkness.

“Is that where the kids meet?” Hinkey asked. He meant the Scouts, but he never paid them the compliment of calling them by that name.

“Yop,” said Hervey, “only they’re not meeting there to-night. It’s the Farrelton band. They practise in the Sunday School room. There go a couple of them now.”

As he spoke a couple of young men hastened along the board walk beside the church and into the lighted extension.

“Oh, listen to the band,” Hinkey sang rather aggressively. “Come on, let’s sit down; you don’t have to go home yet,” he said.

Adjacent to the church was a long, ramshackle shed, reminiscent of a time when people sheltered their horses and carriages during service. Near this was a rail where horses had once been tied. In days gone by many were the sermons punctuated by the restive stamping of these horses from near and far about the countryside.

“I bet you I can walk on that,” said Hervey. “I bet you I can go the whole length of it on one foot. Do you say I can’t?” After a stumble or two, he proved that he could. “Come on, let’s sit on the rail; I don’t have to get in till ten.” Nine-thirty was the limit set, but Hervey had made it ten and Mr. Walton had not taken official notice.

“Me, I can stay out all night,” said Hinkey. “You’re lucky. I bet when you went to Coney Island you stayed that late.”

“They were lucky if they saw me back the next day,” said Hinkey.

“Did you go on the boat? I bet you wouldn’t stand on the rail of that.”

“I bet I did.”

“Not when it was going?”

“Sure I did.”

“Oh bimbo. Let’s see you walk this rail—on one foot.”

“I wouldn’t be bothered,” said Hinkey.

“I bet you were never up in the tower of that Woolworth Building.”

“I bet I was. I bet I know the man that owns it.”

“I bet you wouldn’t stand on the rail up there—oh boy!”

“I bet I would.”

“I bet you wouldn’t.”

“I bet I would only there’s a man that won’t let you.”

“I bet I could do it when he didn’t see me,” said Hervey. “Will they let you walk through that tube under the river?”

“Sure, and Election Day is a holiday over there too. This is no good of a state.”

“I bet you don’t get forefathers’ Day over there,” said Hervey. “So that proves you’re a fool.”

“I bet if you saw Coney Island you’d want to stay there.”

“Oh bimbo!” said Hervey. “Do they have loop-the-loops there?”

“Suuure they do, and I looped them too.”

“Not without being strapped in, I bet you didn’t.”

“I bet I did.”

“I bet you can’t prove it.”

“I bet I can only the feller is in New York.”

“When you stayed away at night, I bet you didn’t stay with gipsies. I did.”

“I bet I helped to arrest gipsies,” Hinkey said.

“That’s nothing, I bet I got arrested,” said Hervey.

“I bet you never did.”

“What do you bet?”

“I bet you a ride in my car.”

“Where to?”

“You got arrested! I have to laugh.”

“You think only fellers that live in New York can get arrested?”

“Here comes another band player,” Hinkey said, and raising his voice in a way of mockery, he paraphrased the familiar song.

“He walks cissified,” he concluded. “Look, he’s got a satchel.”

“He’s got a cornet or some kind of a trumpet in it,” said Hervey. “One of them has a long bag with a saxaphone in it—I saw it once.”

sang Harlem Hinkey, and he whistled a kind of insolent accompaniment as the young man came tripping diagonally across the street. It must be confessed that this late arriving member had a decidedly effeminate trip as he came hurrying along and there was a crude humor to Hinkey’s accurately timed mockery.

“He doesn’t see us,” whispered Hinkey. “I tell you what let’s do; let’s sneak up behind and trip him up and grab the bag and then we’ll beat it around the side and we’ll blow the trumpet good and loud through the window. Hey? We’ll give them a good scare. See them jump, hey?”

This was a crude enough practical joke, to be sure. It was characteristic of Hinkey; it was his particular style of mischief. It had not any of the heroic quality of a stunt. It was not in the class with Hervey’s deeds of glory. To do our hero credit, to give the devil his due as they say, he would never have originated this silly joke. But it was not in his nature to back out of anything. He always moved forward.

“You trip him up and I’ll grab the bag,” he said. “Then I’ll beat it around and climb up on the window sill and I’ll give it a good loud blow. I can climb up there better than you can, I bet you.” It was amusing how in this wanton enterprise his thought focused upon the one really skilful feature of it—the vaulting on to the high window ledge. “Oh bimbo,” he added with relish.

There was something inviting in the thought of tripping up a young fellow with such a mincing gait. If it were ever justifiable to trip anybody up he would be the sort of fellow who ought to be tripped. The two boys made a masterful and silent flank move to the rear of the hurrying figure. But when it came to tripping him, Harlem Hinkey fell back and it was Hervey who, dextrously projecting his foot, sent the young musician sprawling.

Things happened with lightning rapidity. Aghast at the magnificent execution of his inspired plan, Harlem Hinkey withdrew precipitately from the scene. Hervey’s ready skill and promptness and the thudding descent of the victim had exhausted his courage. And there was Hervey, already around the corner with the bag. He had not advanced to the wing of the church for the very good reason that the rumpus had attracted attention within and already a young man with a flute in his hand was emerging from the doorway. He and his companions had been waiting for their dilatory member and now they beheld him sitting on the pavement nearby, nursing a bleeding knee while Harlem Hinkey went scooting down the street.

