CHAPTER IV
While Lorna Percy was in Susan Redding's kitchen acting as a witness to the compact that placed Lem Redding in pawn to his aunt for a period that seemed likely to be extended indefinitely, another lady had come down the front stairs, and after greeting the young woman on the front porch, had occupied one of the chairs. This was Miss Henrietta Bates.
“I thought Lorna was here,” she said, as she seated herself. “Did n't I hear her voice?”
“Miss Susan called her into the kitchen,” said the other. “I think she will be out in a moment.” Miss Henrietta held up an envelope.
“See what I've got?” she said, smiling.
“Not another letter from Bill?”
“Just that,” said Henrietta. “And the dearest letter! There's a part I want to read to you and Lorna. I don't bore you with my Bill, do I, Gay?”
“Bore? What an idea!”
“Sometimes I'm afraid I do. If it wasn't that his letters are so intelligent. They don't seem to me like ordinary love-letters. They don't seem to you like the common wishy-washy stuff men write, do they?”
“Well, you know I have no experience in love-letters—”
“Poor Gay!” said Miss Bates, and laughed. “But I do think I'm fortunate in having a man like Bill choose me, don't you? I do wish he could come East this summer. I wish you and Lorna could meet him. He's so—so different from the men here.”
The three, who had become close friends, were school teachers, and that was how two of them happened to be boarding at Miss Redding's, which was an exceptionally pleasant boardinghouse. This was the third year Lorna Percy had boarded with Miss Redding. Miss Bates had a year more to her credit. Gay Loring lived at home, across the street, with her parents.
In their quiet, small-town lives the love-letters of Henrietta's William Vane had been important events. William was the first and only man to propose to any one of the three, and although Gay and Lorna had never seen him they had seen his portrait and they had heard a vast amount about him. Henrietta spoke of her William Vane most frankly. She was evidently deeply in love with him.
Gay and Lorna were unequivocally glad on Henrietta's account. Of Gay and Lorna it is enough to say here that they were still young and fresh and attractive. Of Henrietta it may be said that she was no longer quite young, but that she was still fresh and attractive. In many ways she was livelier than her two friends, and had as youthful manners. Although she was at least forty, she had never taken to the type of garb that a woman dons when she is willing to advertise the fact that her youth has fled. Nor had Henrietta Bates any great reason to advertise that. She was still vigorous and bright-eyed, not a gray hair was to be seen on her head, and her face was full and her complexion clear and pleasing.
When Lorna came from the kitchen, bringing young Lem, she noticed immediately the square envelope held by Henrietta.
“What, another?” she exclaimed eagerly. “Henrietta, you are the luckiest girl! What does Billy say this time?”
“I'm going to read part of the letter to you,” said Henrietta. “Sit down and be a good girl and listen. Who is the young man? Isn't it Lemuel?”
“Yes, mam,” said Lem shyly. “I'm Lem.”
“He is going to live here now, too,” said Lorna gayly, “are n't you, Lem?”
“Yes, mam.”
“So you see!” said Lorna, seating herself on the steps and drawing Lem down beside her. “You may not be the only one with a sweetheart, Henrietta. Lem is going to be mine, are n't you, Lem?”
“I don't know,” said Lem, with a boy's diffidence.
“Oh, you must not say that. You must say, 'I'd love to, Miss Percy.' Only you must say, 'I'd love to, Lorna.' My name is Lorna. I'll call you Lem and you 'll call me Lorna. Will you?”
“I don't care.”
Gay erupted from her chair in a protesting billow of white and seated herself at Lem's other side.
“Now, I'll not stand for this at all, Lorna Percy!” she complained. “You shan't kidnap him all for yourself. I have as much right to him as you have. You'll be my sweetheart, too, won't you, Lem?”
“Yes'm, I guess so.”
“There, you mean thing!” Gay laughed at Lorna. “You see! He's as much mine as he is yours.”
It was pretty play and Lem did not mind it much. He had a boy's deep-grounded belief that all girls were silly, and these were only older girls.
