"Of course," the schoolmaster said, when the family was assembled in the sitting room of the old Day house, "that gold piece may not be one of those stolen at all. There are plenty of ten dollar gold pieces in circulation."
"Not in Polktown!" exclaimed Uncle Jason.
"And if we are to believe Mr. Massey," added Janice, "there are not many ten dollar gold pieces of that particular date in existence."
"We don't really know. Perhaps Massey is mistaken. We know he was excited," said Nelson.
"Hold hard, now," advised Uncle Jason, "It's a breach in their walls, nevertheless."
"How is that, Mr. Day?" asked the schoolmaster.
"Why, don't you see?" said Uncle Jason, puffing on his pipe in some excitement. "They have opened th' way for Doubt ter stalk in," and he chuckled. "Them committeemen have been toller'ble sure—er they've said they was—it was you stole the money, Mr. Haley. If they can't connect this coin with you at all, they'll sartain sure be up a stump. And they air a-breakin' down their own case against ye. I guess I'm lawyer enough ter see that."
"Oh, goodness, Uncle Jason! So they will!" cried Janice.
"But it does not seem reasonable that the person stealing the coins would spend one of them in Polktown," Nelson said slowly.
"I dunno," reflected Mr. Day. "I never did think that a thief had any medals fer good sense—nossir! He most allus leaves some openin' so's ter git caught."
"And if he spent the money at the tavern—and for liquor—of course he couldn't have good sense."
"I take off my hat to you on that point, Janice," laughed Nelson. "I believe you are right."
"Ya-as, ain't she?" Aunt Almira said proudly. "An' our Janice has done suthin' this time that'll make Polktown put her on a ped-ped-es-tri-an——"
"'Pedestal,' Maw!" giggled Marty.
"Wal, never mind," said the somewhat flurried Mrs. Day. "Mr. Middler said it. Mr. Haley, ye'd oughter hear all 't Mr. Middler said about her this arternoon at the meetin' of the Ladies' Aid."
"Oh, Auntie!" murmured Janice, turning very red.
"Go on, Maw, and tell us," said Marty. "What did he say?" and he grinned delightedly at his cousin's rosy face.
"Sing her praises, Mrs. Day—do," urged Nelson. "We know she deserves to have them sung."
"Wal! I should say she did," agreed Aunt 'Mira, proudly. "It's her, the parson says, that's re'lly at the back of this temp'rance movement that's goin' ter be inaugurated right here in Polktown. Nex' Sunday he's goin' to give a sermon on temperance. He said 'at he was ashamed to feel that he—like the rest of us—was content ter drift along and do nothin' 'cept ter talk against rum selling, until Janice began ter do somethin'."
"Now, Auntie!" complained the girl again.
"Wal! You started it—ye know ye did, Janice. They was talkin' about holdin' meetings, an' pledge-signin', and stirrin' up the men folks ter vote nex' Fall ter make Polktown so everlastin'ly dry that all the old topers, like Jim Narnay, an' Bruton Willis, an'—an' the rest of 'em, will jest natcherly wither up an' blow away! I tell ye, the Ladies' Aid is all worked up."
"I wonder, now," said Uncle Jason, reflectively.
"Ye wonder what, Jase Day?" demanded his spouse, with some warmth.
"I wonder if it can be did?" returned Uncle Jason. "Lemme tell ye, rum sellin' an' rum drinkin' is purty well rooted in Polktown. If Janice is a-goin' ter stop th' sale of licker here, she's tackled purty consider'ble of a job, lemme tell ye."
CHAPTER XXI
WHAT WAS IN THE PAPER
As the days passed it certainly looked as though Mr. Day was correct in his surmise about the difficulties of "Janice's job," as he called it. The girl was earnestly talking to everybody whom she knew, especially to the influential men of Polktown, regarding the disgraceful things that had happened in the lakeside hamlet since the bar had been opened at the Inn. And it was among these influential men that she found the most opposition to making Polktown "dry" instead of "wet."
She had thrown down her gauntlet at Mr. Cross Moore's feet, so she troubled no more about him. Janice realized that nobody was more politically powerful in Polktown than Mr. Moore. But she believed she could not possibly obtain him on the side of prohibition, so she did not waste her strength or time in trying.
Not that Mr. Cross Moore was a drinking man himself. He was never known to touch either liquor or tobacco. He was just a hard-fisted, hard-hearted, shrewd and successful country politician; and there appeared to be no soft side to his character. Unless that side was exposed to his invalid wife. And nobody outside ever caught Mr. Moore displaying tenderness in particular to her, although he was known to spend much time with her.
He had fought his way up in politics and in wealth, from very poor and small beginnings. From his birth in an ancient log cabin, with parents who were as poor and miserable as the Trimminses or the Narnays to being president of the Town Council and chairman of the School Committee, was a long stride for Mr. Cross Moore—and nobody appreciated the fact more clearly than himself.
Money had been the best friend he had ever had. Without Elder Concannon's streak of acquisitiveness in his character that made the good old man almost miserly, Mr. Cross Moore possessed the money-getting ability, and a faith in the creed that "Wealth is Power" that nothing had yet shaken in his long experience.
For a number of years Polktown had been free of any public dram-selling, although the voters had not put themselves on record as desiring prohibition. Occasionally a more or less secret place for the selling of liquor had risen and was quickly put down. There had, in the opinion of the majority of the citizens, been no call for a drinking place, and there would probably have been no such local demand had Lem Parraday—backed by Mr. Moore, who held the mortgage on the Inn—not desired to increase the profits of that hostelry. The license was taken out that visitors to Polktown might be satisfied.
There had been no local demand for the sale of liquor, as has been said. Those who made a practise of using it could obtain all they wished at Middletown, or other places near by. But once having allowed the traffic a foothold in the hamlet, it would be hard to dislodge it.
John Barleycorn is fighting for his life. He has few real friends, indeed, among his consumers. No man knows better the danger of alcohol than the man who is addicted to its use—until he gets to that besotted stage where his brain is so befuddled that his opinion would scarcely be taken in a court of law on any subject.
Janice Day was determined not to listen to these temporizers in Polktown who professed themselves satisfied if the license was taken away from the Lake View Inn. Something more drastic was needed than that.
"The business must be voted out of town. We all must take a stand upon the question—on one side or the other," the girl had said earnestly, in discussing this point with Elder Concannon.
"If you only shut up this bar, another license, located at some other point, will be asked for. Each time the fight will have to be begun again. Vote the town dry—that is the only way."
"Well, I reckon that's true enough, my girl," said the cautious elder.
"But I doubt if we can do it. They're too strong for us."
"We can try," Janice urged. "You don't know that the wets will win,
Elder."
"And if we try the question in town meeting and get beaten, we'll be worse off than we are now."
"Why shall we?" Janice demanded. "And, besides, I do not believe the wets can carry the day."