Around the corner, safe from the excited group, Hervey Willetts walked quickly with a simulated air of unconcern. He was good at this sort of thing and could adopt a demeanor of childlike innocence immediately after any stunt which had not the sanction of the law. A doctor hurrying with his little black bag, intent on an errand of mercy, could not have been more unconcerned than was our hero as he hastened along Hart Street. He could not afford to run because Cartwright, the night cop, was sauntering along on the other side of the way.

CHAPTER XXIII
DIPLOMACY

Instead of making the big noise our hero, deserted by his confederate, was using all his finesse not to attract the attention of the sauntering cop. At the corner Cartwright paused, glanced about, then crossed and strolled along a few yards behind Hervey. The official was quite unconcerned, but Hervey’s guilty conscience told him that he was pursued. If he looked around or started to run, disaster might ensue. So he kept up the air of a respectable home-going citizen and did it to perfection.

He might have been a Boy Scout carrying some one’s satchel as a good turn. He heard a voice behind him and feared it might be the outraged band member heading a posse to recover his instrument. Whoever it was, the person walked with the policeman and spoke of the weather.

Coming to his own house, Hervey opened the gate and felt relieved to be within the fenced enclosure. The gravel walk with its bordering whitewashed stones seemed to welcome him to safety. It was characteristic, oh how characteristic of Hervey, that he was not in the least troubled about how he was to return the satchel to its unknown owner. His only concern was his immediate safety. He would not lay it down to be lost to its owner. And he could not seek the hapless victim without giving himself away. So he entered the house cautiously, went upstairs and laid the satchel in his own apartment, then descended to the living room where his step-parents sat reading beside the marble center table. He had overstepped his time by about fifteen minutes, but Mr. Walton seemed never disposed to quibble about small infringements.

“I was at the store,” said Hervey.

“They busy?”

“Sure, people buying things for school. Grouchy Greenway was in, he bought a lot of homework paper—pity the fellers in the third grade. Ruth Binney’s scared of that ladder that rolls along—oh bimbo, that’s my middle name. I can take a running jump and ride it all the way to the back of the store.” He did not mention that he played the harmonica for the girls to dance; he was a good sport and did not tell tales out of school.

“I think Ruth and Annie Terris will miss you when you go to Montana,” said Mr. Walton playfully.

“Such nonsense,” said Mrs. Walton. “Don’t put those ideas back into his head.”

“I may go sooner than you think,” said Hervey.

He stood in the doorway to the dining room, pausing before making his late evening attack on the apple barrel. A blithe, carefree figure he seemed, his eyes full of a kind of gay madness. One rebellious lock of hair sprawled over his forehead as he suddenly pulled off his outlandish hat in deference to his stepmother. He never remembered to do this as a regular duty; he remembered each time separately, and then with lightning inspiration. He could not for the life of him adapt his manners or phraseology to his elders.

“You know me, Al,” he said.

“Are you going to wash your face when you go in the kitchen?” Mrs. Walton inquired.

“Sure, is there any pie?” he asked.

They heard him fumbling in the kitchen, then trudging up the stairs.

“I think it would be just as well not to harp on Montana,” said Mrs. Walton. “It’s odd how he hit on Montana.”

“One place is as good as another,” said Mr. Walton. “I’m glad it’s Montana, it costs so much to get there. If he had Harlem in mind, or Coney Island, I might worry.”

“He talks of them both,” said Mrs. Walton. “Yes, but I think his heart is in the big open spaces, where the fare is about a hundred dollars. If it were the Fiji Islands I’d be content.”

“Do you think he’d like to go to Europe with us next summer?” Mrs. Walton asked. “I can’t bear to leave him alone.”

“No, I’m afraid he’d want to dive from the Rock of Gibraltar,” said Mr. Walton. “He’ll be safe at Temple Camp.”

“He seems to have just no balance-wheel,” Mrs. Walton mused. “When I look in his eyes it seems to me as if they saw joys, but never consequences.”

“Sort of near-sighted in a way, eh?”

“I do wish he had stayed in the Scouts, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mr. Walton in a matter-of-fact way. “He didn’t see it. Some day he’ll see it, but it won’t be because anybody tells him. The only way Hervey can learn that a tree is high is for him to fall out of it. That’s what I mean by his being near-sighted in a way.”

“Do you think those railroad workers are a good set?”

“Oh, they’re a good lot; good, strong men.”

“Well, I don’t care for that Hinkey, do you?”

Mr. Walton did not go into raptures over anybody from New York. He was a good New Englander. Nor had he been carried off his feet by the “million dollar theatre.” But being a true New Englander he was fair in judgment and of few words, especially in the field of criticism. His answer to this last question was to resume reading his book.

CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE SILENT NIGHT

In his own room Hervey opened the satchel which circumstances had caused him to carry home. He thought that since kind fate had brought the opportunity, he would like to give one exceedingly low blast on a real musical instrument. He was astonished to find that there was no musical instrument in the satchel, but a tin box containing a small account book, a number of bills with a rubber band around them, and an envelope containing some loose change.