“In this letter Bill says—” said Henrietta Bates.
Gay and Lorna turned their heads.
“Oh, excuse me, Henrietta!” Gay cried. “We are truly just crazy to hear what your Bill says, but having a really, truly sweetheart of our own is such a new experience—”
“Come down on the steps and be comfy,” added Lorna.
“No, I'll read it here,” said Henrietta, and she opened the letter. “Well—there's part I can't read to you—”
“Of course.”
“And then he says, 'I thought of you a hundred times while on my fishing trip. Some day you must learn to cast a fly so we can make some of these trips together. You would be the best of companions. And now, dearest girl, I want to ask you the most important question of all. Do you think you can make your preparations so that we can be married in August?'”
“In August!” cried Gay. “I thought it was going to be impossible before next year, Etta?”
“It is a change in his plans,” said Henrietta. “Shall I read the rest?”
“Do, please,” said Gay, and “Yes, indeed,” said Lorna.
“'I'm asking this, dear,' he goes on,” said Henrietta, “'because I have just had most wonderful news. I'm to be sent to Africa. A big job'—the biggest I ever had. It is wonderful country and I want you to enjoy it with me. It is too far to go without you. So it must be an August wedding because we have to sail in September!'”
“Henrietta! How grand!” Gay cried.
“Isn't it?” Henrietta agreed. “Africa, girls! Just think of it! Am I not the luckiest thing?”
“Think of it, young Lemuel,” Lorna said.
“Her sweetheart is going to marry her and carry her off to Africa, where the lions are. You see what I shall expect of you, young man. The very least you can do is to get ready to carry me off to Europe.”
“And me to Asia,” said Gay.
Lem said nothing. He knew they were teasing. “And listen to this, girls,” Henrietta continued. “'You'll forgive me, Etta dear, for asking you to agree to such an early wedding. I know it is apt to find you unprepared and you must let your crude lover do the unconventional this once. I want you to tell me I can send you a few of my miserable dollars—ten hundred, let us say, so they may be made happy dollars by aiding your preparations.'”
Henrietta folded the letter.
“What do you think of that, Gay?” she asked. “Should I let him? Would it be right?”
“Of course! Why not, under the circumstances?” Gay answered.
“When he asked you to go so far and so soon,” said Lorna.
“I hoped you would say so,” said Henrietta. “I only wanted your approval. You know what it means to me. It will let me use what I have saved—the money I would never touch—and I can pay you both all I owe you, and what I owe Miss Susan. It makes everything so much easier and happier for me. And of course you'll help me get ready; I'll have so much to do!”
“As if we were n't mad to,” said Gay. “You must write him at once, Henrietta; tell him it is all right.”
“I 'm going right upstairs to do it this minute,” Henrietta answered, and she went into the house, humming happily.
Gay looked at Lorna quizzically. Lorna laughed.
“What do you think of it now?” Gay asked in a low tone. “Did you notice? She would not come down to the step to read the letter.”
“I did notice. And did you see the ink spot on the back of the envelope? The same spot that was on it when she read the last letter from her 'William' and the one before that?”
“Yes, I did notice. I'm positive it is the same envelope. I believe you are right; I believe she does write the letters to herself. Is n't it funny? Is n't it amazing?”
“Or sad or something?” Lorna said. “Gay, what do you think of it, really? What does it mean?”
“Did she try to borrow some money from you this morning?” Gay asked.
“Yes, twenty-five dollars, but I did not have it.”
“I did have twenty. She got that,” Gay said and giggled.
“Then you'll see! She'll get another present from her dear William to-morrow,” Lorna said. “Is n't it just as I said; every time she borrows from us she gets a present from dear William? You'll see. It will be something worth about twenty dollars. Say, Gay—”
“Yes?”
“You know I said I did not believe her William was really engaged to her at all?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I don't believe there is any William. I don't believe he exists. I think Henrietta made him up entirely. I believe she invented him.”
“Oh, lovely!” Gay cooed. “Is n't she wonderful? But why, Lorna? Why should she?”
