CHAPTER XXV
IN DOUBT
The first of all feminine prerogatives is the right to change one's mind. Janice Day changed hers a dozen times about that five dollar gold piece.
It was at last decided, however, by the young girl that she would not immediately take Nelson Haley into her confidence. Why excite hope in his mind only, perhaps, to have it crushed again? Better learn all she could about the gold coin that had rolled out of Jim Narnay's pocket, before telling the young schoolmaster.
In her heart Janice did not believe Narnay was the person who had stolen the coin collection from the schoolhouse. He might have taken part in such a robbery, at night, and while under the influence of liquor; but he never would have had the courage to do such a thing by daylight and alone.
Narnay might be a companion of the real criminal; but more likely,
Janice believed, he was merely an accessory after the fact.
This, of course, if the gold piece should prove to be one of those belonging to the collection which Mr. Haley was accused of stealing. The coin found in Hopewell Drugg's possession, and which had come to him through Joe Bodley, might easily have been put into circulation by the same person as this coin Narnay had dropped. The ten dollar coin had gone into the tavern till, and this five dollar coin would probably have gone there, too, had chance not put it in Janice Day's way.
"First of all, I must discover if there was a coin like this one in that collection," the girl told herself. And early on Monday morning, on her way to the seminary, she drove around through High Street and stopped before the drugstore.
Fortunately Mr. Massey was not busy and she could speak to him without delaying her trip to Middletown.
"What's that?" he asked her, rumpling his topknot in his usual fashion when he was puzzled or disturbed. "List of them coins? I should say I did have 'em. The printed list Mr. Hobart left with 'em wasn't taken by—by—well, by whoever took 'em. Here 'tis."
"You speak," said Janice quickly, "as though you still believed Mr.
Haley to be the thief."
"Well!" and again the druggist's hands went through his hair. "I dunno what to think. If he done it, he's actin' mighty funny. There ain't no warrant out for him now. He can leave town—go clean off if he wants—and nobody will, or can, stop him. And ye'd think if he had all that money he would do so."
"Oh, Mr. Massey!"
"Well, I'm merely puttin' the case," said the druggist. "That would be sensible. He's got fifteen hundred dollars or more—if he took the coin collection. An' it ain't doin' him a 'tarnal bit of good, as I can see. I told Cross Moore last night that I believe we'd been barkin' up the wrong tree all this time."
"What did he say?" cried Janice eagerly.
"Well—he didn't say. Ye know how Cross is—as tight-mouthed as a clam with the lockjaw. But it is certain sure that we committeemen have our own troubles. Mr. Haley was a master good teacher. Ye got to hand it to him on that. And this feller the Board sent us ain't got no more idea of handling the school than I have of dancing the Spanish fandango.
"However, that ain't the p'int. What I was speakin' of is this: Nelse Haley is either a blamed fool, or else he never stole that money," and the druggist said it with desperation in his tone. "I hear he's took a job at sixteen a month and board with Elder Concannon—and farmin' for the elder ain't a job that no boy with money and right good sense would ever tackle."
"Oh, Mr. Massey! Has he?" for this was news indeed to Janice.
"Yep. That's what he's done. It looks like his runners was scrapin' on bare ground when he'd do that. Course, I need a feller right in this store—behind that sody-fountain. And a smart, nice appearin' one like Nelse Haley would be just the ticket—'nough sight better than Jack Besmith was. But I couldn't hire the schoolteacher, 'cause it would create so much talk. But goin' to work on a farm—and for a slave-driver like the elder—Well!"
Janice understood very well why Nelson had said nothing to her about this. He was very proud indeed and did not want the girl to suspect how poor he had really become. Nelson had said he would stay in Polktown until the mystery of the stolen coin collection was cleared up—or, at least, until it was proved that he had nothing to do with it.
"And the poor fellow has just about come to the end of his rope," thought Janice commiseratingly. "Oh, dear, me! Even if I had plenty of money, he wouldn't let me help him. Nelson wouldn't take money from a girl—not even borrow it!"
However, Janice stuck to her text with Massey and obtained the list of the lost collection to look at. "Dunno what you want it for," said the druggist. "You going sleuthing for the thief, Miss Janice?"
"Maybe," she returned, with a serious smile.
"I reckon that ten dollar gold piece that Joe Bodley took in at the hotel was a false alarm."
"If Joe Bodley had told you how he came by it, it would have helped some, would it not, Mr. Massey?"
"Sure—it might. But he couldn't remember who gave it to him," said the man, wagging his head forlornly.
"I wonder?" said Janice, using one of her uncle's favorite expressions, and so made her way out of the store and into her car again. When she had time that forenoon at the seminary she spread out the sheet on which the description of the coins was printed, and looked for the note relating to the five dollar gold piece in her possession.
It was there. It was not a particularly old or a very rare coin, however. There might be others of the same date and issue in circulation. So, after all, the fact that Narnay had it proved nothing—unless she could discover how he came by it—who had given it to him.
In the afternoon Janice drove home by the Upper Road and ran her car into Elder Concannon's yard. It was the busy season for the elder, for he conducted two big farms and had a number of men working for him besides his regular farm hands.
He was ever ready to talk with Janice Day, however, and he came out of the paddock now, in his old dust coat and broad-brimmed hat, smiling cordially at her.
"Come in and have a pot of tea with me," he said. "Ye know I'm partial to 'old maid's tipple' and Mrs. Grayson will have it ready about now, I s'pose. Stop! I'll tell her to bring it out on the side porch. It's shady there. You look like a cup would comfort you, Janice. What's the matter?"
"I've lots of troubles, Elder Concannon," she said, with a sigh. "But you have your share, too, so I'll keep most of mine to myself," and she hopped out from behind the wheel of the automobile.
They went to the porch and the elder halloaed in at the screen door.
His housekeeper soon bustled out with the tray. She remained to take
one cup of tea herself. Then, when she had gone about her duties,
Janice opened the subject upon which she had come to confer.
"How are those men getting on in your wood lot, Elder?"
"What men—and what lot?" he asked smiling.
"I don't know what lot it is; but I mean Mr. Trimmins and those others."
"Oh! Trimmins and Jim Narnay and that Besmith boy?"
"Yes."
"Why, they are moving on slowly. This is their third job with me since Winter. Once or twice they've kicked over the traces and gone on a spree——"
"That was when you paid them?"
"That was when I had to pay them," said the elder. "They work pretty well when they haven't any money."
"Have you paid them lately, Sir?" asked Janice. "I am asking for a very good reason—not out of curiosity."
"I have not. It's a month and more since they saw the color of my money. Hold on! that's not quite true," he added suddenly. "I gave Jim Narnay a dollar Saturday afternoon."
"Oh!"
"He came by here on his way to town. Said he was going down to see his sick baby. She is sick, isn't she?"