He contemplated this treasure aghast. Counting the bills he found them to be in amount a trifle over a hundred dollars. Never before had he handled so much money. He was a little afraid of it. He shook the sealed envelope which was fat with coins; that alone seemed to contain a fortune. He glanced at the book and found it to full of figures, entries of receipts and expenditures. On the flyleaf was written:

He was greatly excited by this revelation. Here was a serious business, a very grave consequence of a mischievous act. To be sure, the bringing home of the satchel that did not belong to him would have been the same in any case regardless of its contents. But just the same the sight of so much money come into his possession in such a way, frightened him. He had not thought of such a thing as this. You see Hervey never thought at all—ever.

But he thought now. He had “colloped” (whatever that meant) the treasury funds of this musical organization and he felt uneasy that he should have to be the custodian of such a princely sum over night. Money that did not belong to him! Would his wanton act be construed as just harmless mischief? He had always wanted to have a hundred dollars, but now he was almost afraid to touch it. He replaced the box in the satchel and put the satchel under his bed. Then he pulled it out again and put it in his dresser. Then he closed and locked the window. When he was half undressed, he took the satchel out of his dresser and stood holding it not knowing where to put it. Then he put it back in the dresser.

He thought of going downstairs and telling his stepfather and getting this awful fortune off his hands. But then he would have to tell how he had come by it. Well, was that so very bad? Tripping a fellow up? But would any one understand? He was very angry at the deserter Hinkey. And he was equally angry that this dextrous little tripping stunt should bear such consequences. It seemed to him that even poor Horton Manners had taken a mean advantage.

He resolved that he would hunt up the musical treasurer in the morning and return the satchel to him. He would hang on to it pretty carefully going down the street, too. He did not know Horton Manners, but he could find him. Of course, he would have to tell the man that he was sorry he had tripped him up. And his explanation of why he had carried the satchel home might sound rather queer. He was not too considerate of the tripping treasurer. He was doomed to a sleepless night on account of that “bimbo.” It was odd, more than it was significant, that Hervey, who was afraid of no peril, was in panic fear of this hundred and some odd dollars. He was just afraid of it.

Several times during that long night, he arose and groped his way to the dresser to make sure that the satchel was safe. In the wee hours of the night he was sorry that he had not hunted up Horton Manners immediately after his escapade. But then he might have got home too late. On every hand he seemed confronted with the high cost of mischief.

He wondered if the tripping treasurer was searching for the culprit with the aid of the police. He felt sure that no one dreamed he was the culprit. Would they, might they not already, have traced Hinkey? And what would Hinkey say? He had a reassuring feeling that Hinkey could not be identified as one of the culprits. He certainly would not tell on Hinkey. And he hoped that Hinkey would not be incriminated and tell on him before he had a chance to return the satchel. But surely Mr. Horton Manners had not gone home and to bed, doing nothing about the theft of more than a hundred dollars. To the young treasurer the affair was a plain robbery. Of course, Hervey could not sleep when his imagination pictured the whole police and detective force of the town aroused by a bold hold-up.

In the hour just before dawn Hervey, in his troubled half-sleep, heard a knocking sound. Trembling all over, he pulled on his shirt and trousers, crept stealthily downstairs and with a shaking hand and pounding heart opened the front door.

CHAPTER XXV
LIFE, LIBERTY—

No one was there. Hervey looked out upon the dissolving night; already the familiar scene was emerging in the gray drawn—the white rail fence, the gravel walk with its bordering whitewashed stones, the big whitewashed tub that caught the rain-water from the roof trough. He smelled the mist. There was no one anywhere about; no sound but the slow dripping into the tub. Drop, drop, drop; it was from the rain of two or three days ago. How audible it was in the stillness! He crept upstairs again and went to bed. But he did not sleep. He wished that dreadful satchel were off his hands. Over a hundred dollars!

He arose in the morning before the household was astir and stole out with his guilty burden. He knew that Kipp’s Railroad Lunch was open all night and that it had a telephone. He would look in the telephone book for Manners. That way he would find the address. He thought of leaving the satchel at the Manners’ door, ringing the bell, and running away. The recovery of the money would end the trouble. But suppose the satchel should be stolen again—not again; but suppose it should be stolen? Of course, it had not been stolen before.... Just the same he was desperate to get it off his hands.

Things looked strange about the station so early in the morning; there were so few people to be seen, and no shops open. Somehow the very atmosphere imparted a guilty feeling to Hervey. He felt a little like a fugitive.

He could not find the name of Manners in the ’phone book and thus baffled, he felt nervous. For while he was losing time, the victim and the authorities were probably not wasting any time. He thought he would wait in the station a little while and try to decide what to do. He knew that the family of Denny Crothers, a scout, was identified with the big white church. There was an idea! Denny would know where Horton Manners lived, or could soon find out. Perhaps he might even take Denny into his confidence. It is worth considering that in his extremity he was willing not only to use, but to trust, this scout whose troop he had repudiated.

Well, he would sit in the station a little while (it was still very early) and if he could not think of any other plan, he would go to Denny’s house. It would seem strange to the Crothers, seeing him there so early. And it would seem stranger still to Denny to be approached by an arch enemy. But Hervey’s troubled thoughts could not formulate any better plan.