“That's what I've been wondering. Not just to get money from us, because she uses it to buy the presents she says her William sends. She has no need to buy presents for her William to send. We would believe in her William quite as easily without the presents.”
“Is n't it exciting?” Gay cooed again.
“Well, I never knew anything like it, I'll say that,” agreed Lorna. “When you think of the trouble she has gone to, and how she has kept it up. Gay, do you think she has any idea we don't believe her?”
“Of course not! But isn't it the strangest thing for anybody to do?”
“I don't know,” said Lorna thoughtfully. “I've been thinking about it a lot since I first had a suspicion, and it is n't really so strange. You know what Henrietta is like. She loves to shine. She hates to play second fiddle. Do you remember when we first heard of her dear Billy?”
“When she was at Spirit Lake, where she said she met him. She wrote about the engagement from there.”
“Yes,” said Lorna; “and do you remember what was going on here in Riverbank just before she went on vacation?”
“I don't remember.”
“Don't tell me you don't remember how Carter Bruce was rushing you then!” scoffed Lorna. “I remember perfectly well that Henrietta and I agreed you and Carter would be engaged before the summer ended.”
“Oh, Carter Bruce!” admitted Gay. “Of course, he was fussing around. He is always fussing around. Or was.”
“Yes, and we thought he was going to steal you, Gay. Well—that's the answer!”
“You mean—”
“Of course! Henrietta just couldn't stand having you engaged when she was not. So she invented Billy Vane while she was at Spirit Lake, and told us he had gone out to Colorado, where he would be out of the way.”
“But who writes her the letters from Colorado?”
“How do I know? She may have a brother out there. That is easy. She would have dear Bill go wherever there was some one who could write her a letter now and then. And Henrietta does the rest. It is n't so impossible when you think of it that way, is it? After she had invented dear Bill it was natural enough that she should keep him alive and interested, when we were so interested.”
“Lorna, it is the greatest thing I ever heard of!” exclaimed Gay. “And I think you are a wizard to discover the truth.”
“No, I'm not,” said Lorna. “Just think back, Gay. The strange thing is that we did not hit on it sooner. Think! Can't you remember a hundred things that should have made us suspicious?”
“Yes,” Gay admitted. “Especially the presents, and the way she borrows just before the presents come.”
“And never letting us see a single letter, and always moving away when we come near her when she is reading them to us, and never getting another photograph from Billy '—and a thousand things.”
“Yes,” said Gay again; and then, “Are you going to do anything about it?”
“Do? No, why should I? If she enjoys it I'm sure we do. Only—we must not lend her any more, if we can help it. There's no reason why we should lend her our hard-earned money to buy presents for herself with.”
Gay giggled.
“How much does she owe you now?” she asked.
“Almost two hundred.”
“And me over one hundred and fifty! Is n't it rich?”
“It's peachy!”
In her own room Henrietta Bates was looking at her comely face reflected in her mirror. She was pleased with it, and she glanced down at the three framed photographs on her dresser. One was the picture of the imaginary William Vane, the others were of her dearest friends—Gay and Lorna. To William's portrait she gave only a careless glance. She lingered over Gay's and Lorna's.
“Stupid dears!” she thought. “So you have found me out? It has taken you long enough, I'm sure. I wonder what next.”
CHAPTER V
As Lorna Percy, Lem, and Gay Loring sat on the porch a jaunty straw hat came into view above the terrace, and, as it reached the gate, proved to be on the head of a man as jaunty as the hat. The man paused at the gate to look up the street.
“There's Freeman,” said Lorna. “He's home early.”
“Not so very. It is getting toward supper-time.”
Gay answered. “I'd better be getting home to help mother set the table.”
“Poor excuse!” teased Lorna. “But run along if you want to have a nice little session at the gate all by your lonies. Gay—”
“Yes?”
“I do think Freeman is in love with you.”
Gay colored.
“Why?” she asked.
“The way he acts, and everything. Don't you think so yourself?”