"I'm afraid the idea of making the town dry isn't popular enough," pursued the elder.
"Why not?"
"We are Vermonters," said Elder Concannon, as though that were conclusive. "We're sons of the Green Mountain Boys, and liberty is greater to us than to any other people in the world."
"Including the liberty to get drunk—and the children to follow the example of the grown men?" asked Janice, tartly. "Is that liberty so precious?"
"That's a harsh saying, Janice," said the old man, wagging his head.
"It's the truth, just the same," the girl declared, with doggedness.
"You can't make the voters do what you want—not always," said Elder Concannon. "I don't want to see liquor sold here; but I think we'll be more successful if we oppose each license as it comes up."
"What chance had you to oppose Lem Parraday's license?" demanded the girl, sharply.
"Well! I allow that was sprung on us sudden. But Cross Moore was interested in it, too."
"Somebody will always be particularly interested in the granting of the license. I believe with Uncle Jason that it's foolish to give Old Nick a fair show. He does not deserve the honors of war."
More than Elder Concannon did not believe that Polktown could be carried for prohibition in Town Meeting. But election day was months ahead, and if "keeping everlastingly at it" would bring success, Janice was determined that her idea should be adopted.
Mr. Middler's first sermon on temperance was in no uncertain tone. Indeed, that good man's discourses nowadays were very different from those he had been wont to give the congregation of the Union Church when Janice had first come to Polktown. In the old-fashioned phrase, Mr. Middler had "found liberty."
There was nothing sensational about his sermons. He was a drab man, who still hesitated before uttering any very pronounced view upon any subject; but he thought deeply, and even that super-critic, Elder Concannon, had begun to praise the pastor of the Union Church.
To start the movement for prohibition in the largest church in the community was all very well; but Janice and the other earnest workers realized that the movement must be broader than that. A general meeting was arranged in the Town House, the biggest assembly room in town, and speakers were secured who were really worth hearing. All this went on quite satisfactorily. Indeed, the first temperance rally was a pronounced success, and white ribbons became common in Polktown, worn by both young and old.
But Janice's and Nelson Haley's private affairs remained in a most unsatisfactory state indeed.
First of all, there was a long month to wait before Janice could expect to see another letter from daddy. It puzzled her that he was forbidden to write but once in thirty days, by an under lieutenant of the Zapatist chief, Juan Dicampa, who was Mr. Day's friend—or supposed to be, and yet the letters came to her readdressed in Juan Dicampa's hand.
She watched the daily papers, too, for any word printed regarding the chieftain, and perhaps never was a brigand's well-being so heartily prayed for, as was Juan Dicampa's. Janice never forgot that her father said Dicampa stood between him and almost certain death.
Considering Nelson Haley's affairs, that young man was quite impatient because they had come to no head. Nor did it seem that they were likely to soon.
Nelson had secretly objected when Uncle Jason had asked Judge Little to put off for a full week the examination of Nelson in his court. The unfortunate schoolmaster felt that he wanted the thing over and the worst known immediately.
But it seemed that he was neither to be acquitted at once of the crime charged against him, nor was he to be found guilty and punished.
Uncle Jason was right about the turning up of the ten dollar gold piece being a blow to the accusation the School Committee had lodged against Nelson. They could not connect the young schoolmaster with the gold coin.
By Uncle Jason's advice, too, Nelson had put off engaging a lawyer in
Middletown to come over to defend the young man in Judge Little's court.
"And well he did wait, too," declared Mr. Day, very much pleased with his own shrewdness. "That would have meant a twenty dollar note. Now it don't cost Mr. Haley a cent."
"What do you mean, Jase Day?" demanded Aunt Almira, for her husband announced the above at the supper table on Friday evening of that eventful week. "They ain't goin' ter send Mr. Haley to jail without a trial?"
"Hear the woman, will ye?" apostrophized Uncle Jason, with disgust.
"Ain't thet jes' like ye, Almiry—goin' off at ha'f cock thet-a-way?
Who said anythin' about Mr. Haley goin' ter jail?"
"Wal——"
"He ain't goin' yet awhile, I reckon," and Mr. Day chuckled. "I told ye them fule committeemen would overreach themselves. They've withdrawn the charge."
"What?" chorused the family, in joy and amazement.
"Yessir! that's what they've done. Jedge Little sent word to me an' give me back my bond. 'Course, we could ha' demanded a hearin' an' tried ter git a clear discharge. And then ag'in—Wal! I advised Mr. Haley ter let well enough alone."
"Then they know who is the thief at last?" asked Janice, quaveringly.
"No."
"But they know Mr. Haley never stole them coins!" cried Aunt Almira.
"Wal—ef they do, they don't admit of it," drawled Uncle Jason.
"What in tarnation is it, then, Dad?" demanded Marty.
"Why, they've made sech a to-do over findin' that gold piece in Hope Drugg's possession, that they don't dare go on an' prosercute the schoolmaster—nossir!"
"Bully!" exclaimed the thoughtless Marty. "That's all right, then."
"But—but," objected Janice, with trembling lip, "that doesn't clear
Nelson at all!"
"It answers the puppose," proclaimed Uncle Jason. "He ain't under arrest no more, and he don't hafter pay no lawyer's fee."
"Ye-es," admitted his niece, slowly. "But what is poor Nelson to do?
He's still under a cloud, and he can't teach school."
"And believe me!" growled Marty, "that greeny they got to teach in his place don't scu'cely know beans when the bag's untied."
It was true that the four committeemen had considered it wise to withdraw their charge against Nelson Haley. Without any evidence but that of a purely presumptive character, their lawyer had advised this retreat.
Really, it was a sharp trick. It left Nelson worse off, as far as disproving their charge went, than he would have been had they taken the case into court. The charge still lay against the young man in the public mind. He had no opportunity of being legally cleared of suspicion.
The ancient legal supposition that a man is innocent until he is found guilty, is never honored in a New England village. He is guilty unless proved innocent. And how could Nelson prove his innocence? Only by discovering the real thief and proving him guilty.
The shrewd attorney hired by the four committeemen knew very well that he was not prejudicing his clients' case when he advised them to quash the warrant.
But as for the discovery of the rare coin in circulation—one known to belong to the collection stolen from the schoolhouse—that injured the committeemen's cause rather than helped it, it must be confessed.
Joe Bodley frankly admitted having paid over the gold piece to Hopewell Drugg, as a deposit on the fiddle. But he professed not to know how the coin had come into the till at the tavern.
Joe had full charge of the cash-drawer when Mr. Parraday was not present, and he had helped himself to such money as he thought he would need when he went up town to negotiate for the purchase of the fiddle. He denied emphatically that the man who had engaged him to purchase the fiddle had given him the ten dollar gold piece. Who the purchaser of the fiddle was, however, the barkeeper declined to say.