"Oh, yes," murmured Janice. "Poor little thing!"
"Well, he begged for some money, and I let him have a dollar. He said he didn't want to go down home without a cent in his pocket. So I gave it to him."
"Only a dollar?" repeated the girl thoughtfully.
The old man's face flushed a little, and he said tartly: "I reckon that did him no good. By the looks of his face when he went through here Sunday night he'd proberbly spent it all in liquor, I sh'd say."
"Oh, no! I didn't mean to criticize your generosity," Janice said quickly. "I believe you gave him more than was good for him. I know that Mrs. Narnay and the children had little benefit of it."
"That's what I supposed," grunted the elder.
Janice sipped her tea and, looking over the edge of her cup at him, asked:
"Having much trouble, Elder, with your new man?"
"What new man?" snorted the old gentleman, his mouth screwed up very tightly.
"I hear you have the school teacher working for you," she said.
"Well! So I have," he admitted, his face suddenly broadening. "Trust you women folks for finding things out in a hurry. But he ain't teaching school up here—believe me!"
"No?"
"He's helping clean up my hog lot. I dunno but maybe he thinks it isn't any worse than managing Polktown boys," and the elder chuckled.
But Janice was serious and she bent forward and laid a hand upon the old man's arm. "Oh, Elder Concannon! don't be too hard on him, will you?" she begged.
He grinned at her. "I won't break him all up in business. We want to use him down town in these meetings we're going to hold for temperance. He's got a way of talking that convinces folks, Janice—I vow! Remember how he talked for the new schoolhouse? I haven't forgotten that, for he beat me that time.
"Now; we can't afford to hire many of these outside speakers for prohibition—it costs too much to get them here. But I have told Mr. Haley to brush up his ideas, and by and by we'll have him make a speech in Polktown. He can practise on the pigs for a while," added the elder laughing; "and maybe after all they won't be so dif'rent from some of them in town that I want should hear the young man when he does spout."
So Janice was comforted, and ran down town to the Drugg place in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Marty was waiting at the store for the car. There was a special reason for his being so prompt.
"Look-a-here!" he called. "What d'ye know about this?" and he waved something over his head.
"What is it, Marty Day?" Janice cried, looking at the small object in wonder.
"Another letter from Uncle Brockey! Hooray! he ain't dead yet!" shouted the boy.
His cousin seized the missive—fresh from the post-office—and gazed anxiously at the envelope. It was postmarked in one of the border towns many days after the report of Juan Dicampa's death; yet the writing on the envelope was the handwriting of the guerrilla chief.
"Goodness me!" gasped Janice, "what can this mean?"
She broke the seal. As usual the envelope inside was addressed to her by her father. And as she hastily scanned the letter she saw no mention made of Juan Dicampa's death. Indeed, Mr. Broxton Day wrote just as though his own situation, at least, had not changed. And he seemed to have received most of her letters.
What did it mean? If the guerrilla leader had been shot by the Federals, how was it possible for her father's letters to still come along, redirected in Juan Dicampa's hand?
Doubt assailed her mind—many doubts, indeed. Although Mr. Broxton Day seemed still in safety, the mystery surrounding his situation in Mexico grew mightily in Janice's mind.
That evening Hopewell Drugg returned from Boston and reported that Lottie would have to remain under the doctors' care for a time. They, too, were in doubt. Nobody could yet say whether the child would lose her sight or not.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE TIDE TURNS
These doubts, however, did not switch Janice Day's thought off the line of the stolen gold coins.
The five dollar gold piece found in the possession of Jim Narnay still raised in the girl's mind a number of queries. It was a mystery, she believed, that when solved might aid in clearing Nelson Haley of suspicion.
Of course, the coin she carried in her purse might not be one of those lost with the collection. That was impossible to decide at the moment. The case of the ten-dollar coin was different. That was an exceedingly rare one and in all probability nobody but a person ignorant of its value would have put it into circulation.
Nevertheless, how did Jim Narnay get hold of a five dollar gold piece?
Elder Concannon had not given it to him. Narnay had come to town on that Saturday evening with only a dollar of the elder's money in his pocket. Did he bring the coin with him, or did he obtain it after reaching town? And who had given the gold piece to the man, in either case?
Janice would have been glad to take somebody into her confidence in this matter; but who should it be? Not her uncle or her aunt. Neither Hopewell nor 'Rill was to be thought of. And the minister, or Elder Concannon, seemed too much apart from this business to be conferred with. And Nelson——
She did go to Mrs. Beaseley's one evening, hoping that she might find Nelson there, for she had not seen the young man or heard from him since he had gone out of town to work for Elder Concannon. He was not at the widow's, and she found that good but lachrymose woman in tears.
"I'm a poor lone woman—loner and lorner than I've felt since my poor, sainted Charles passed away. Oh, Janice! it seems a pitiful shame that such a one as Mr. Haley should have to go to work on a farm when he can do such a lot of other things—and better things."
"I don't know about there being anything much better than farming—if one has a taste for it," said Janice cheerfully.
"But an educated man—a teacher!" groaned Mrs. Beaseley. "An' I felt like he was my own son—'specially since Cross Moore and them others been houndin' him about that money. Cross Moore come to me, an' says he: 'Miz Beaseley, 'tis your duty to let me look through that young man's things when he's out. We'll either clear him or clench it on him.'
"An' says I: 'Cross Moore, if you put your fut across my threshold I'll sartain sure take the broom to you—an' ye'll find that's clenched, a'ready!'"
"Oh, Mrs. Beaseley!" gasped Janice, yet inclined to laugh, too.
"Oh, I'd ha' done it," threatened the widow, the tears still on her cheeks. "Think o' them, houndin' poor Mr. Haley so! Why! if my poor sainted Charles was alive, he'd run Cross Moore clean down to the lake—an' inter it, I expect, like Walky Dexter's boss.
"And if he warn't so proud——"
"Who is so proud, Mrs. Beaseley?" asked Janice, who had some difficulty at times in following the good woman's line of talk.
"Why—Mr. Nelson Haley. I did make him leave his books here, and ev'rything he warn't goin' ter use out there at the elder's. And I'm going to keep them two rooms jest as he had 'em, and he shell come back here whenever he likes. Money! What d' I keer whether he pays me money or not? My poor, sainted Charles left me enough to live on as long as a poor, lorn, lone creeter like me wants ter live. Nelson Haley is welcome ter stay here for the rest of his endurin' life, if he wants to, an' never pay me a cent!"
"I don't suppose he could take such great favors as you offer him, Mrs. Beaseley," said Janice, kissing her. "But you are a dear! And I know he must appreciate what you have already done for him."
"Wish't 'twas more! Wish't 'twas more!" sobbed Mrs. Beaseley. "But he'll come back ter me nex' Fall. I know! When he goes ter teachin' ag'in, he must come here to live."