The station was not yet open and he strolled back and forth on the platform where a very few people were waiting for the early train—a workman wearing a reefer jacket and carrying a dinner-pail, a little group of girls who worked in the paper mill at Brierly, and a couple of youngish men near the end of the platform. These two were chatting and one of them gave a quick glance at Hervey. It seemed to him that the talk which followed had reference to himself. He wished that the station would open, for it was a raw fall morning; there was a penetrating chill in the air. He wanted to sit down; he was tired of holding that dreadful satchel, yet he would not set it down for so much as a moment.

Suddenly, a rattling old car drove up and a brisk young man in an overcoat got out and dragged two huge oilcloth grips to the platform. He looked as if he might be a salesman who had completed his assault on Farrelton. He stopped and lighted a cigarette, and while he was doing this the two men strolled over and spoke to him. He seemed annoyed, then laughed as he took out some papers which the two men examined. Hervey overheard the word hardware. And he overheard one of the men say, “K.O., Buddy.” They handed back the papers, nodded sociably, and moved away. It seemed by the most casual impulse that they approached Hervey. But he trembled all over.

“You’re out early, kiddo,” said one of them. “Waiting for the train?”

Why, oh why, did he flush and stammer and answer without thinking? “No—y-yes—I guess it’s late, hey?”

“Guess not,” said the man with a kind of leisurely pleasantry. “What you got in the bag, kiddo?”

“Bimbo, do I have to tell you?” Hervey demanded with the air of one whose rights are outraged.

“Might be just as well,” said the man. “What’s your name anyway?”

“My name is Hervey Willetts and you let go of that!” Hervey shouted, tugging at the satchel. “You let go of that, do you hear!” He not only pulled, but he kicked. “You let go of that or you’ll get in trouble, you big—”

He was the center of a little group now; it was astonishing what a number of persons were presently on the scene considering the few early morning stragglers. The men put a quick end to Hervey’s ill-considered struggle by taking the satchel while one held him firmly by the collar. There is not a decent person in the world but rebels against this collar grip which seems the very essence of effrontery. Few boys so held will fail to use that potent weapon, the foot, and Hervey, squirming, administered a kick upon his captor’s shin which made the burly fellow wince and swear.

But it was all to no avail. They opened the satchel and noted its contents. Hervey’s sense of indignity now quite obliterated every other feeling. His struggles subsided into a wrathful sullenness; he could not, or he would not, explain. He knew only that he was being held and that fact alone aroused the demon in him. Of course, if Walton could not manage him, and the Scouts could not win and hold him, it was hardly to be expected that these low-bred detectives could get closer to him than to hold him by the collar. A dog would have understood him better. He was not the kind of boy to grab by the collar.

These two detectives, apprised of the “robbery,” had taken their stand at the station to note if any suspicious looking strangers were leaving town on the first train. The boy had almost escaped, because of his youth.

And escape was the one thought in his mind now. Twice he might have explained; first to his good stepfather, and again to these minions of the law. But they had the grabbing instinct and (oh, the pity of it) had diverted his thoughts from honest restitution to a maniac desire to beat them and baffle them, to steal indeed his liberty if nothing else, and let the satchel with its fortune go hang! He would steal; yes, he would forget all else now in this crazy mixup! He would steal what was the very breath of life to him—his freedom. He forgot the whole sorry business in this dominant thought—Horton Manners, the satchel, everything. They had grabbed him by the collar and he could feel the tightness in his neck.

As long as the squirrel has teeth to bite, he will bite. You cannot tame a squirrel. The fact that he is caught stealing in your tree is quite a secondary matter. Hervey Willetts never thought of stealing anything in his life—but just the one thing.

Freedom!

So he did a stunt. With both hands he tore open his shirt in front, and as he felt the loosening grip in back he sprang forward only to feel a vice-like hand catch hold of his arm. And that hand he bit with all his vicious might and main. Like lightning he dodged both men and was off like a deer while the circle of onlookers stood aghast. Around the end of the freight platform he sped and those who hurried there beheld no sign of him—only a milk-can lying on its side which he had probably knocked over.

Off bounded one of the detectives; the other lingered, sucking the cut in his hand. He didn’t know much about wild life, poor man. This was a kind of stealing he had never seen before—the only kind that interested Hervey Willetts. The only thing that interested him—freedom. As long as the squirrel has teeth to bite, he will bite.

You cannot tame a squirrel.

CHAPTER XXVI
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

But they caught him, and caged him. They found him in the camp of railroad workers near Clover Valley where he had spent a week or so of happy days. And they left nothing undone. They investigated the histories of that rough and ready crew, for they were after the man higher up, the “master mind” in back of the robbery.

They unearthed the fact that one of them, Nebraska Ned, had been a sailor and had deserted his ship to assist in a revolution in South America. It was then that Hervey made a most momentous decision. He abandoned Montana quite suddenly and chose South America as the future theatre of his adventurous career.

No master mind was discovered, not even the true master mind, Harlem Hinkey. He was not implicated and he neglected to uphold the chivalrous honor of Harlem by coming forward as the originator of the prank which had such a grave sequel. In the hearing in court, Hervey never mentioned his name. And there you have Hervey Willetts. You may take your choice between the “million dollar theatre” and South America.