"That's my business," Joe had said, when questioned on this point. "Ya-as. I expect to take the fiddle. Hopewell's agreed to sell it to me, fair and square. If I can make a lettle spec on the side, who's business is it but my own?"
When Janice heard the report of this—through Walky Dexter, of course—she was reminded of the black-haired, foreign looking man, who had been so much interested in Hopewell's violin the night she and Frank Bowman had taken the storekeeper home from the dance.
"I wonder if he can be the customer that Joe Bodley speaks of? Oh, dear me!" sighed Janice. "I'm so sorry Hopewell has to sell his violin. And I'm sorry he is going to sell it this way. If that 'foxy looking foreigner,' as Mr. Bowman called him, is the purchaser of the instrument, perhaps it is worth much more than a hundred dollars.
"Lottie must go again and have her eyes examined. Hopewell will take her himself next month—the poor, dear little thing! Oh! if daddy's mine wasn't down there among those hateful Mexicans——
"And I wonder," added the young girl, suddenly, "what one of those real old violins is worth."
She chanced to be reflecting on this subject on a Saturday afternoon near the end of the month Hopewell had allowed to Joe Bodley to find the rest of the purchase price for the violin. She had been up to the church vestry to attend a meeting of her Girls' Guild. As she passed the Public Library this thought came to her:
"I'll go in and look in the encyclopaedia. That ought to tell about old violins."
She looked up Cremona and read about its wonderful violins made in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries by the Amati family and by Antonio Stradivari and Josef Guarnerius. It did not seem possible that Hopewell's instrument could be one of these beautifully wrought violins of the masters; yet——
"Who knows?" sighed Janice. "You read about such instruments coming to light in such queer places. And Hopewell's fiddle looks awfully old. From all accounts his father must have been a musician of some importance, despite the fact that he was thought little of in Polktown by either his wife or other people. Mr. Drugg might have owned one of these famous violins—not one of the most ancient, perhaps—and told nobody here about it. Why! the ordinary Polktownite would think just as much of a two-dollar-and-a-half fiddle as of a real Stradivarius or an Amati."
While she was at the task, Janice took some notes of what she read. While she was about this, Walky Dexter, who brought the mail over from Middletown, daily, came in with the usual bundle of papers for the reading desk, and the girl in charge that afternoon hastened to put the papers in the files.
Major Price had presented the library with a year's subscription to a
New York daily. Janice or Marty always found time to scan each page of
that paper for Mexican news—especially for news of the brigand chief,
Juan Dicampa.
She went to the reading desk after closing and returning the encyclopaedia to its proper shelf, and spread the New York paper before her. This day she had not to search for mention of her father's friend, the Zapatist chief. Right in front of her eyes, at the top of the very first column, were these headlines:
JUAN DICAMPA CAPTURED
THE ZAPATIST CHIEFTAIN CAPTURED BY FEDERALS WITH 500 OF HIS FORCE AND IMMEDIATELY SHOT. MASSACRE OF HIS FOLLOWERS.
CHAPTER XXII
DEEP WATERS
The dispatch in the New York paper was dated from a Texan city on the day before. It was brief, but seemed of enough importance to have the place of honor on the front page of the great daily.
There were all the details of a night advance, a bloody attack and a fearful repulse in which General Juan Dicampa's force had been nearly wiped out.
The half thousand captured with the famous guerrilla chief were reported to have been hacked to pieces when they cried for quarter, and Juan Dicampa himself was given the usual short shrift connected in most people's minds with Mexican justice. He had been shot three hours after his capture.
It was an awful thing—and awful to read about. The whole affair had happened a long way from that part of Chihuahua in which daddy's mine was situated; but Janice immediately realized that the "long arm" of Dicampa could no longer keep Mr. Broxton Day from disaster, or punish those who offended the American mining man.
The very worst that could possibly happen to her father, Janice thought, had perhaps already happened.
That was a very sorrowful evening indeed at the old Day house on Hillside Avenue. Although Mr. Jason Day and Janice's father were half brothers only, the elder man had in his heart a deep and tender love for Broxton, or "Brocky," as he called him.
He remembered Brocky as a lad—always. He felt the superiority of his years—and presumably his wisdom—over the younger man. Despite the fact that Mr. Broxton Day had early gone away from Polktown, and had been deemed very successful in point of wealth in the Middle West, Uncle Jason considered him still a boy, and his ventures in business and in mining as a species of "wild oat sowing," of which he could scarcely approve.
"No," he sighed. "If Brocky had been more settled he'd ha' been better off—I snum he would! A piece o' land right here back o' Polktown—or a venture in a store, if so be he must trade—would ha' been safer for him than a slather o' mines down there among them Mexicaners."
"Don't talk so—don't talk so, Jason!" sniffed Aunt Almira.
"Wal—it's a fac'," her husband said vigorously. "There may be some danger attached ter store keepin' in Polktown; it's likely ter make a man a good deal of a hawg," added Uncle Jason. "But I guess the life insurance rates ain't so high as they be on a feller that's determined ter spend his time t'other side o' that Rio Grande River they tell about."
"I wonder," sighed Aunt Almira, quite unconscious that she spoke aloud, "if I kin turn that old black alpaca gown I got when Sister Susie died, Jason, an' fashion it after one o' the new models?"
"Heh?" grunted the startled Mr. Day, glaring at her.
"Of course, we'll hafter go inter black—it's only decent. But I did fancy a plum-colored dress this Spring, with r'yal purple trimmins. I seen a pattern in the fashion sheet of the Fireside Love Letter that was re'l sweet."
"What's eatin' on you, Maw?" demanded her son gruffly. "Whatcher wanter talk that way for right in front of Janice? I reckon we won't none of us put on crêpe for Uncle Brocky yet awhile," he added, stoutly.
On Monday arrived another letter from Mr. Broxton Day. Of course, it was dated before the dreadful night attack which had caused the death of General Juan Dicampa and the destruction of his forces; and it had passed through that chieftain's hands and had been remailed.
Janice put away the envelope, directed in the sloping, clerkly hand, and sighed. Daddy was in perfect health when he had written this last epistle and the situation had not changed.
"But no knowing what has happened to poor daddy since he wrote," thought Janice. "We can know nothing about it. And another whole month to wait to learn if he is alive."
The girl was quite well aware that she could expect no inquiry to be made at Washington regarding Mr. Broxton Day's fate. The administration had long since warned all American citizens to leave Mexico and to refrain from interference in Mexican affairs. Mr. Day had chosen to stay by his own, and his friends', property—and he had done this at his peril.
"Oh, I wish," thought the girl, "that somebody could go down there and capture daddy, and just make him come back over the border! As Uncle Jason says, what's money when his precious life is in danger?"
In almost the same breath, however, she wished that daddy could send her more money. For Lottie Drugg had gone to Boston. Her father had given over the violin to Joe Bodley, and that young speculator paid the storekeeper the remainder of the hundred dollars agreed upon. With this hundred dollars Hopewell started for Boston with Lottie, leaving his wife to take care of the store for the few days he expected to be absent. Janice went over to stay with Mrs. Drugg at night during Hopewell's absence.