“Well—he's persistent enough. He's never said anything outright. Not anything much. I don't know whether he loves me or just wants to see how far he can go, Lorna.”
Lorna was silent for a moment.
“I'd say I was glad if he was n't such a—you know, Gay. Flashy. Don't you think he is rather flashy? Not very heavy. He's fast, too. I'd rather have you like Carter Bruce.”
“For all I know he is a thousand miles from thinking anything serious,” Gay answered. “I'm simply not going to take him seriously until he is serious.”
“How old do you suppose he really is?”
“Twenty-five. Don't you think so?”
“I doubt it, Gay. He may be. It is hard to judge. He's queer. I don't like him. He is queer sometimes. He—”
“Sh!” said Gay, indicating Lem, who was listening with all his ears.
“I forgot. You're such a quiet little boy,” she said to Lem. “Are you a little pitcher with big ears?”
“Yes'm,” said Lem. “I guess so.”
“What I meant,” said Lorna to Gay, “was L-i-q-u-o-r. Have you suspected it?”
“Ellicker,” said Lem. “What's that mean?”
“Hush!” said Lorna. “He's coming in.” Freeman Todder, the young man of whom they were speaking, climbed the terrace steps slowly. He carried a cane, which was an unusual bit of dandyism in Riverbank, and he was what Miss Redding called “dressy.” Very few young fellows in Riverbank were “dressy” and almost none of the older men. Trousers seldom or never were creased on week days, for the “Sunday suit” held sway on the Sabbath and at parties and dances. To be well dressed on a week day was almost a sign of ungodliness, because the few who were well dressed were certainly apt to be ungodly. They were thought to be interested in poker, woman, and wine.
Freeman Todder, when he arrived in Riverbank, had almost immediately affiliated himself with the dozen “dressy” young fellows. He was seen in Alberson's drug store, in the Smokeorium, in front of Weltschaffel's clothing store, and wherever the young bucks gathered. It was said that his first labors in Riverbank were in the nature of holding a handful of playing cards in Alberson's back room, in company with a number of other young fellows, and it was some time before he had found a job. The job he found was serving soda water in Alberson's store. In the winter, when the soda trade was slack, he was behind Alberson's cigar counter.
Some wondered how Freeman Todder could live and dress on what Johnnie Alberson paid him. Some guessed that Freeman “knocked down” some of the change that passed through his hands, but those who knew Johnnie Alberson best did not believe that. None who knew Johnnie ever believed he would let even a penny that belonged to him go astray.
That Freeman could dress as he did and board at Miss Redding's—which was not the cheapest place in Riverbank—and have silver dollars to dink in his pocket, and do it on what Alberson paid, was manifestly impossible. The answer that most of those who thought they were knowing gave was “poker.” Even the other “dressy” youths said, “Poker.” Freeman played a careful, not showy, game and did win now and then. No one ever bothered to foot up his winnings and compare them with his losses. As a matter of fact, Freeman Todder's net poker winnings would not have paid for his showy shirts, the gayly striped cuffs of which always showed liberally below his coat sleeves.
As he came up the walk toward the two girls on Miss Redding's porch steps, he raised his hat, and then let it hang in his hand.
“Hello, one and all,” he said. “Who's the young gent you have clamped between you there?”
“This is Lem,” said Lorna. “Lem's going to be among those present here after this, are n't you, Lem?”
“Yes'm,” said Lem; and then to Freeman, “What's 'ellicker'?”
“Now hush, Lem!” said Lorna.
“Well, I want to know. What is it?” Lem insisted. “It's about you,” he said, looking up at Freeman. “She said it. She said she expected it about you.”
Lorna reddened. Freeman Todder's eyes narrowed for an instant; then he smiled.
“I expect it is something devilish, then, son,” he said, “but it's probably not half as bad as the truth. You'll learn that, if you associate with this wicked man long. I'm a 'horrid example.' That right, Gay? They'll take you by the hand, Lem, and point at me and say, 'See that man? Beware! Do not be like him. He is a lost soul. He uses cigarettes and blows the smoke through his nose.'”