There was a pathos about the quiet resignation, the poise and fairness in face of all, which Mr. Walton presented in that memorable scene at the hearing. I like Mr. Walton, good man that he was. He sat, a tall, gaunt figure, one lanky limb across the other, and listened without any outward show of humiliation. His tired gray eyes, edged by crow’s-foot wrinkles singularly deep, rested tolerantly on the prim young man, Horton Manners, who was having his day in court with a vengeance.

And Hervey, too, looked upon the young treasurer musician with interest, with dismay indeed, for he recognized in him the very same young man into whose lap he had stumbled on the train coming home after his triumphal season at helpless Temple Camp. Horton Manners looked down from his throne on the witness box, gazing through Hervey rather than at him, and adjusted his horn spectacles in a way that no one should do who is under fifty years old. He held one lapel of his coat and this simple posture, so common with his elders, gave him somehow the absurd look of an experienced business man of about twenty-two years.

He was not in the least embarrassed. He testified that he was treasurer of the Farrelton Band and confessed that he played a small harp. If he had said that he played a drum nobody would have believed him. He said that he had lived in Farrelton but a short while and made his home with his married sister. Then, on invitation of the likely looking young man representing the prosecutor, he told how Hervey had mentioned on the train that he was going to Montana and that he was going to “collop” the money to get there.

“And when did you next see him?”

“Not till this very day; in fact—here in court.”

“When he spoke of Montana, did he ask you how much it would cost to get there?”

“He did, and I informed him that it would cost at least a hundred dollars. I advised him against going.” There was a slight titter of the spectators at this.

“I think that’s all, your Honor,” said the interrogator. “Since the boy admits he took the satchel, we need not prove that.”

“Just one moment,” drawled Mr. Walton, drawing himself slowly to his feet. He had employed no lawyer, and would not, unless his stepson were held for trial on the serious charge of robbery.

“You say you live with your married sister?” he drawled ruminatively.

“Mrs. Winton C. DeGraw, yes.”

“Then your name would not be in the ’phone book?”

“Presumably not.”

“Hmph.”

“I don’t see any significance in that,” said the young prosecutor.

“I simply want to find out if my boy has told me the truth,” said Mr. Walton. “This isn’t a trial, of course. When I have satisfied myself about certain matters I will ask the court to hear me. One more question, Mr. Horton—I mean Mr. Manners. Do you know the meaning of the word collop?”

“I never investigated it.”

“Well, I have investigated it,” said Mr. Walton, with the faintest twinkle in his eye. Hervey looked rather surprisedly at his stepfather. “It does not mean to steal. It means to earn or to get by the performance of a foolhardy act—what boys call a stunt. Do you know what a stunt is?”

“I suppose when I was knocked down—”

“You mean tripped.”

“Well, tripped. I suppose that was a stunt.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Walton. “That’s all it was and nothing more. I have talked with boys and I find that if a boy jumps from a high fence to get another boy’s jack-knife, he collops it. It’s a long time since you and I were boys, Mr. Horton Manners,” Mr. Walton added with a smile. “Do you really want to charge this youngster with a felony?” he continued in a tone of quiet kindness. “Isn’t the case hard enough without that? Did you never perform a stunt?”

Oh, Hervey Willetts, if you had no thrill in that moment for the patient, kindly, harassed man—your friend and counselor; then indeed was there no hope for you! But he had a thrill. For the first time in all his life his eyes filled and brimmed over as he looked at the man who wanted only to make sure of him, to know that he was not dishonest; who could stand for anything save that.

“I think, your Honor,” said Mr. Walton quietly, “that this affair simmers down to a piece of mischief with an unintendedly serious consequence. I know, of course, about the recent affair of the fire. My boy gave himself up because he would not be despicable. He does not lie, much less steal. I believe the story he told me; that he thought the satchel contained a musical instrument and that he intended to blow it and cause panic to those gathered in the church. He saw the police officer, thought he was watched, and carried out the part of innocence by bringing the satchel home. It proved an elephant on his hands, a guilty burden to one really innocent. He told me he could not find this young man’s name in the ’phone book and it develops that the name is not there. I have here two men who saw him looking in the ’phone book in a lunch room near the station—”

The judge interrupted and surprised him. “I think we need not prolong this,” said he. “I think the boy had no intention of committing a serious crime, or any crime at all. I believe the story he told when arrested. I’d like to think the consequence will prove a lesson to him. But do you think it will?”

“I’m afraid it will not,” said Mr. Walton. “And I may say now that it is my intention to send him somewhere where he will be under rigid discipline. I think I may be left to deal with him.”

“Well, the charge of robbery is dismissed,” said the judge. Then he appeared to ruminate. “But the boy is still with us and there’s the problem. This is the second time he has been brought into court. He kicked up quite a rumpus and bit an officer. Where is this kind of thing going to end?” He seemed kindly and spoke rather sociably and not as an official. “Why don’t you put him in the Boy Scouts?” he added.

“The Boy Scouts haven’t given him a knockout blow yet,” smiled Mr. Walton. “I’m always hoping they’ll reach him. But I suppose they’ll have to do a stunt that pleases him. Meanwhile, I’m going to send him to a military school. It seems like a confession of defeat, but I’m afraid it’s the only thing to do.”