Perhaps it was just as well that Janice was not at home during these few days, as it gave her somebody's troubles besides her own to think about. And the Day household really, if not visibly, was in mourning for Broxton Day. Uncle Jason's face was as "long as the moral law," and Aunt 'Mira, lachrymose at best, was now continuously and deeply gloomy. Marty was the only person in the Day household able to cheer Janice in the least.
'Rill and Hopewell were in deep waters, too. Had Lottie not been such an expense, the little store on the side street would have made a very comfortable living for the three of them. They lived right up to their income, however; and so Hopewell was actually obliged to sell his violin to get Lottie to Boston.
Mrs. Scattergood was frequently in the store now that her son-in-law was away. She was, of course, ready with her criticisms as to the course of her daughter and her husband.
"Good Land o' Goshen!" chirped the little old woman to Janice, "didn't I allus say it was the fullishest thing ever heard of for them two to marry? Amarilly had allus airned good money teachin' and had spent it as she pleased. And Hope Drugg never did airn much more'n the salt in his johnny-cake in this store."
Meanwhile she was helping herself to sugar and tea and flour and butter and other little "notions" for her own comfort. Hopewell always said that "Mother Scattergood should have the run of the store, and take what she pleased," now that he had married 'Rill; and, although the woman was not above maligning her easy-going son-in-law, she did not refuse to avail herself of his generosity.
"An' there it is!" went on Mrs. Scattergood. "'Rill was fullish enough to put the money she'd saved inter a mortgage that pays her only five per cent. An' ter git th' int'rest is like pullin' eye-teeth, and I tell her she never will see the principal ag'in."
Mrs. Scattergood neglected to state that she had urged her daughter to put her money in this mortgage. It was on her son's farm, across the lake at "Skunk's Hollow," as the place was classically named; and the money would never have been tied up in this way had her mother not begged and pleaded and fairly "hounded" 'Rill into letting the shiftless brother have her savings on very uncertain security.
"Them two marryin'," went on Mrs. Scattergood, referring to 'Rill and Hopewell, "was for all the worl' like Famine weddin' with Poverty. And a very purty weddin' that allus is," she added with a sniff. "Neither of 'em ain't got nothin', nor never will have—'ceptin' that Hopewell's got an encumbrance in the shape of that ha'f silly child."
Janice was tempted to tell the venomous old woman that she thought
Hopewell's only encumbrance was his mother-in-law.
"And him fiddlin' and drinkin' and otherwise wastin' his substance," croaked Mrs. Scattergood.
At this Janice did utter an objection:
"Now, that is not so, Mrs. Scattergood. You know very well that that story about Hopewell being a drinking man is not true."
"My! is that so? Didn't I see him myself? And you seen him, too, Janice Day, comin' home that night, a wee-wawin' like a boat in a heavy sea. I guess I see what I see. And as for his fiddlin'——"
"You need not be troubled on that score, at least," sighed Janice.
"Poor Hopewell! He's sold his violin."
Walky Dexter came into the store that same evening, chuckling over the sale of the instrument.
"I wouldn't go for ter say Hopewell is a sharper," he grinned; "but mebbe he ain't so powerful innercent as he sometimes 'pears. If so, I'm sartainly glad of it."
"What do you mean, Mr. Dexter?" asked 'Rill, rather sharply.
"Guess Joe Bodley feels like he'd like ter know whether Hopewell done him or not. Joe's condition is suthin' like the snappin' turtle's when he cotched a-holt of Peleg Swift's red nose as he was stoopin' ter git a drink at the spring. He didn't durst ter let go while Peke was runnin' an' yellin' 'Murder!' but he was mighty sorry ter git so fur from home. Haw! haw! haw!"
"What is the matter with Joe Bodley now, Walky?" asked Nelson, who was present. "Didn't he make a good thing out of the violin transaction?"
"Why—haw! haw!—he dunno yit. But I b'lieve he's beginnin' ter have his doubts—like th' feller 't got holt of the black snake a-thinkin' it was a heifer's tail," chuckled Walky, whose face was very red and whose spicy breath—Joe Bodley always kept a saucer of cloves on the end of the bar—was patent to all in the store.
"Joe's a good sport; he ain't squealin' none," pursued Dexter; "but there is the fiddle a-hangin' behint th' bar an' Joe's beginnin' ter look mighty sour when ye mention it to him."
"Why, Mr. Dexter!" 'Rill said, in surprise, "hasn't he turned it over to the man he said he bought it for?"
"Wal—not so's ye'd notice it," Walky replied, grinning fatuously. "I dunno who the feller is, or how much money he gin Joe in the fust place to help pay for the fiddle—some, of course. But if Joe paid Hopewell a hundred dollars for the thing you kin jest bet he 'spected to git ha'f as much ag'in for it.
"But I reckon the feller's reneged or suthin'. Joe ain't happy about it—he! he! Mebbe on clost examination the fiddle don't 'pear ter be one o' them old masters they tell about! Haw! haw! haw!"
Janice started to say something. "Why don't they look inside——"
"Inside o' what?" demanded Walky, when the girl halted.
"I am positive that Hopewell would never have sold it for a hundred dollars if he hadn't felt he must," broke in the storekeeper's wife, and Janice did not complete her impulsive observation.
"Ye can't most allus sometimes tell!" drawled Walky. "Mebbe Hopewell had suthin' up his sleeve 'sides his wrist. Haw! haw! haw!
"Shucks! talk about a fiddle bein' wuth a hunderd dollars! Jefers-pelters! I seen one a-hangin' in a shop winder at Bennington once 't looked every whit as good as Hopewell's, and as old, an' 'twas marked plain on a card, 'two dollars an' a ha'f.'"
"I guess there are fiddles and fiddles," said 'Rill, a little tartly for her.
"No," laughed Nelson. "There are fiddles and violins. Like the word 'vase.' If it's a cheap one, plain 'vase' is well enough to indicate it; but if it costs over twenty-five dollars they usually call it a 'vahze.' I have always believed Hopewell's instrument deserved the dignity of 'violin.'"
"Wal," declared Walky. "I guess ye kin have all the dignity, and the vi'lin, too, if you offer Joe what he paid for it. I don't b'lieve he'll hang off much for a profit—er—haw! haw! haw!"
"I wish I were wealthy enough to buy the violin back from that fellow," whispered Janice to the schoolmaster.
"Ah! I expect you do, Janice," he said softly, eyeing her with admiration. "And I wish I could give you the money to do so. It would give you more pleasure, I fancy, to hand Hopewell back his violin when he returns from Boston than almost anything we could name. Wouldn't it?"
"Oh, dear me! yes, Nelson," she sighed. "I just wish I were rich."