“Hah! I can do that!” scoffed Lem.
“You're both of you wicked men, then,” said Gay, but lightly.
Lorna took Lem's hand.
“Come around the house with me,” she said. “I want you to help me pick a lot of syringas for Gay,” and she dragged Lem away. Freeman seated himself beside Gay.
Freeman Todder was not twenty-five, but something hard in his face and eyes made him look older at times. His face was thin and his mouth like a healed wound, so thin were his lips. He did not have much chin. He did not look wholesome. He looked unsafe and cruel.
“L-i-q-u-o-r,” he spelled, and looked at Gay and laughed. “C-a-r-d-s. Also d-i-c-e. I'm a regular Satan, ain't I?”
“Oh, Freeman!” she said reproachfully. “Don't be sarcastic. We were only—”
“Only talking me over. Well, that's something, anyway. That's a sort of flattery.”
He laid his cane across his knees.
“You have been drinking, Freeman,” Gay said.
“Yes. I've had a couple too many. Do you know how I feel? Like this—whoops!” He flung his hat off to the left on the lawn. “Whoops!” He threw his cane to the right.
“Ah!” exclaimed Gay, as if he had intentionally hurt her. “Why do you?”
Freeman spread out his hand on his knee and looked at his fingers one by one, raising each in turn. On one finger he wore a large, flashy ring. He moved the finger so that the light flashed from the facets of the stone. Suddenly he looked into the girl's eyes.
“Keep away from me, Gay,” he said seriously. “I'm no good. I'm warning you, understand? Don't have anything to do with me. I'm bad business. I like you, but I 'm bad business.”
“But, Freeman—”
“Not yet. You can 'but Freeman' me all you like when I get through, but this is my hiss, this is the rattle of my snake buttons. You keep away from me. I'm bad for you, and I'm saying so now because after this I won't care a damn. This is my warning. After this you'll have to look out for yourself. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
“Yes, but you don't really mean it.”
“I do mean it. I'm warning you. If you know what is good for you, you'll never speak to me, or let me speak to you again: Once! Twice! Third and last warning! Warned!”
He waited a moment. When he spoke it was no longer seriously, but in his usual flippant tone. “Who is the Lem kid?” he asked.
“Miss Redding's nephew. His father left him here awhile ago. And—what do you think? Henrietta's Bill has set the wedding day. I'm so glad for Henrietta. She has been so sweet about waiting.”
It was evident that Gay had not taken Freeman's warning as seriously as she might have taken it. Freeman raised his eyebrows with an effect like that of shrugging one's shoulders. He had warned her, and seriously, and that was more than he need have done.
“That so?” he said indifferently, referring to Henrietta. “Henrietta and her Bill give me a pain.”
“Why? Do you know anything about them?” asked Gay eagerly.
“I? No. Why should I?”
“Haven't you suspected anything?” asked Gay.
Freeman turned and looked in her eyes.
“What do you suspect?” he asked as if the whole matter interested him little.
“Well, we may be doing her the most awful injustice,” Gay said, “but Lorna and I have been wondering if there is a Bill. We wonder if Henrietta is n't just pretending there is a Billy Vane—and all.”
Freeman seemed more bored than interested.
“Why should she pretend a thing like that—a crazy thing like that?” he asked indifferently.
“Don't you know how girls love to wear rings on their engagement fingers?” asked Gay. “It's that sort of thing, Lorna and I think. It gives her a romantic hue. She thinks it makes us feel she is fortunate. Is n't it killing!”
Freeman looked at the ants scurrying across the walk at his feet.
“I don't know anything about it,” he said. “You girls may have seen a lot I never saw. You would n't think of such a thing unless you had some reason. How about all the presents she says he sends her?”
“We think she buys them herself,” Gay said. Freeman turned his hand and looked at his long, well-kept nails.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“Indeed, yes!”
“Do you remember the silver-backed hand mirror Billy Vane sent her? With her monogram engraved on it?”