The judge turned to Hervey. “You’d better go home with your father,” said he. “And you take my advice and get into the Boy Scouts while there is time, or the first thing you know you’ll land in a reformatory. So you want to go to Montana, eh?”

“Sure, they have train robbers out there?” said Hervey.

“And how do you like having a hundred dollars that doesn’t belong to you?”

“Nix on that stuff,” Hervey said gayly.

“Yet you like train robbers.”

“Bimbo, that’s different.”

Mr. Horton Manners, still sitting like an owl on the witness stand, gazed at Hervey with a look of utter bewilderment.

“But in South America they have rebellions,” said Hervey.

“Well, let us have no more rebellion here,” smiled the judge.

And he winked at Mr. Walton.

CHAPTER XXVII
AT LAST

Of course, Hervey was never in any danger of being sent to prison for robbery. As soon as he was arrested and made to tell his story, Mr. Walton annoyed, but unruffled, saw the thing in its true light. He went to the all night lunch room near the station and made sure that Hervey had gone there; then he verified the boy’s statement that the name of Manners was not in the ’phone book.

Quietly he even inquired among boys the meaning of collop. And he learned on the highest juvenile authority that it did not signify stealing nor an intent to steal. But Horton Manners had made the charge of robbery and so the whole business had to be aired in court. Mr. Walton was a man of few words; it would be interesting to know what he really thought of Horton Manners.

As for Hervey, he quite forgot the affair within an hour of the time it was over. He had been appalled to find himself the custodian of a hundred and more dollars, but now that he had got it off his hands, he went upon his way rejoicing. He never looked either backward or forward; the present was good enough for him. It is significant that he bore no malice toward Horton Manners. Once or twice he referred to him as Arabella; then he forgot all about him. He could not be bothered hating anybody; nor caring a great deal about anybody either.

A few prominent townspeople financed the Firemen’s Carnival and it was held after all. Shows and acts were engaged, the merry-go-round revolved to the accompaniment of its outlandish music, the peanut and lemonade men held form; you could see the five-legged calf for “a dime ten cents,” and Biddle’s field presented a gala scene. The boys of Farrelton went round and round trying to stab the brass ring, they drank red lemonade and time after time gazed spellbound at the five-legged calf.

Hervey did not care about seeing the five-legged calf unless he could sneak in under the canvas fence, and he could not manage that because of the man who kept shouting and slapping the canvas with his stick. In common with all the other boys he was thrilled at the sight of Diving Denniver who ascended a ladder to a dizzy height and dived from it into a small tank directly below. Diving Denniver did this thing twice a day, and his night performance was the more thrilling because it was in the glare of a searchlight whose long beam followed him in his slow ascent of the frail looking ladder and showed him in a circle of light when he paused for one thrilling moment at the top. He earned his living in this way, going around exhibiting at carnivals and amusement parks, and he was the big feature of the Farrelton carnival.

Hervey was not content simply to behold this daredevil exploit. He saw it twice in the daytime and once at night, and he could not stand the strain of being restricted to the enjoyment afforded a gaping audience. That is where he differed from other boys. It was this something in his nature that prevented him from reading boys’ books; he could not intrude into the hair-raising adventures and so he had no use for them. The most thrilling stories were utterly dead stuff to Hervey.

But here he could intrude. It was after he saw the night performance that he felt the urge to penetrate to the hallowed spot whence that enchanted daredevil emerged in his theatrically cautious ascent of the ladder. The nature of the spectacular feat required that it be performed at a distance from the body of the carnival. As soon as the band started playing Up in the air mid the stars, the long column of light was directed on the ladder which appeared as if by magic a hundred yards or so from the thronged area of the carnival. Every eye was then fixed with expectancy as a white figure arose into view, moving up, up, up, to a little surmounting platform. Then the sensational dive, after which the pleasure seekers ate, drank and were merry again.

But Hervey could not go back to any merry-go-round after that, and red lemonade had no solace for him. He wandered off from those festoons of electric lights, away from the festive groups, into the darkness. Before him, down near the edge of Biddle’s field, was a tiny light. Soon he came to a rope fence which cut off the end of the field from the public. Beyond this were wagons and huge cases standing in the darkness, the packing and transporting paraphernalia of the motley shows. In a monstrous truck that stood there the multi-colored prancing horses of the merry-go-round would be loaded and have a ride themselves.

On an upright of this rope fence was a sign which read POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE. Hervey entered just where the sign was placed. A hundred or so paces brought him to the holy of holies, a little tent at the foot of the towering, slender ladder. In the darkness its wire braces, extending away on each side to their anchorages in the earth, could not be seen. Almost at the foot of the ladder was a tank perhaps fifteen or eighteen feet square. Close by the tent was a Ford sedan, and Hervey crept reverently up to it and read the words on the spare tire cover DIVING DENNIVER. On the lower part of the circumference was printed THREE HUNDRED FOOT DIVE. Diving Denniver believed in advertising. In that tent lived the enchanted mortal.

Hervey lingered in awe as a pilgrim might linger at a shrine before entering. Then he walked rather hesitatingly to the open flap of the tent. On a mattress which lay atop a huge red chest reclined Diving Denniver in a bath robe. The chest had DIVING DENNIVER printed on it, as also did a large leather grip, which bore the additional information WONDER OF TWO CONTINENTS. If the world could not see Diving Denniver on his dizzy perch, it at least could read about him. Besides the makeshift divan the tent contained a rough table formed by a red board laid on two saw horses.