"Oh, Mrs. Beaseley! do you think they will let Nelson teach again in the Polktown school?" cried the girl.
"My mercy me! D'yeou mean to tell me Cross Moore and Massey and them other men air perfect fules?" cried the widow. "Here 'tis 'most time for school to close, and they tell me the graduatin' class ain't nowhere near where they ought to be in their books. The supervisor come over himself, and he says he never seen sech ridiculous work as this Mr. Adams has done here. He—he's a baby! And he ought to be teachin' babies—not bein' principal of a graded school sech as Mr. Haley built up here."
There were plenty of other people in Polktown who spoke almost as emphatically against the present state of the school and in Nelson's favor. Three months or so of bad management had told greatly in the discipline and in the work of the pupils.
A few who would graduate from the upper grade were badly prepared, and would have to make up some of their missed studies during the Summer if they were to be accepted as pupils in their proper grade at the Middletown Academy.
Mr. Haley's record up to the very day he had withdrawn from his position of teacher was as good as any teacher in the State. Indeed, several teachers from surrounding districts had met with him in Polktown once a month and had taken work and instructions from him. The State Board of Education and the supervisors had appreciated Nelson's work. Mr. Adams had been the only substitute they could give Polktown at such short notice. He was supposed to have had the same training, as Mr. Haley; but—"different men, different minds."
"Ye'd oughter come over to our graduation exercises, Janice," said Marty, with a grin. "We're goin' to do ourselves proud. Hi tunket! that Adams is so green that I wonder Walky's old Josephus ain't bit him yet, thinkin' he was a wisp of grass."
"Now Marty!" said his mother, admonishingly.
"Fact," said her son. "Adams wants me to speak a piece on that great day. I told him I couldn't—m' lip's cracked!" and Marty giggled. "But Sally Prentiss is going to recite 'A Psalm of Life,' and Peke Ringgold is going to tell us all about 'Bozzar—Bozzar—is'—as though we hadn't been made acquainted with him ever since Hector was a pup. And Hector's a big dog now!"
"You're one smart young feller, now, ain't ye?" said his father, for this information was given out by Marty at the supper table one evening just before the "great day," as he called the last session of school for that year.
"I b'lieve I'm smart enough to know when to go in and keep dry," returned his son, flippantly. "But I've my doubts about Mr. Adams—for a fac'."
"Nev' mind," grunted his father. "There'll be a change before next
Fall."
"There'd better be—or I don't go back for my last year at school.
Now, you can bet on that!" cried Marty, belligerently. "Hi tunket!
I'd jest as soon be taught by an old maid after all as Adams."
Differently expressed, the whole town seemed of a mind regarding the school and the failure of Mr. Adams. The committee got over that ignominious graduation day as well as possible. Mr. Middler did all he could to make it a success, and he made a very nice speech to the pupils and their parents.
The minister could not be held responsible in any particular for the failure of the school. Of all the committee, he had had nothing to do with Nelson Haley's resignation. As Walky Dexter said, Mr. Middler "flocked by himself." He had little to do with the other four members of the school committee.
"And when it comes 'lection," said Walky, dogmatically, "there's a hull
lot on us will have jest abeout as much to do with Cross Moore and
Massey and old Crawford and Joe Pellett, as Mr. Middler does.
Jefers-pelters! If they don't put nobody else up for committeemen,
I'll vote for the taown pump!"
"Ya-as, Walky," said Uncle Jason, slily. "That'd be likely, I reckon.
I hear ye air purty firmly seated on the water wagon."
CHAPTER XXVII
THE TEMPEST
Mr. Cross Moore was not a man who easily or frequently recanted before either public or private opinion. As political "boss" of the town he had often found himself opposed to many of his neighbors' wishes. Neither sharp tongue nor sharp look disturbed him—apparently, at least.
Besides, Mr. Moore loved a fight "for the fight's sake," as the expression is. He had backed Lem Parraday in applying for a liquor license, to benefit his own pocket. It had to be a good reason indeed, to change Mr. Moore's attitude on the liquor selling question.
The hotel barroom held great attractions for many of Cross Moore's supporters, although Mr. Moore himself seldom stepped into that part of the hotel. The politician did not trust Lem Parraday to represent him, for Lem was "no wiser than the law allows," to quote his neighbors. But Joe Bodley, the young barkeeper, imported from the city, was just the sort of fellow Cross Moore could use.
And about this time Joe Bodley was in a position where his fingers "itched for the feel of money." Not other people's money, but his own. He had scraped together all he had saved, and drawn ahead on his wages, to make up the hundred dollars paid Hopewell Drugg for the violin, and——
"Seems ter me that old fiddle is what they call a sticker, ain't it, 'stead of a Straddlevarious?" chuckled Walky Dexter, referring to the instrument hanging on the wall behind Joe's head.
"Oh, I'll get my money back on it," Bodley replied, with studied carelessness. "Maybe I'll raffle it off."
"Not here in Polktown ye won't," said the expressman. "Yeou might as well try ter raffle off a white elephant."
"Pshaw! of course not. But a fine fiddle like that—a real Cremona—will bring a pretty penny in the city. There, Walky, roll that barrel right into this corner behind the bar. I'll have to put a spigot in it soon. Might's well do it now. 'Tis the real Simon-pure article, Walky. Have a snifter?"
"On the haouse?" queried Walky, briskly.
"Sure. It's a tin roof," laughed Bodley.
"Much obleeged ter ye," said Walky. "As yer so pressin'—don't mind if
I do. A glass of sars'p'rilla'll do me."
"What's the matter with you lately, Walky?" demanded the barkeeper, pouring the non-alcoholic drink with no very good grace. "Lost your taste for a man's drink?"
"Sort o'," replied Walky, calmly. "Here's your health, Joe. I thought you had that fiddle sold before you went to Hopewell arter it?"
"To tell ye the truth, Walky——"
"Don't do it if it hurts ye, Joe. Haw! haw!"
The barkeeper made a wry face and continued:
"That feller I got it for, only put up a part of the price. I thought he was a square sport; but he ain't. When he got a squint at the old fiddle while Hopewell was down here playing for the dance, he was just crazy to buy it. Any old price, he said! After I got it," proceeded Joe, ruefully, "he tries to tell me it ain't worth even what I paid for it."
"Wal—'tain't, is it?" said Walky, bluntly.
"If it's worth a hundred it's worth a hundred and fifty," said the barkeeper doggedly.
"Ya-as—if," murmured the expressman.
"However, nobody's going to get it for any less—believe me! Least of all that Fontaine. I hate these Kanucks, anyway. I know him. He's trying to jew me down," said Joe, angrily.