Just about this time there were a number of things Janice desired money for. She had a little left in the bank at Middletown; but she dared not use it for anything but actual necessities. No telling when daddy could send her any more for her own private use. Perhaps, never.
The papers gave little news of Mexican troubles just now. Of course, Juan Dicampa being dead, there was no use watching the news columns for his name.
And daddy was utterly buried from her! She had no means of informing herself whether he were alive or dead. She wrote to him faithfully at least once each week; but she did not know whether the letters reached him or not.
As previously advised, she addressed the outer envelope for her father's letters in care of Juan Dicampa. But that seemed a hollow mockery now. She was sending the letters to a dead man.
Was it possible that her father received the missives? Could Juan Dicampa's influence, now that he was dead, compass their safety? It seemed rather a ridiculous thing to do, yet Janice continued to send them in care of the guerrilla chieftain.
Indeed, Janice Day was wading in deep waters. It was very difficult for her to carry a cheerful face about during this time of severe trial.
But she threw herself, whole-heartedly, into the temperance campaign, and strove to keep her mind from dwelling upon her father's peril.
CHAPTER XXIII
JOSEPHUS COMES OUT FOR PROHIBITION
It was while Janice was staying with Mrs. Hopewell Drugg during the storekeeper's absence in Boston, that she met Sophie Narnay on the street.
The child looked somewhat better as to dress, for Janice had found her some frocks weeks before, and Mrs. Narnay had utilized the gifts to the very best advantage. But the poor little thing was quite as hungry looking as ever.
"Oh, Miss Janice!" she said, "I wish you'd come down to see our baby. She's ever so much worse'n she was. I guess 'twas a good thing 'at we never named her. 'Twould jest ha' been a name wasted."
"Oh, dear, Sophie! is she as bad as all that?" cried Janice.
"Yep," declared the child.
"Can't the doctor help her?"
"He's come a lot—an' he's been awful nice. Mom says she didn't know there was such good folks in the whole worl' as him an' you. But there's somethin' the matter with the baby that no doctor kin help, so he says. An' I guess he's got the rights of it," concluded Sophie, in her old-fashioned way.
"I will certainly come down and see the poor little thing," promised Janice. "And your mamma and Johnnie and Eddie. Is your father at home now?"
"Nop. He's up in Concannon's woods yet. They've took a new contrac'—him and Mr. Trimmins. An' mebbe it'll last all Summer. Dear me! I hope so. Then pop won't be home to drink up all the money mom earns."
"I will come down to-morrow," Janice promised, for she was busy just then and could not accompany Sophie to Pine Cove.
This was Saturday afternoon and Janice was on her way to the steamboat dock to see if certain freight had arrived by the Constance Colfax for Hopewell Drugg's store. She was doing all she could to help 'Rill conduct the business while the storekeeper was away.
During the week she had scarcely been home to the Day house at all. Marty had run the car over to the Drugg place in the morning in time for her to start for Middletown; and in the afternoon her cousin had come for the Kremlin and driven it across town to the garage again.
This Saturday she would not use the car, for she wished to help 'Rill, and Marty had taken a party of his boy friends out in the Kremlin. Marty had become a very efficient chauffeur now and could be trusted, so his father said, not to try to hurdle the stone walls along the way, or to make the automobile climb the telegraph poles.
"Marm" Parraday was sweeping the front porch and steps of the Lake View Inn. Although the Inn had become very well patronized now, the tavernkeeper's vigorous wife was not above doing much of her own work.
"Oh, Janice Day! how be ye?" she called to the girl. "I don't see ye often," and Mrs. Parraday smiled broadly upon her.
As Janice came nearer she saw that Marm Parraday did not look as she once did. Her hair had turned very gray, there were deeper lines in her weather-beaten face, and a trembling of her lips and hands made Janice's heart ache.
If the Inn was doing well and Lem Parraday was prospering, his wife seemed far from sharing in the good times that appeared to have come to the Lake View Inn.
The great, rambling house had been freshened with a coat of bright paint; the steps and porch and porch railings were mended; the sod was green; the flower gardens gay; the gravel of the walks and driveway freshly raked; while the round boulders flanking the paths were brilliant with whitewash.
"Why!" said Janice honestly, "the old place never looked so nice before, Mrs. Parraday. You have done wonders this Spring. I hope you will have a prosperous season."
Mrs. Parraday clutched the girl's arm tightly. Janice saw that her eyes seemed quite wild in their expression as she pointed a trembling finger at the gilt sign at the corner of the house, lettered with the single word: "Bar."
"With that sign a-swingin' there, Janice Day?" she whispered. "You air wishin' us prosperity whilst Lem sells pizen to his feller men?"
"Oh, Mrs. Parraday! I was not thinking of the liquor selling," said
Janice sympathetically.
"Ye'd better think of it, then," pursued the tavernkeeper's wife. "Ye'd better think of it, day and night. That's what I do. I git on my knees and pray 't Lem won't prosper as long as that bar room's open. I do it 'fore Lem himself. He says I'm a-tryin' ter pray the bread-and-butter right aout'n aour mouths. He's so mad at me he won't sleep in the same room an' has gone off inter the west wing ter sleep by hisself. But I don't keer," cried Mrs. Parraday wildly. "Woe ter him that putteth the cup to his neighbor's lips! That's what I tell him. 'Wine is a mocker—strong drink is ragin'.' That's what the Bible says.
"An' Lem—a perfessin' member of Mr. Middler's church—an' me attendin' the same for goin' on thutty-seven years——"
"But surely, Mrs. Parraday, you are not to blame because your husband sells liquor," put in Janice, sorry for the poor woman and trying to comfort her.
"Why ain't I?" sharply demanded the tavern-keeper's wife. "I've been
Lem's partner for endurin' all that time, too—thutty-seven years.
I've been hopin' all the time we'd git ahead an' have suthin' beside a
livin' here in Polktown. I've been hungry for money!
"Like enough if I hadn't been so sharp after it, an' complained so 'cause we didn't git ahead, Lem an' Cross Moore wouldn't never got their heads together an' 'greed ter try rum-selling to make the old Inn pay a profit.
"Oh, yes! I see my fault now. Oh, Lord! I see it," groaned Marm Parraday, clasping her trembling hands. "But, believe me, Janice Day, I never seen this that's come to us. We hev brought the curse of rum inter this taown after it had been free from it for years. An' we shell hafter suffer in the end—an' suffer more'n anybody else is sufferin' through our fault."
She broke off suddenly and, without looking again at Janice, mounted the steps with her broom and disappeared inside the house.
Janice, heartsick and almost in tears, was turning away when a figure appeared from around the corner of the tavern—from the direction of the bar-room, in fact. But Frank Bowman's smiling, ruddy face displayed no sign of his having sampled Lem Parraday's bar goods.