On this was a greasy oil-stove and one or two plates and cups. In his illicit wanderings, Hervey had at last trespassed through the golden gates into heaven.

“I was walking around,” said he, rather unconvincingly.

Diving Denniver, a slim young man of about thirty, was smoking a cigarette and looking over a magazine. It seemed incredible that he should be thus engaged so soon after his spectacular descent.

“Bimbo, that was some pippin of a dive,” said Hervey. Then, as Diving Denniver made no attempt to kill him, he ventured to add, “Oh bambino, that’s one thing I’m crazy about—diving.”

“Didn’t the cop see you?” the marvel asked.

“Leave it to me,” said Hervey. “There isn’t any cop there anyway. Cops, that’s one thing I have no use for—nix.”

“Yere?” queried Diving Denniver, aroused to slight amusement.

“Do you—do you feel funny?” Hervey ventured as he gazed upon the wonder of two continents.

“Where did yer git that hat?” asked the god of the temple. “What’s all them buttons you got on it?”

“I climbed way down a cellar shaft to get one of those buttons,” said Hervey, anxious to establish a common ground of professional sympathy with this celebrity. “That’s the one,” he indicated, as he handed Denniver his hat; “the one that says VOTE FOR TINNEY. He didn’t get elected and I’m glad, because his chauffeur’s a big fool; he chased me, but he couldn’t catch me. Some of those holes I cut out with a real cartridge shell, like you cut cookies. I bet you feel funny, hey?”

“Yere?” said Diving Denniver, examining the hat. “Well, do you think yer could go back up there where the big noise is and then come back here again—without gettin’ stopped?”

“You mean you dare me to?”

Diving Denniver roused himself sufficiently to reach over to a box and grope in the pocket of a pair of ordinary trousers, the kind that mortals wear. Then he tossed a quarter to Hervey. “Chase yourself back there and get a frankfurter,” he said; “get a couple of ’em. And don’t leave the cop see yer.”

So the wonder of two continents ate frankfurters—and scorned cops. More than that, he and Hervey were going to eat a couple of frankfurters together. At last Hervey felt that he had not lived in vain.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE LAW AGAIN

Hervey felt that he and Diving Denniver were pretty much alike after all. The wonder of two continents beat all the boy scouts put together. And he had now a fine precedent for his repudiation of authority. Diving Denniver cared naught for cops and signs. Hervey would have been glad to go into any court and cite this high authority, confounding the powers with this frankfurter episode. He was sorry he had not told Diving Denniver of his swimming across the lake at Temple Camp (during rest period which was against the rules). Instead of an honor he had received a reprimand for that. He was a little afraid that some of the other boys would visit the wonder in his tent, but in fact there wasn’t much danger of that. The wonder was too much off the beaten track for most boys. Their thoughts did not carry behind the scenes.

Hervey was now in much perplexity whether to witness the thrilling exploit from the audience the next night or to view it from the sanctum of the hero. In either case he intended to visit the remote scene of enchantment with two frankfurters. He decided that he would not demean himself by gazing at his hero with the idle throng. He even negotiated an extra hour out from Mr. Walton in anticipation of his second visit to the hermit of the ladder.

He could not possibly reach the place in the daytime, and besides, he had to take up some bulbs for his stepmother the next day. For this and other services he was to receive fifty cents. Twenty-five of this would pay his admission to the carnival. With the other twenty-five he intended to furnish forth a banquet of frankfurters for his hero and brother daredevil. He could not afford to go twice in the day. He had some thought of effecting an entrance over the high fence into the field and having his entire fifty cents for the post-exploit feast. But reckless as he was, he was cautious in this matter of reaching the tent—there was so much at stake! So he decided to go respectably in through the entrance and then cross the rope fence where the “Positively No Admittance” sign was placed. It was not often that he showed such a conservative spirit.

At half past eight, he found Diving Denniver strolling around in his bathrobe outside the tent. Within, the odor of fried bacon and coffee still lingered.

“You back again?”

“Sure, I want to see you from right here, and afterward I’m going to go and get some more frankfurters. After you’re finished will you let me go about ten or fifteen steps up the ladder and try it?”

Diving Denniver did not trouble himself to answer, but he ruffled Hervey’s hair good-humoredly as he ambled about smoking his cigarette. “Much of a crowd over there?” he asked.

“Oh bimbo, they’re all waiting. They stop dancing even when you go up,” Hervey said.

“You’re a pretty slippery kid, all right, ain’t yer?” Denniver said. “Ain’t there no guy up there at the rope?”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when both he and Hervey became aware of a policeman who had just come around the side of the tent. But Hervey, though astonished, was not perturbed, for he believed that the wonder of two continents would protect him. One word from Diving Denniver and he would be safe. He even ventured a defense himself.

“I’m going to do an errand for him,” he said.

“You can ask him yourself. So I’ve got a right to be here.”

But it appeared that it was Diving Denniver with whom the officer had business. “Are you Charles McDennison?” he asked.

“Yere, what’s the dope?” the wonder asked, with a kind of weariness in his voice.