"Wal, you take it to the city," advised Walky. "You kin make yer spec on it there, ye say."
There was a storm cloud drifting across Old Ti as the expressman climbed to his wagon seat and drove away from the Inn. It had been a very hot day and was now late afternoon—just the hour for a summer tempest.
The tiny waves lapped the loose shingle along the lake shore. There was the hot smell of over-cured grass on the uplands. The flower beds along the hilly street which Janice Day mounted after a visit to the Narnays, were quite scorched now.
This street brought Janice out by the Lake View Inn. She, too, saw the threatening cloud and hastened her steps. Sharp lightnings flickered along its lower edge, lacing it with pale blue and saffron. The mutter of the thunder in the distance was like a heavy cannonade.
"Maybe it sounded so years and years ago when the British and French fought over there," Janice thought. "How these hills must have echoed to the roll of the guns! And when Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys discharged the guns in a salvo of thanksgiving over Old Ti's capture—Oh! is that you, Nelson? How you startled me."
For the young schoolmaster had come up the hill behind her at a breathless gait. "We've got to hurry," he said. "That's going to be what Marty would call a 'humdinger' of a storm, Janice."
"Dear me! I didn't know you were in town," she said happily.
"We got the last of the hay in this morning," said the bronzed young fellow, smiling. "I helped mow away and the elder was kind enough to say that I had done well and could have the rest of the day to myself. I fancy the shrewd old fellow knew it was about to rain," and he laughed.
"And how came you down this way?" Janice asked.
"Followed your trail," laughed Nelson. I went in to Mrs. Beaseley's of course. "And then at Drugg's I learned you had gone down to see Jim Narnay's folks. But I didn't catch you there. Goodness, Janice, but they are a miserable lot! I shouldn't think you could bear to go there."
"Oh, Nelson, the poor little baby—it is so sick and it cheers Mrs. Narnay up a little if I call on her. Besides, Sophie and the little boys are just as cunning as they can be. I can't help sympathizing with them."
"Do save some of your sympathy for other folks, Janice," said Nelson, rather ruefully. "You ought to have seen the blisters I had on my hands the first week or two I was a farmer."
"Oh, Nelson! That's too bad," she cried, with solicitude.
"Too late!" he returned, laughing. "They are callouses now—marks of honest toil. Whew! see that dust-cloud!"
The wind had ruffled the lake in a wide strip, right across to the eastern shore. Whitecaps were dancing upon the surface and the waves ran a long way up the beach. The wind, rushing ahead of the rain-cloud, caught up the dust in the streets and advanced across the town.
Janice hid her face against the sleeve of her light frock. Nelson led her by the hand as the choking cloud passed over. Then the rain, in fitful gusts at first, pelted them so sharply that the girl cried out.
"Oh, Nelson, it's like hail!" she gasped.
A vivid flash of lightning cleaved the cloud; the thunder-peal drowned the schoolmaster's reply. But Janice felt herself fairly caught up in his arms and he mounted some steps quickly. A voice shouted:
"Bring her right this way, school teacher! Right in here!"
It was Lem Parraday's voice. They had mounted the side porch of the Inn and when Janice opened her eyes she was in the barroom. The proprietor of the Inn slammed to the door against the thunderous rush of the breaking storm. The rain dashed in torrents against the house. The blue flashes of electricity streaked the windows constantly, while the roll and roar of the thunder almost deafened those in the darkened barroom.
Joe Bodley was behind the bar briskly serving customers. He nodded familiarly to Janice, and said:
"Bad storm, Miss. Glad to see you. You ain't entirely a stranger here, eh?"
"Shut up, Joe!" commanded Mr. Parraday, as Janice flushed and the schoolmaster took a threatening step toward the bar.
"Oh, all right, Boss," giggled the barkeeper. "What's yours, Mister?" he asked Nelson Haley.
A remarkable clap of thunder drowned Nelson's reply. Perhaps it was as well. And as the heavy roll of the report died away, they heard a series of shrieks somewhere in the upper part of the house.
"What in good gracious is the matter now?" gasped Lem Parraday, hastening out of the barroom.
Again a blinding flash of light lit up the room for an instant. It played upon the fat features of Joe Bodley—pallidly upon the faces of his customers. Some of them had shrunk away from the bar; some were ashamed to be seen there by Janice and the schoolmaster.
The thunder discharged another rolling report, shaking the house in its wrath. The rain beat down in torrents. Janice and Nelson could not leave the place while the storm was at its height, and for the moment, neither thought of going into the dining room.
Again and again the lightning flashed and the thunder broke above the tavern. It was almost as though the fury of the tempest was centered at the Lake View Inn. Janice, frankly clinging to Nelson's hand, cowered when the tempest rose to these extreme heights.
Echoing another peal of thunder once again a scream from within the house startled the girl. "Oh, Nelson! what's that?"
"Gee! I believe Marm Parraday's on the rampage," exclaimed Joe Bodley, with a silly smile on his face.
The door from the hall flew open. In the dusky opening the woman's lean and masculine form looked wondrous tall; her hollow eyes burned with unnatural fire; her thin and trembling lips writhed pitifully.
With her coming another awful flash and crash illumined the room and shook the roof tree of the Inn.
"It's come! it's come!" she said, advancing into the-room. Her face shone in the pallid, flickering light of the intermittent flashes, and the loafers at the bar shrank away from her advance.
"I told ye how 'twould be, Lem Parraday!" cried the tavern keeper's wife. "This is the end! This is the end!"
Another stroke of thunder rocked the house. Marm Parraday fell on her knees in the sawdust and raised her clasped hands wildly. The act loosened her stringy gray hair and it fell down upon her shoulders. A wilder looking creature Janice Day had never imagined.
"Almighty Father!" burst from the quivering lips of the poor woman.
"Almighty Father, help us!"
"She's prayin'!" gasped a trembling voice back in the shrinking crowd.
"Help us and save us!" groaned the woman, her face and clasped hands uplifted. "We hear Thy awful voice. We see the flash of Thy anger. Ah!"
The thunder rolled again—ominously, suddenly, while the casements rattled from its vibrations.
"Forgive Lem and these other men for what they air doin', O Lord!" was the next phrase the startled spectators heard. "They don't deserve Thy forgiveness—but overlook 'em!"
The Voice in the heavens answered again and drowned her supplication. One man screamed—a shrill, high neigh like that of a hurt horse. Janice caught a momentary glimpse of the pallid face of Joe Bodley shrinking below the edge of the counter. There was no leer upon his fat face now; it expressed nothing but terror.
Lem Parraday entered hastily. He caught his wife by her thin shoulders just as she pitched forward. "Now, now, Marm! This ain't no way to act," he said, soothingly.
The thunder muttered in the distance. Suddenly the flickering lightning seemed less threatening. As quickly as it had burst, the tempest passed away.