“Yes.”
“All right! Johnnie Alberson ordered that for her from Chicago. I saw it when it came and I saw her when she came into the store to pay the bill.”
“Why, Freeman Todder! And you just this minute said you didn't know anything about it!”
“About there being no Billy Vane,” he explained. “There might be a Billy Vane who did not do his duty in the way of presents. He might be a close-fist. Your Henrietta might be afraid you would think he was a cheap skate if presents did not come along regularly.”
Gay considered this.
“Yes,” she said, after a moment, “that might be, but we suspected there was no Billy before we thought of the presents at all. Of course, the presents she has to buy explain why she never has any money—why she is always borrowing—but that is not all. You won't say a word, will you, Freeman?”
“No. It don't interest me at all,” he said. Miss Redding, rosy-cheeked, came to the door then, and tinkled a small supper-bell. Gay, with an exclamation, jumped up and went to find Lem and Lorna and the promised flowers, and Freeman Todder picked up his hat and cane. He hung the hat on the rack in the hall and stood his cane in the umbrella jar and then climbed the stairs. As he reached the top Henrietta Bates's door opened and she came out. They met just outside her door and she slipped something into his hand.
“There's twenty dollars,” she said in a whisper. “It is all I could get. And I can't borrow any more. They are suspicious now.”
“But, my God, Et,” whispered Freeman Todder angrily. “Twenty dollars is n't going to do me any good.”
“All I could get,” said Henrietta shortly, and she hurried down the stairs to greet Lorna and Lem with the smiling face of a woman whose lover has just set the happy day.
CHAPTER VI
The next morning Miss Redding held a brief conversation at the breakfast table regarding Lem's immediate future, the important question being whether Lem should be sent to school. With two school teachers at the table Susan felt she was sure to receive good advice. To Lem's delight the unanimous opinion was that it was hardly worth while for him to go to school during the brief tag end of the term remaining. When Henrietta Bates said this, Miss Redding had no further doubts, for she had a very high opinion of Miss Bates. There was something safe and solid about Miss Bates that gave weight to her opinion.
Henrietta Bates had made an excellent impression on Miss Redding. Henrietta was one of half a dozen out-of-town teachers who had hastened to Riverbank at the time when, following the trouble over a certain Mrs. Helmuth's case, the school board had arbitrarily decreed that never again should a married woman teach in Riverbank's schools. The “foreigners,” as the intruding teachers were called, had immediately become the subject of some of the most ardent hatred and abuse, and some of them had made replies that made them exceedingly unpopular, but Miss Bates had, by good-natured diplomacy, avoided all this. The others had been sent packing as soon as local talent was available to supplant them, but Henrietta had not only remained, but had been rapidly promoted, and was a real favorite with all.
“She's the kindest and affectionatest woman I ever knew in all my born days,” Miss Susan often said. “Just look how she does for Mr. Todder. It's like he was her son. She sews on his buttons and mends his socks, and never a sign of flirting with him or anything. I do admire Henrietta Bates highly, and that's a fact.”
Every one admired Henrietta. She was so large and so cheerful and, withal, so “safe.” She was so wholesome and healthy and free from complaints.
“It's a wonder to me,” Miss Susan often said, “that no man has grabbed her long ago. If I was a man I'd marry her in a minute. She's the best there is, to my notion.”
Miss Susan had rejoiced openly when Henrietta's news came from Spirit Lake.
“Well, I'm glad!” Miss Susan said. “If ever a woman deserved a fine man, Henrietta does.”
As a rule Henrietta was cheerful. She would play the ancient piano any time she was asked, or sing in her very fair voice. She was always ready to make up a set at croquet; she even tried tennis, but had to give it up. “I'm too aged,” she laughed, meaning—as every one knew—she was too heavy.
When she did have her short periods of depression it was because she had not heard from Billy Vane, she said, or had had a letter that was not satisfactory.