"Hullo, Janice," he said cheerfully. "I've just been having a set-to with Lem—and I don't know but he's got the best of me."
"In what way?" asked the girl, brushing her eyes quickly that the young man might not see her tears.
"Why, this is pay day again, you know. My men take most of the afternoon off on pay day. They are cleaning up now, in the camp house, and will be over by and by to sample some of Lem's goods," and the engineer sighed.
"No, I can't keep them away from the place. I've tried. Some of them won't come; but the majority will be in that pleasing condition known as 'howling drunk' before morning."
"Oh, Frank! I wish Lem would stop selling the stuff," cried Janice.'
"Well, he won't. I've just been at him. I told him if he didn't close his bar at twelve o'clock tonight, according to the law, I'd appear in court against him myself. I mean to stand outside here with Constable Cantor to-night and see that the barroom is dark at twelve o'clock, anyway."
"That will be a splendid move, Frank!" Janice said quickly, and with enthusiasm.
"Ye-es; as far as it goes. But Lem said to me: 'Don't forget this is a hotel, Mr. Bowman, and I can serve my guests in the dining room or in their own rooms, all night long, if I want to.' And that's true."
"Oh, dear me! So he can," murmured Janice.
"He's got me there," grumbled young Bowman. "I never thought Lem
Parraday any too sharp before; but he's learned a lot from Joe Bodley.
That young fellow is about as shrewd and foxy as they make 'em."
"Yet they say he did not sell Hopewell's violin at a profit, as he expected to," Janice observed.
"That's right, too. And it's queer," the engineer said. "I've seen that black-haired, foxy-looking chap around town more than once since Joe bought the fiddle. Hullo! what's the matter with Dexter?"
The engineer had got into step at once with Janice, and they had by this time walked down High Street to the steamboat dock. The freight-house door was open and Walky Dexter had loaded his wagon and was ready to drive up town; but Josephus was headed down the dock.
The expressman was climbing unsteadily to his seat, and in reply to something said by the freight agent, he shouted:
"Thas all right! thas all right! I kin turn Josephus 'round on this dock. Jefers-pelters! he could back clean up town with this load, I sh'd hope!"
Janice had said nothing in reply to Frank Bowman's last query; but the latter added, under his breath: "Goodness! Walky is pretty well screwed-up, isn't he? I just saw him at the hotel taking what he calls a 'snifter.'"
"Poor Walky!" sighed Janice.
"Poor Josephus, I should say," rejoined Frank quickly.
The expressman was turning the old horse on the empty dock. There was plenty of room for this manoeuver; but Walky Dexter's eyesight was not what it should be. Or, perhaps he was less patient than usual with Josephus.
"Git around there, Josephus!" the expressman shouted. "Back! Back! I tell ye! Consarn yer hide!"
He yanked on the bit and Josephus' heavy hoofs clattered on the resounding planks. The wagon was heavily laden; and when it began to run backward, with Walky jerking on the reins, it could not easily be stopped.
A rotten length of "string-piece" had been removed from one edge of the dock, and a new timber had not yet replaced it. As bad fortune would have it, Walky backed his wagon directly into this opening.
"Hold on there! Where ye goin' to—ye crazy ol' critter?" bawled the freight agent.
"Hul-lo! Jefers-pelters!" gasped the suddenly awakened Walky, casting an affrighted glance over his shoulder. "I'm a-backin' over the dump, ain't I? Gid-ap, Josephus!"
But when once Josephus made up his slow mind to back, he did it thoroughly. He, too, expected to feel the rear wheels of the heavy farm wagon bump against the string-piece.
"Gid-ap, Josephus!" yelled Walky again, and rose up to smite the old horse with the ends of the reins. He had no whip—nor would one have helped matters, perhaps, at this juncture.
The rear wheels went over the edge of the dock. The lake was high, being swelled by the Spring floods. "Plump!" the back of the wagon plunged into the water, and, the bulk of the load being over the rear axle, the forward end shot up off the front truck.
Wagon body and freight sunk into the lake. Walky, as though shot from a catapult, described a parabola over his horse's head and landed with a crash on all fours directly under Josephus' nose.
Never was the old horse known to make an unnecessary motion. But the sudden flight and unexpected landing on the dock of his driver, quite excited Josephus.
With a snort he scrambled backward, the front wheels went over the edge of the dock and dragged Josephus with them. Harnessed as he was, and still attached to the shafts, the old horse went into the lake with a great splash.
"Hey! Whoa! Whoa, Josephus! Jefers-pelters! ain't this a purty to-do?" roared Walky, recovering his footing with more speed than grace.
"Naow see that ol' critter! What's he think he's doin'—takin' a swimmin' lesson?"
For Josephus, with one mighty plunge, broke free from the shafts. He struck out for the shore and reached shallow water almost immediately. Walky ran off the dock and along the rocky shore to head the old horse off and catch him.
But Josephus had no intention of being so easily caught. Either he had lost confidence in his owner, or some escapade of his colthood had come to his memory. He splashed ashore, dodged the eager hand of Walky, and with tail up, nostrils expanded, mane ruffled, and dripping water as he ran, Josephus galloped up the hillside and into the open lots behind Polktown.
Walky Dexter, with very serious mien, came slowly back to the dock. Janice and Frank Bowman, as well as the freight agent, had been held spellbound by these exciting incidents. Frank and the agent were now convulsed with laughter; but Janice sympathized with the woeful expressman.
The latter halted on the edge of the dock, gazing from the shafts of his wagon sticking upright out of the lake to the snorting old horse up on the hill. Then he scratched his bare, bald crown, sighed, and muttered quite loud enough for Janice to hear:
"Jefers-pelters! I reckon old Josephus hez come out for prohibition, an' no mistake!"
CHAPTER XXIV
ANOTHER GOLD PIECE
Fortunately for Walky Dexter, the freight that he had backed into the lake was not perishable. It could not be greatly injured by water. With the help of neighbors and loiterers and a team of horses, the two sections of the unhung wagon and the crates of agricultural tools were hauled out of the lake.
"There, Walky," said the freight agent, wiping his perspiring brow when the work was completed—for this happened on a warm day in early June. "I hope ter goodness you look where you air backin' to, nex' time."
"Perhaps it will be just as well if he backs where he's looking," suggested the young engineer, having removed his coat and aided very practically in the straightening out of Walky's affairs. This greatly pleased Janice, who had remained to watch proceedings.
"Come, naow, tell the truth, Walky Dexter," drawled another of the expressman's helpers. "Was ye seein' double when ye did that trick?"
There was a general laugh at this question. Walky Dexter, for once, had no ready reply. Indeed, he had been particularly serious all through the work of re-establishing his wagon on the dock.
"Well, Walky, ye oughter stand treat on this, I vum!" said the freight agent. "Suthin' long, an' cool, would go mighty nice."
"Isuckles is aout o' season—he! he!" chuckled another, frankly doubtful of Walky's generosity.