"My jimminy! She's fainted," Lem Parraday murmured, lifting the woman in his strong arms.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE ENEMY RETREATS
As the Summer advanced visitors flocked to Polktown. From the larger and better known tourist resorts on the New York side of the lake, small parties had ventured into Polktown during the two previous seasons. Now news of the out-of-the-way, old-fashioned hamlet had spread; and by the end of July the Lake View Inn was comfortably filled, and most people who were willing to take "city folks" to board had all the visitors they could take care of.
"But I dunno's we're goin' to make much by havin' sech a crowd," Lem Parraday complained. "With Marm sick nothin' seems ter go right. Sech waste in the kitchen I never did see! An' if I say a word, or look skew-jawed at them women, they threaten ter up an' leave me in a bunch."
For Marm Parraday, by Dr. Poole's orders, had been taken out into the country to her sister's, and told to stay there till cool weather came.
"If you are bound to run a rum-hole, Lem," said the plain-spoken doctor, "don't expect a woman in her condition to help you run it."
Lem thought it hard—and he looked for sympathy among his neighbors.
He got what he was looking for, but of rather doubtful quality.
"I cartainly do wish Marm'd git well—or sumpin'," he said one day in Walky Dexter's hearing. "I don't see how a man's expected to run a ho-tel without a woman to help him. It beats me!"
"It'll be sumpin' that happens ter ye, I reckon," observed Walky, drily. "Sure as yeou air a fut high, Lem. In the Fall. Beware the Ides o' September, as the feller says. Only mebbe I ain't got jest the month right. Haw! haw! haw!"
Town Meeting Day was in September. The call had already been issued, and included in it was the amendment calling for no license in Polktown—the new ordinance, if passed, to take immediate effect.
The campaign for prohibition was continued despite the influx of Summer visitors. Indeed, because of them the battle against liquor selling grew hotter. Not so many "city folks" as the hotel-keeper and his friends expected, desired to see a bar in the old-fashioned community. Especially after the first pay day of the gang working on the branch of the V. C. Road. When the night was made hideous and the main street of Polktown dangerous for quiet people, by drink-inflamed fellows from the railroad construction camp, a strong protest was addressed to the Town Selectmen.
There was a possibility of several well-to-do men building on the heights above the town, another season. Uncle Jason had a chance to sell his sheep-lot at such a price that his cupidity was fully aroused. But the buyer did not care to close the bargain if the town went "wet" in the Fall. Naturally Mr. Day's interest in prohibition increased mightily.
The visiting young people would have liked to hold dances in Lem Parraday's big room at the Inn. But gently bred girls did not care to go where liquor was sold; so the dancing parties of the better class were held in the Odd Fellows Hall.
The recurrent temperance meetings which had at first been held in the
Town House had to seek other quarters early in the campaign. Mr. Cross
Moore "lifted his finger" and the councilmen voted to allow the Town
Hall to be used for no such purpose.
However, warm weather having come, in a week the Campaign Committee obtained a big tent, set it up on the old circus grounds behind Major Price's place, somewhat curtailing the boys' baseball field, and the temperance meetings were held not only once a week, but thrice weekly.
The tent meetings became vastly popular. When Nelson Haley, urged by the elder, made his first speech in the campaign, Polktown awoke as never before to the fact that their schoolmaster had a gift of oratory not previously suspected.
And, perhaps as much as anything, that speech raised public opinion to a height which could be no longer ignored by the School Committee. There was an unveiled demand in the Polktown column of the Middletown Courier that Nelson Haley should be appointed teacher of the graded school for the ensuing year.
Even Mr. Cross Moore saw that the time had come for him and his comrades on the committee to back down completely from their position. It was the only thing that would save them from being voted out of office at the coming election—and perhaps that would happen anyway!
Before the Summer was over the request, signed by the five committeemen, came to Nelson that he take up his duties from which he had asked to be relieved in the Spring.
"It's a victory!" cried Janice, happily. "Oh, Nelson! I'm so glad."
But there was an exceedingly bitter taste on Nelson Haley's lips. He shook his head and could not smile. The accusation against his character still stood. He had been accused of stealing the collection of coins, and he had never been able to disprove the charge.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE TRUTH AT LAST
Daddy had not written for nearly two months. At least, no letter from him had reached Janice. The Day family in Polktown had not gone into mourning in the Spring and Aunt 'Mira gloried in a most astonishing plum-colored silk with "r'yal purple" trimmings. Nevertheless, Janice had now all but given up hope for her father's life.
The uncertainty connected with his fate was very hard for the young girl to bear. She had the thought with her all the time—a picture in her mind of a man, blindfolded, his wrists fastened behind him, standing with his back against a sunburnt wall and a file of ragged, barefooted soldiers in front of him.
In desperation she had written a letter addressed personally to "General Juan Dicampa," sending it to the same place to which she addressed her father's letters. She did this almost in fear of the consequences. Who would read her letter now that the guerrilla chief was dead?
In the appeal Janice pleaded for her father's life and for news of him. Days passed and there was no reply. But the letter, with her name and address on the outside, was not returned to her.
Broxton Day's fate was discussed no more before Janice at home. And other people who knew of her trouble, save Nelson Haley, soon forgot it. For the girl did not "wear her heart on her sleeve."
As for the Druggs—Hopewell and his wife—they were so worried about little Lottie's case that they had thought for nobody's troubles but their own.
The doctors would not let the child return to Polktown at present. They kept her all through the Summer, watching her case. And Lottie, at a Summer school in Boston, was enjoying herself hugely. She was not yet at an age to worry much about the future.
These months of Lottie's absence were weary ones indeed for her father. Sometimes he wandered about the store quite distraught. 'Rill was worried about him. He missed the solace of his violin and refused to purchase a cheap instrument to take the place of the one he had been obliged to sacrifice.
"No, Miss Janice," he told the girl once, when she spoke of this. "I could not play another instrument. I am no musician. I was never trained. It was just a natural talent that I developed, because I found in my heart a love for the old violin my father had played so many years.
"Through its vibrant strings I expressed deeper feelings than I could ever express in any other way—or upon any other instrument. My lips would never have dared tell my love for 'Rill," and he smiled in his gentle way, "half so boldly as my violin told it! Ask her. She will tell you that my violin courted her—not Hopewell Drugg."
"Oh, it is too, too bad!" cried Janice. "And that fellow down at Lem Parraday's hotel has never succeeded in disposing of the fiddle. I wish he would sell it back to you."
"I could not buy it at the price he gave me for it," said Hopewell, sadly shaking his head. "No use to think of it."
But Janice thought of it—and thought of it often. If daddy were only—only successful again! That is the way she put it in her mind. If he could only send her some more money! There was many a thing Janice Day needed, or wanted. But she thought that she would deny herself much for the sake of recovering the violin for Hopewell Drugg.