Hervey was astonished, not to say shocked, that Diving Denniver acknowledged the name of Charles McDennison.

“Let’s look at your permit,” said the officer.

Mr. McDennison entered the tent, presently emerging with a paper.

“That’s no good here and you know it’s no good,” said the officer. “Wainboro! And a year old too. Why didn’t you come and get your permit when you got to town? You’ve been in this game long enough to know you’ve got to do that. All these concessions have permits, except those under carnival management.”

“Some towns—” began McDennison.

“Never mind about some towns. You know you’ve got to get a permit in this town. Why didn’t you do it?”

The harassed performer began again, “You guys—”

“Never mind about that now,” said the officer. “I was sent here to see your permit and to bring you down to the office if you didn’t have it. You know all about it; you were at the Elks’ Fair three years ago. You better come along and get your permit, Charlie. You’ll have to take care of a fine, too.”

“You don’t mean now?” the diving wonder asked. “Ain’t you going to leave me do my trick? I go on in about five minutes. You fellers sure got the knife in us. If I belonged in this here town—”

“Come on, McDennison,” said the officer in a way of quiet finality. “You know the game as well as I do. We’re not interested in your trick, only your permit. Come on, get your duds on. I guess you’ve been through all this before. Come on, speed up.”

Diving Denniver cast his cigarette from him, bestowing a look of unutterable contempt on the officer. In that sneering scorn he seemed to include the whole of Farrelton and all constituted authorities the world over. And Hervey joined him in his contempt and loathing. Diving Denniver had been through all that before. He knew the permit towns and the non-permit towns and the towns where a “tip” would save him the expense of a permit. Hervey had not dreamed that this enchanted creature ever had to do anything but dive, he did not know that the wonder of two continents had hit Farrelton penniless.

I will not recount the language used by Diving Denniver as he pulled on a shabby suit of clothes and threw a funny little derby hat on the back of his head. How prosaic and odd he looked! But his language was not prosaic; it was quite as spectacular as his famous exploit—his trick, as he called it. Poor McDennison, it was all he had to sell—his trick. And sometimes he had so much trouble about it.

A funny little figure he made trotting excitedly along with the officer, his derby hat on the back of his head bespeaking haste and anger. He smoked a cigarette and talked volubly and swore as he hurried away, leaving Hervey staring aghast.

Such a troublesome and distracting thing it is to be a wonder of two continents.

CHAPTER XXIX
THE WHITE LIGHT

Well at all events, Hervey might now inspect freely the sanctum of the diving wonder. His enthusiasm for the hero was not dimmed. Even the derby hat had not entirely covered up Diving Denniver. Here was just another exhibition authority. That a cop should make so free with Diving Denniver, even calling him Charlie!

Hervey went into the tent, and stood looking about. Muffled by the distance he could hear the frightful monotonous music of the merry-go-round playing Little Annie Rooney for the millionth time. On the red board were strewn the leavings of Diving Denniver’s supper. The smutty little oil-stove reeked of kerosene. A long, up-ended box did duty as a washstand and on this, beside a tin basin, was the photograph of a girl. A couple of candles burned and sputtered. On the tent pole hung a broken mirror.

Diving Denniver’s bathrobe and his white bathing suit trimmed with gold braid lay on the converted couch just as he had thrown them in his hurry and anger. The very bathrobe, half off and half on the couch, seemed eloquent of his high disgust at the tyrannical interruption of his work. Hervey surmised that he would speak with the management of the carnival on his way out; he wondered why the two had not gone in that direction. But in truth the diving wonder did not love his public enough to consider it in his sudden dilemma. He never went up when the wind was strong. And he was not thinking of the expectant throng now.

Hervey longed to don that gorgeous exhibition suit. Could he slip it on in a hurry? With him it was but one step from impulse to action and in a few seconds he had thrown off his suit and was gazing at himself in the dirty old mirror, clad in the white and gold habiliments of the international wonder. How tightly it fitted! How thrillingly professional it made him feel! What a moment in his young life!

Suddenly, something very extraordinary happened. The trodden grass at his feet shimmered with a pale brightness. Clearly he saw a couple of cigarette butts in the grass. It was as if some one had spilled this brightness on the ground. Then it was gone. And there was only a dim light where the candles sputtered on the makeshift table. That was a strange occurrence.

He stepped out of the tent and there was the patch of brightness near the Ford sedan. How plainly he could read the flaunting words on the spare tire, THREE HUNDRED FOOT DIVE. Then suddenly, the square tank and the foot of the dizzy ladder were bathed in light. A long, dusty column was poking around as if it had lost something. The sedan was again illuminated. The bright patch moved under the tent and painted an area of the canvas golden. Was it looking for Diving Denniver, the wonder of two continents, to come forth and make his three hundred foot dive?

It found the tank and the ladder again and made them glowing and resplendent. Then there was wafted on the air the robust sound of the band playing real music. It drowned the tin-pan whining of the merry-go-round and sent its rousing strains over the fence which bore the forbidding sign. What a martial tumult! It made the cane ringers pause, sent the carriers of kewpie dolls to a point of vantage, and left the five-legged calf forlorn and alone. Louder and louder it sent forth its rousing melody.