"Lock up your freight house, Sam, and ye shall have it," declared
Walky, with sudden briskness.
"That's the ticket!" exclaimed the Doubting Thomas, with a quick change of tone. "Spoke like a soldier, Walky. I hope Joe's jest tapped a fresh kaig."
Walky halted and scratched his head as he looked from one to another of the expectant group. "Why, ter tell the trewth," he jerked out, "I'm feelin' more like some o' thet thar acid phosphate Massey sells out'n his sody-fountain. Le's go up there."
"Jest as yeou say, Walky. You're the doctor," said the freight agent, though somewhat crestfallen, as were the others, at this suggestion.
"Don't count me in, Walky—though I'm obliged to you," laughed Bowman, who was getting into his coat.
"Jest the same we'll paternize the drug store for this once," said the expressman, stoutly, and with gravity he led the way up the hill.
Later Walky went across into the fields and tried to catch Josephus; but that wise old creature seemed suddenly to have lost confidence in his master, and refused to be won by his tones, or even the shaking of an empty oat-measure. So Walky was obliged to go home and bring down Josephus' mate to draw the freight to its destination.
Janice parted from the young engineer and walked up Hillside Avenue, intending to take supper at home and afterward return to the Drugg place to spend another night or two with the storekeeper's lonely wife.
She was sitting with Aunt 'Mira on the side porch before supper, while the "short bread" was baking and Uncle Jason and Marty were at the chores, when Walky Dexter drew near with his now all but empty wagon, and stopped in the lane to bring in a new cultivator Uncle Jason had sent for.
"Evenin', Miz' Day," observed Walky, eyeing Aunt 'Mira and her niece askance. "Naow say it!"
"Say what, Mr. Dexter?" asked Mrs. Day puzzled.
"Why, I been gittin' of it all over taown," groaned the expressman. "Sarves me right, I s'pose. I see the reedic'lous side o' most things that happen ter other folks—an' they gotter right ter laff at me."
"Why, what's happened ye?" asked Aunt 'Mira.
"Jefers-pelters!" ejaculated Walky. "Ain't Janice tol' ye?"
"Nothin' about you," Mrs. Day assured him.
"She'd be a good 'un ter tell secrets to, wouldn't she?" the expressman said, with a queer twist of his face. "Ain't ye heard how I dumped m' load—an' Josephus—inter the lake?" and he proceeded to recount the accident with great relish and good humor.
Marty and his father, bringing in the milk, stopped to listen and laugh. At the conclusion of the story, as Marty was pumping a pail of water for the kitchen shelf, Walky said:
"Gimme a dipper o' that, boy. My mouth's so dry I can't speak the trewth. That's it—thanky!"
"Ye oughtn't to be dry, Walky—comin' right past Lem Parraday's ho-tel," remarked Mr. Day, with a chuckle.
"Wal, naow! that's what I was goin' ter speak abeout," said Walky, with sudden vigor. "Janice, here, an' me hev been havin' an argyment right along about that rum sellin' business——"
"About the drinking, at any rate, Walky," interposed Janice, gently.
"Wal—ahem!—ya-as. About the drinkin' of it, I s'pose. Yeou said, Janice, that my takin' a snifter now and then was an injury to other critters as well as to m'self."
"And I repeat it," said the girl confidently.
"D'ye know," jerked out Walky, with his head on one side and his eyes screwed up, "that I b'lieve Josephus agrees with ye?"
"Ho! ho!" laughed Marty. "Was you fresh from Lem Parraday's bar when you backed the old feller over the dock?"
"Wal, I'd had a snifter," drawled Walky, his eyes twinkling. "Anyhow, I'm free ter confess that I don't see how I could ha' done sech a fullish thing if I hadn't been drinkin'—it's a fac'! I never did b'lieve what little I took would ever hurt anybody. But poor ol' Josephus! He might ha' been drowned."
"Oh, Walky!" cried Janice. "Do you see that?"
"I see the light at last, Janice," solemnly said the expressman. "I guess I'd better let the stuff alone. I dunno when I'd git a hoss as good as Josephus——"
"No nearer'n the boneyard," put in Marty, sotto voce.
"Anyhow, I see my failin' sure enough. Never was so reckless b'fore in all my life," pursued Walky. "Mebbe, if I kep' on drinkin' that stuff they sell daown ter the ho-tel, I'd drown both m' hosses—havin' drowned m' own brains—like twin kittens, in ha'f an inch o' alcohol! Haw! haw! haw!"
But despite his laughter Janice saw that Walky Dexter was much in earnest. She said to Nelson that evening, in Hopewell Drugg's store:
"I consider Walky's conversion is the best thing that's happened yet in our campaign for prohibition."
"A greater conquest than mine?" laughed the schoolmaster.
"Why, Nelson," Janice said sweetly, "I know that you have only to think carefully on any subject to come to the right conclusion. But poor Walky isn't 'long' on thought, if he is on 'talk,'" and she laughed a little.
It was after Sunday School the following afternoon that Janice went again to Pine Cove to see the Narnay baby. She had conversed with busy Dr. Poole for a few moments and learned his opinion of the case. It was not favorable.
"Not much chance for the child," said the brusk doctor. "Never has been much chance for it. One of those children that have no right to be born."
"Oh, Doctor!" murmured Janice.
"A fact. It has never had enough nutrition and is going to die of plain starvation."
"Can nothing be done to save it? If it had plenty of nourishment now?"
"No use. Gone too far," growled the physician, shaking his grizzled head. "If I knew how to save it, I would; that's my job. But the best thing that can happen is its death. Ought to be a hangin' matter for poor folks to have so many children, anyway," he concluded grimly.
"That sounds awful to me, Dr. Poole," Janice said.
"There is something awful about Nature. Nature takes care of these things, if we doctors are not allowed to."
"Why! what do you mean?"
"The law of the survival of the fittest is what keeps this old world of ours from being overpopulated by weaklings."
Janice Day was deeply impressed by the doctor's words, and thought over them sadly as she walked down the hill toward Pine Cove. She went by the old path past Mr. Cross Moore's and saw him in his garden, wheeling his wife in her chair.
Mrs. Moore was a frail woman, and because of long years of invalidism, a most exacting person. She had great difficulty in keeping a maid because of her unfortunate temper; and sometimes Mr. Moore was left alone to keep house. Nobody could suit the invalid as successfully as her husband.
"Wheel me to the fence. I want to speak to that girl, Cross," commanded the wife sharply, and the town selectman did so.
"Janice Day!" called Mrs. Moore, "I wish to speak to you."
Janice, smiling, ran across the street and shook hands with the sick woman over the fence palings. But she barely nodded to Mr. Cross Moore.
"I understand you're one o' these folks that's talking so foolish about prohibition, and about shutting up the hotel. Is that so?" demanded Mrs. Moore, her sunken, black eyes snapping.