Meanwhile nothing further had come to light regarding the missing collection of gold coins. No third coin had been put into circulation—in Polktown, at least. The four school committeemen who were responsible for the collection had long since paid the owner out of their own pockets rather than be put to further expense in law.
Jim Narnay's baby was growing weaker and weaker. The little thing had been upon the verge of passing on so many times, that her parents had grown skeptical of the doctor's prophecy—that she could not live out the Summer.
It seemed to Janice, however, that the little body was frailer, the little face wanner, the tiny smile more pitiful, each time she went to Pine Cove to see the baby. Nelson, who had come back to town and again taken up his abode with the overjoyed Mrs. Beaseley while he prepared for the opening of the school, urged Janice not to go so often to the Narnay cottage.
"You've enough on your heart and mind, dear girl," he said to her.
"Why burden yourself with other people's troubles?"
"Why—do you know, Nelson," she told him, thoughtfully, "that is one of the things I have learned of late."
"What is one of the things you have learned?"
"I have been learning, Nelson, that the more we share other people's burdens the less weight our own assume. It's wonderful! When I am thinking of the poor little Narnay baby, I am not thinking of daddy away down there in Mexico. And when I am worrying about little Lottie Drugg—or even about Hopewell's lost violin—I am not thinking about those awful gold coins and who could have taken them——"
"Here! here, young woman!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, stopping short, and shaking his head at her. "That's certainly not your personal trouble."
"Oh, but, Nelson," she said shyly. "Whatever troubles you must trouble me quite as though it were my really, truly own!"
What Nelson might have said, right there on Hillside Avenue, too—even what he might have done!—will never be known; for here Marty suddenly appeared running wildly and shrieking at the top of his lungs for them to stop.
"Hi! hi! what's the matter wi' you folks?" he yelled, his face red, and his breath fairly gasping in his throat. "I been yellin' after ye all down High Street. Look what I found!"
"Looks like a newspaper, Marty," said Nelson, calmly.
"But what is in it?" cried Janice, turning pale.
Nelson seized the paper and held it open. He read rapidly:
"'Great battle fought southwest of Chihuahua. Federal forces thoroughly whipped. Rebels led by the redoubtable General Juan Dicampa, whose reported death last Spring was only a ruse to blind the eyes of the Federals to his movements. At the head of a large force of regular troops and Yaqui Indians, Dicampa fell upon the headquarters of General Cesta, capturing or killing his entire command, and becoming possessed of quantities of munition and a great store of supplies. A telling blow that may bring about the secure establishment of a de facto government in our ensanguined sister Republic."
"Goodness me, Janice! what do you think of that? There is a lot more of it, too."
"Then—if Juan Dicampa is not dead——" began the girl.
"Sure, Uncle Brocky ain't dead!" finished Marty.
"At least, dear girl," said Nelson, sympathetically, "there is every reason to believe that what Marty says is true."
"Oh, I can hope! I can hope again!" she murmured. "And, perhaps—who knows, Nelson?—perhaps my own great trouble is going to melt away and be no more, just like last Winter's snow! Perhaps daddy is safe, and will come home."
"I wish my difficulties promised as quick a solution, Janice," said
Nelson, shaking his head. "But I am glad for you, my dear."
Marty ran ahead with the paper to spread the good news of Uncle Brocky's probable safety. Janice and Nelson were not destined to be left to their own devices for long, however. As they slowly mounted the pleasant and shady street there was the rattle of wheels behind them, and a masterful voice said:
"Whoa! That you, Schoolmaster? How-do, Janice."
"Dr. Poole!" they cried, as one.
"Bad news for you, Janice," said the red-faced doctor, in his brusk way. "Know you're interested in that Narnay youngster. I've just come from there. I've got to go half way to Bristol to set a feller's leg. They telephoned me. Before I could get there and back that Narnay baby is going to be out of the reach of all my pills and powders."
He did not say it harshly; it was Dr. Poole's way to be brusk.
"Oh, Doctor! Will it surely die?"
"Not two hours to live—positively," said the physician, gathering up the reins. "I'm sorry for Jim. If the fellow is a drunkard, he is mighty tender-hearted when it comes to kids—and he's sober," he added, under his breath.
"Is he there?" asked Janice, quickly.
"No. Hasn't been in town for two weeks. Up in the woods somewhere. It will break him all up in business, I expect. I told you, for I didn't know but you'd want to go down and see the woman."
"Thank you, Doctor," Janice said, as the chaise rattled away. But she did not turn back down the hill. Instead, she quickened her steps in the opposite direction.
"Well! I am glad for once you are not going to wear yourself out with other people's troubles," said Nelson, looking sideways at her.
"Poor Mr. Narnay," said the girl. "I am going after him. He must see the baby before she dies."
"Janice!"
"Yes. The car is all ready, I know. It will take only half an hour to run up there where those men are at work. I took Elder Concannon over there once. The road isn't bad at all at this time of year."
"Do you mean you are going clear over the mountain after that drunken
Narnay?" demanded Nelson, with some heat.
"I am going after the baby's father, Nelson," she replied softly. "You may go, too, if you are real good," and she smiled up at him so roguishly that his frown was dissipated and he had to smile in return.
They reached the Day house shortly and Janice hurried in for her dust-coat and goggles. Marty offered his own cap and "blinders," as he called them, to the schoolmaster.
"You'll sure need 'em, Mr. Haley, if you go with Janice, and she's drivin'. I b'lieve she said she was in a hurry," and he grinned as he opened the garage door and ran the Kremlin out upon the gravel.
The automobile moved out of the yard and took the steep hill easily.
Once on the Upper Road, Janice urged the car on and they passed Elder
Concannon's in a cloud of dust.
The camp where the baby's father was at work was easily found. Jim Narnay seemed to know what the matter was, for he flung down the axe he was using and was first of the three at the side of the car when Janice stopped. Mr. Trimmins sauntered up, too, but the sullen Jack Besmith seemed to shrink from approaching the visitors.
"I will get you there if possible in time to see the baby once more, Mr. Narnay, if you will come right along as you are," said Janice, commiseratingly, after explaining briefly their errand. "Dr. Poole told me the time was short."
"Go ahead, Jim," said Trimmins, giving the man's hand a grip. "Miss
Day, you sartain sure are a good neighbor."
Janice turned the car as soon as Narnay was in the tonneau. The man sat clinging with one hand to the rail and with the other over his face most of the way to town.
Speed had to be reduced when they turned into High Street; but Constable Poley Cantor turned his back on them as they swung around the corner into the street leading directly down to Pine Cove.
Janice left Nelson in the car at the door, and ran into the cottage with the anxious father. Mrs. Narnay sat with the child on her lap, rocking herself slowly to and fro, and weeping. The children—even Sophie—made a scared little group in the corner.