"I don't think it is foolish, Mrs. Moore," Janice said pleasantly.
"And we don't wish to close the Inn—only its bar."
"Same thing," decided Mrs. Moore snappishly. "Takin' the bread and butter out o' people's mouths! Ye better be in better business—all of ye. And a young girl like you! I'd like to have my stren'th and have the handling of you, Janice Day. I'd teach ye that children better be seen than heard. Where you going to, Cross Moore?" for her husband had turned the chair and was starting away from the fence.
"Well—now—Mother! You've told the girl yer mind, ain't ye?" suggested Mr. Moore. "That's what you wanted to do, wasn't it?"
"I wish she was my young one," said Mrs. Moore, between her teeth, "and
I had the use o' my limbs. I'd make her behave herself!"
"I wish she was ours, Mother," Mr. Moore said kindly. "I guess we'd be mighty proud of her."
Janice did not hear his words. She had walked away from the fence with flaming cheeks and tears in her eyes. She was sorry for Mrs. Moore's misfortunes and had always tried to be kind to her; but this seemed such an unprovoked attack.
Janice Day craved approbation as much as any girl living. She
appreciated the smiles that met her as she walked the streets of
Polktown. The scowls hurt her tender heart, and the harsh words of
Mrs. Moore wounded her deeply.
"I suppose that is the way they both feel toward me," she thought, with a sigh.
The wreck of the old fishing dock—a favorite haunt of little Lottie Drugg—was at the foot of the hill, and Janice halted here a moment to look out across it, and over the quiet cove, to the pine-covered point that gave the shallow basin its name.
Lottie had believed that in the pines her echo lived, and Janice could almost hear now the childish wail of the little one as she shouted, "He-a! he-a! he-a!" to the mysterious sprite that dwelt in the pines and mocked her with its voice. Blind and very deaf, Lottie had been wont to run fearlessly out upon the broken dock and "play with her echo," as she called it. A wave of pity swept over Janice's mind and heart. Suppose Lottie should again completely lose the boon of sight. What would become of her as she grew into girlhood and womanhood?
"Poor little dear! I almost fear for Hopewell to come home and tell us what the doctors say," sighed Janice.
Then, even more tender memories associated with the old wharf filled Janice Day's thought. On it, in the afterglow of a certain sunset, Nelson Haley had told her how the college at Millhampton had invited him to join its faculty, and he had asked her if she approved of his course in Polktown.
It had been decided between them that Polktown was a better field for his efforts in his chosen profession for the present—as the college appointment would remain open to him—and Janice was proud to think that meanwhile he had built the Polktown school up, and had succeeded so well. This spot was the scene of their first really serious talk.
She wondered now if her advice had been wise, after all. Suppose
Nelson had gone to Millhampton immediately when he was called there?
He would have escaped this awful accusation that had been brought
against him—that was sure.
His situation now was most unfortunate. Having requested a vacation from his school, he was receiving no pay all these weeks that he was idle. And Janice knew the young man could ill afford this. He had been of inestimable help to Mr. Middler and the other men who had charge of the campaign for prohibition that was moving on so grandly in Polktown. But that work could not be paid for.
Janice believed Nelson was now nearly penniless. His situation troubled her mind almost as much as that of her father in Mexico.
She went on along the shore to the northward, toward the little group of houses at the foot of the bluff, in one of which the Narnays lived.
There were the children grouped together at one end of the rickety front porch. Their mother sat on the stoop, rocking herself to and fro with the sickly baby across her lean knees, her face hopeless, her figure slouched forward and uncouth to look at.
A more miserable looking party Janice Day had never before seen. And the reason for it was quickly explained to her. At the far end of the porch lay Narnay, on his back in the sun, his mouth open, the flies buzzing around his red face, sleeping off—it was evident—the night's debauch.
"Oh, my dear!" moaned Janice, taking Mrs. Narnay's feebly offered hand in both her own, and squeezing it tightly. "I—I wish I might help you."
"Ye can't, Miss. There ain't nothin' can be done for us—'nless the good Lord would take us all," and there was utter hopelessness and desperation in her voice.
"Don't say that! It must be that there are better times in store for you all," said Janice.
"With that?" asked Mrs. Narnay, nodding her uncombed head toward the sleeping drunkard. "Not much. Only for baby, here. There's a better time comin' for her—thanks be!"
"Oh!"
"Doctor says she can't live out th' Summer. She's goin' ter miss growin' up ter be what I be—an' what Sophie'll proberbly be. It's a mercy. But it's hard ter part 'ith the little thing. When she is bright, she's that cunnin'!"
As Janice came up the steps to sit down beside the poor woman and play with the baby, that smiled at her so wanly, the sleeping man grunted, rolled over toward them, half opened his eyes, and then rolled back again.
Something rattled on the boards of the porch. Janice looked and saw several small coins that had rolled out of the man's trousers pocket. Mrs. Narnay saw them too.
"Git them, Sophie—quick!" she breathed peremptorily.
"Cheese it, Mom!" gasped Sophie, running on tiptoe toward her sleeping father. "He'll nigh erbout kill us when he wakes up."
"I don't keer," said the woman, grabbing the coins when Sophie had collected them. "He come out o' the woods last night and he had some money an' I hadn't a cent. I sent him to git things from the store and all he brought back—and that was at midnight when they turned him out o' the hotel—was a bag of crackers and a pound of oatmeal. And he's got money! He kin kill me if he wants. I'm goin' ter have some of it—Oh, look! what's this?"
Janice had almost cried out in amazement, too. One of the coins in the woman's toil-creased palm was a gold piece.
"Five dollars! Mebbe he had more," Mrs. Narnay said anxiously. "Mebbe Concannon's paid 'em all some more money, and Jim's startin' in to drink it up."
"Better put that money back, Mom, he'll be mad," said Sophie, evidently much alarmed.
"He won't be ugly when the drink wears off and he ain't got no money to git no more," her mother said. "Jim never is."
"But he'll find out youse got that gold coin. He's foxy," said the shrewd child.
Janice drew forth her purse. "Let me have that five dollar gold piece," she said to Mrs. Narnay. "I'll give you five one dollar bills for it. You won't have to show but one of the bills at a time, that is sure."
"That's a good idea, Miss," said the woman hopefully. "And mebbe I can make him start back for the woods again to-night. Oh, dear me! 'Tis an awful thing! I don't want him 'round—an' yet when he's sober he's the nicest man 'ith young'uns ye ever see. He jest dotes on this poor little thing," and she looked down again into the weazened face of the baby.
"It is too bad," murmured Janice; but she scarcely gave her entire mind to what the woman was saying.
Here was a second gold piece turned up in Polktown. And, as Uncle Jason had said, such coins were not often seen in the hamlet. Janice had more than one reason for securing the gold piece, and she determined to learn, if she could, if this one was from the collection that had been stolen from the school-house weeks before.