The woman looked up and saw her husband. "Oh, Jim!" she said. "Ain't it too bad? She—she didn't know you was comin'. She—she's jest died."
Janice was crying frankly when she came out of the house a few minutes afterward. Nelson, seeing her tears, sprang out of the car and hastened up the ragged walk to meet her.
"Janice!" he exclaimed and put his arm around her shoulders, stooping a little to see into her face. "Don't cry, child! Is—is it dead?"
Janice nodded. Jim Narnay came to the door. His bloated, bearded face was working with emotion. He saw the tenderness with which Nelson Haley led the girl to the car.
The heavy tread of the man sounded behind the young folk as Nelson helped Janice into the car, preparing himself to drive her home.
"I say—I say, Miss Janice," stammered Narnay.
She wiped her eyes and turned quickly, in sympathy, to the broken man.
"I will surely see Mr. Middler, Mr. Narnay. And tell your wife there will be a few flowers sent down—and some other things. I—I know you will remain and be—be helpful to her, Mr. Narnay?"
"Yes, I will, Miss," said Narnay. His bleared eyes gazed first on the young girl and then on Haley. "I beg your pardon, Miss," he added.
"What is it, Mr. Narnay?" asked Janice.
"Mebbe I'd better tell it ter schoolmaster," said the man, his lips working. He drew the back of his hand across them to hide their quivering. "I know something mebbe Mr. Haley would like to hear."
"What is it, Narnay?" asked Nelson, kindly.
"I—I——I hear folks says ye stole them gold coins out of the schoolhouse."
Nelson looked startled, but Janice almost sprang out of her seat. "Oh, Jim Narnay!" she cried, "can you clear Mr. Haley? Do you know who did it?"
"I see you—you and schoolmaster air fond of each other," said the man. "I never before went back on a pal; but you've been mighty good to me an' mine, Miss Janice, and—and I'm goin' to tell."
Nelson could not speak. Janice, however, wanted to cry aloud in her delight. "I knew you could explain it all, Mr. Narnay, but I didn't know that you would," she said.
"You knowed I could tell it?" demanded the startled Narnay.
"Ever since that five dollar gold piece rolled out of your pocket—yes," she said, and no more to Narnay's amazement than to Nelson's, for she had told the schoolmaster nothing about that incident.
"My mercy, Miss! Did you git that five dollar coin?" demanded Narnay.
"Yes. Right here on your porch. The Sunday you were at home."
"And I thought I'd lost it. I didn't take the whiskey back to the boys, and Jack's been sayin' all the time I double-crossed him. Says I must ha' spent the money for booze and drunk it meself. And mebbe I would of—if I hadn't lost the five," admitted Narnay, wagging his head.
"But I don't understand," broke in Nelson Haley.
Janice touched his arm warningly. "But you didn't lose the ten dollar coin he gave you before that to change at Lem Parraday's, Mr. Narnay?" she said slyly.
"I guess ye do know about it," said the man, eyeing Janice curiously. "I can't tell you much, I guess. Only, you air wrong about me passin' the first coin. Jack did that himself—and brought back to camp a two gallon jug of liquor."
"Jack Besmith!" gasped the school teacher, the light dawning in his mind.
"Yes," said Narnay. "Me and Trimmins has knowed it for a long time. We wormed it out o' Jack when he was drunk. But he was putting up for the stuff right along, so we didn't tell. He's got most of the money hid away somewhere—we don't know where.
"He told us he saw the stuff up at Massey's the night before he stole it. He went there to try to get his job back, and seen Massey puttin' the trays of coin into his safe. He knowed they was goin' down to the schoolhouse in the mornin'.
"He got drunk," pursued Narnay. "He didn't go home all night. Early in the mornin' he woke up in a shed, and went back to town. It was so early that little Benny Thread (that's Jack's brother-in-law) was just goin' into the basement door of the schoolhouse to 'tend to his fire.
"Jack says he slipped in behind him and hid upstairs in a clothes closet. He thought he'd maybe break open the teacher's desk and see if there wasn't some money in it, if he didn't git a chance at them coins. But that was too easy. The committee left the coins right out open in the committee room, and Jack grabbed up the trays, took 'em to the clothes room, and emptied them into the linin' of his coat, and into his pants' pockets. They was a load!
"So, after the teacher come into the buildin' and went out again, Jack put back the trays, slipped downstairs, dodged Benny and the four others, and went out at the basement door. Benny's always swore that door was locked; but it's only a spring lock and easy enough opened from inside.
"That—that's all, I guess," added Narnay, in a shamefaced way. "Jack backed that load of gold coin clean out to our camp. And he hid 'em all b'fore we ever suspected he had money. We don't know now where his cache is——"
"Oh, Nelson!" burst out Janice, seizing both the schoolmaster's hands.
"The truth at last!"
"Ye—ye've been so good to us, Miss Janice," blubbered Narnay, "I couldn't bear to see the young man in trouble no longer—and you thinkin' as much as you do of him——"
"If I have done anything at all for you or yours, Mr. Narnay," sobbed Janice, "you have more than repaid me—over and over again you have repaid me! Do stay here with your wife and the children. I am going to send Mr. Middler right down. Let's drive on, Nelson."
The teacher started the car. "And to think," he said softly when the Kremlin had climbed the hill and struck smoother going, "that I have been opposed to your doing anything for these Narnays all the time, Janice. Yet because you were kind, I am saved! It—it is wonderful!"
"Oh, no, Nelson. It is only what might have been expected," said
Janice, softly.
CHAPTER XXX
MARM PARRADAY DOES HER DUTY
It was on the day following the burial of the Narnay baby that the mystery surrounding Mr. Broxton Day's situation in Mexico was quite cleared up, and much to his daughter's satisfaction. Quite a packet of letters arrived for Janice—several delayed epistles, indeed, coming in a single wrapper.
With them was a letter in the exact script of Juan Dicampa—that mysterious brigand chief who was Mr. Day's friend—and couched in much the same flowery phraseology as the former note Janice had received. It read:
"Señorita:—
"I fain would beg thy pardon—and that most humbly—for my seeming slight of thy appeal, which reached my headquarters when your humble servant was busily engaged elsewhere. Thy father, the Senior B. Day, is safe. He has never for a moment been in danger. The embargo is now lifted and he may write to thee, sweet señorita, as he may please. The enemy has been driven from this fair section of my troubled land, and the smile of peace rests upon us as it rests upon you, dear señorita. Adios.
"Faithfully thine,
"JUAN DICAMPA."
"Such a strangely boyish letter to come from a bloodthirsty bandit—for such they say he is. And he is father's friend," sighed Janice, showing the letter to Nelson Saley. "Oh, dear! I wish daddy would leave that hateful old mine and come home."
Nevertheless, daddy's return—or his abandonment of the mine—did not appear imminent. Good news indeed was in Mr. Broxton Day's most recent letters. The way to the border for ore trains was again open. For six weeks he had had a large force of peons at work in the mine and a great amount of ore had been shipped.
There was in the letter a certificate of deposit for several hundred dollars, and the promise of more in the near future.
"You must be pretty short of feminine furbelows by this time. Be good to yourself, Janice," wrote Mr. Day.
But his daughter, though possessing her share of feminine vanity in dress, saw first another use for a part of this unexpected windfall. She said nothing to a soul but Walky Dexter, however. It was to be a secret between them.
There was so much going on in Polktown just then that Walky could keep a secret, as he confessed himself, "without half trying."
"Nelson Haley openin' aour school and takin' up the good work ag'in where he laid it daown, is suthin' that oughter be noted a-plenty," declared Mr. Dexter. "And I will say for 'em, that committee reinstated him before anybody heard anythin' abeout Jack Besmith havin' stole the gold coins.
"Sure enough!" went on Walky, "that's another thing that kin honestly be laid to Lem Parraday's openin' that bar at the Inn. That's where Jack got the liquor that twisted his brain, that led him astray, that made him a thief—— Jefers-pelters! sounds jest like 'The Haouse That Jack Built,' don't it? But poor Jack Besmith has sartainly built him a purty poor haouse. And there's steel bars at the winders of it—poor feller!"
However, it was Nelson Haley himself who used the story of Jack Besmith most tellingly, and for the cause of temperance. As the young fellow had owned to the crime when taxed with it, and had returned most of the coins of the collection, he was recommended to the mercy of the court. But all of Polktown knew of the lad's shame.
Therefore, Nelson Haley felt free to take the incident—and nobody had been more vitally interested in it than himself—for the text of a speech that he made in the big tent only a week or so before Town Meeting Day.
Nelson stood up before the audience and told the story simply—told of the robbery and of how he had felt when he was accused of it, sketching his own agony and shame while for weeks and months he had not been under suspicion. "I did not believe the bad influence of liquor selling could touch me, because I had nothing to do with it," he said. "But I have seen the folly of that opinion."
He pointed out, too, the present remorse and punishment of young Jack Besmith. Then he told them frankly that the blame for all—for Jack's misdeed, his own suffering, and the criminal's final situation—lay upon the consciences of the men who had made liquor selling in Polktown possible.
It was an arraignment that stung. Those deeply interested in the cause of prohibition cheered Nelson to the echo. But one man who sat well back in the audience, his hat pulled over his eyes, and apparently an uninterested listener, slipped out after Nelson's talk and walked and fought his conscience the greater part of that night.
Somehow the school teacher's talk—or was it Janice Day's scorn?—had touched Mr. Cross Moore in a vulnerable part.
Had the Summer visitors to Polktown been voters, there would have been little doubt of the Town Meeting voting the hamlet "dry." But there seemed to be a large number of men determined not to have their liberties, so-called, interfered with.
Lem Parraday's bar had become a noisy place. Some fights had occurred in the horse sheds, too. And on the nights the railroad construction gang came over to spend their pay, the village had to have extra police protection.
Frank Bowman was doing his best with his men; but they were a rough set and he had hard work to control them. The engineer was a never-failing help in the temperance meetings, and nobody was more joyful over the clearing up of Nelson Haley's affairs than he.
"You have done some big things these past few months, Janice Day," he said with emphasis.
"Nonsense, Frank! No more than other people," she declared.
"Well, I guess you have," he proclaimed, with twinkling eyes, "Just think! You've brought out the truth about that lost coin collection; you've saved Hopewell Drugg from becoming a regular reprobate—at least, so says his mother-in-law; you've converted Walky Dexter from his habit of taking a 'snifter'——"
"Oh, no!" laughed Janice. "Josephus converted Walky."
Save at times when he had to deliver freight or express to the hotel, the village expressman had very little business to take him near Lem Parraday's bar nowadays. However, because of that secret between Janice and himself, Walky approached the Inn one evening with the avowed purpose of speaking to Joe Bodley.
Marm Parraday had returned home that very day—and she had returned a different woman from what she was when she went away. The Inn was already being conducted on a Winter basis, for most of the Summer boarders had flitted. There were few patrons now save those who hung around the bar.
Walky, entering by the front door instead of the side entrance, came upon Lem and his wife standing in the hall. Marm Parraday still had her bonnet on. She was grimly in earnest as she talked to Lem—so much in earnest, indeed, that she never noticed the expressman's greeting.
"That's what I've come home for, Lem Parraday—and ye might's well know it. I'm a-goin' ter do my duty—what I knowed I should have done in the fust place. You an' me have worked hard here, I reckon. But you ain't worked a mite harder nor me; and you ain't made the Inn what it is no more than I have."
"Not so much, Marm—not so much," admitted her husband evidently anxious to placate her, for Marm Parraday was her old forceful self again.
"I'd never oughter let rum sellin' be begun here; an' now I'm a-goin' ter end it!"
"My mercy, Marm! 'Cordin' ter the way folks talk, it's goin' to be ended, anyway, when they vote on Town Meeting Day," said Lem, nervously. "I ain't dared renew my stock for fear the 'drys' might git it——"
"Lem Parraday—ye poor, miser'ble worm!" exclaimed his wife. "Be you goin' ter wait till yer neighbors put ye out of a bad business, an' then try ter take credit ter yerself that ye gin it up? Wal, I ain't!" cried the wife, with energy.
"We're goin' aout o' business right now! I ain't in no prayin' mood terday—though I thank the good Lord he's shown me my duty an' has give me stren'th ter do it!"
On the wall, in a "fire protection" frame, was coiled a length of hose, with a red painted pail and an axe. Marm turned to this and snatched down the axe from its hooks.
"Why, Marm!" exploded Lem, trying to get in front of her.
"Stand out o' my way, Lem Parraday!" She commanded, with firm voice and unfaltering mien.
"Yeou air crazy!" shrieked the tavern keeper, dancing between her and the barroom door.
"Not as crazy as I was," she returned grimly.
She thrust him aside as though he were a child and strode into the barroom. Her appearance offered quite as much excitement to the loafers on this occasion as it had the day of the tempest. Only they shrank from her with good reason now, as she flourished the axe.
"Git aout of here, the hull on ye!" ordered the stern woman. "Ye have had the last drink in this place as long as Lem Parraday and me keeps it. Git aout!"
She started around behind the bar. Joe Bodley, smiling cheerfully, advanced to meet her.
"Now, Marm! You know this ain't no way to act," he said soothingly.
"This ain't no place for ladies, anyway. Women's place is in the home.
This here——"