“I don't know what I'll do when she gets married and goes away,” Miss Susan said. “She's almost like a sister, the way she helps out. I guess folks don't know how many things can come up in a boarding-house to set everybody cross at each other, but Henrietta just keeps the front part of the house all nice and friendly all the time. I don't know whatever I 'll do without her.”
It was so in this matter of Lem.
“It is quite useless to send him to school for the short time there is left,” Henrietta told Miss Susan. “He wouldn't fit into any class, and he'd be unhappy and make work for the teacher and be so far behind his class that the schooling would n't do him any good. Let him wait until the fall term. Gay and Lorna and I can tutor him a little this summer.”
“If you ain't too busy getting ready to get married and quit us,” said Susan. “You'll be so busy getting ready—”
“I'll have a little time for Lem, I hope,” Henrietta said brightly, smiling at him. “And Gay and Lorna will be here.”
“Not being lucky enough to have our Billy Vanes,” said Lorna.
“Now don't be jealous of a poor old maid,” Henrietta teased.
“But we are,” said Lorna, and smiled inwardly. “Nobody loves us.”
She glanced at Freeman Todder, but it was one of his bad mornings, of which he had a great many. He was pale and heavy-eyed and his hand shook. No one at the table knew when he had come in the night before, but it had been after three in the morning. He had had a long session of poker, with bad luck, and his pocket held just eighteen cents. He kept his eyes on his plate.
“What do you think, Mr. Todder?” Susan asked.
“What?” he asked, looking up suddenly.
“Do you think Lem ought to wait until fall to start schooling?”
“What do I know about it?” he asked. “It's nothing to me.”
There was an unpleasant pause. Rudeness, even when coming from a man as evidently out of sorts as Freeman was, kills lively spirits. Henrietta came to the rescue.
“Did you ever see a lovelier day?” she asked. “Just see the sun on that vase of syringas! This is the sort of day I wish I was a Maud Muller. Lem, it is a crime to be in school a day like this, isn't it?”
“Yes'm,” said Lem. “I guess so.”
“So we won't make you go,” she said gayly. “Lorna and I are poor slaves. We have to go whether we like it or not.”
She arose and went to the door, humming.
She went into the hall and stood a moment at the screen door, looking out, and then went out upon the porch and walked slowly down toward the gate, stopping to pick a dandelion. At the top of the terrace steps she stood, waiting. Freeman Todder, taking his hat and cane, followed her. To any one seeing them at the top of the steps they would have seemed to have met there by chance.
“Well?” Henrietta asked. There was no lightness, no affection in her voice; no anger either.
“It went against me last night. I lost the whole twenty. The damnedest luck, Et.”
“I don't care the least about your luck,” Henrietta said. “You are an ungrateful, inconsiderate wretch. I 'll say it plainly. I'm utterly disgusted.”
“Oh, quit it!” said Todder rudely.
“I feel like quitting it—like quitting everything—forever,” she said. “I get so tired. God! how tired I get! And you never show the least consideration.”
She looked toward the house.
“We can't stand here,” she said. “Walk along with me. We must settle this now, Freeman.”
“Settle nothing!” he growled, but he walked beside her, going down the steps and turning down the street.
“It is not fair to me, Freeman,” she said. “I owe both the girls so much already, and Miss Redding for weeks and weeks. It has been hard, letting them think I am a silly old fool, and planning to make them think it. I don't know how much longer I might have gone on with it. Now that is ended.”
Freeman said nothing.
“I could n't have gone on with it much longer, but now it has come to an end,” Henrietta continued. “For one reason they simply can't lend me any more. No matter how amused they may be over thinking that I am a great silly, buying myself presents and pretending I get them from my Billy Vane, they can't spare the money. And you make me so furious, doing as you did last night, getting rid of even the few dollars I could get. You might at least spend the money sensibly. You might try to help me, when everything I do is for you.”
“A lot you'd do for me if I did n't scare it out of you,” Freeman scoffed, and turned his hard eyes on her. “And you'll do a lot more for me, too. You've got to. I'm in bad.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, frightened, turning to look into his face.
“I'm in bad, I say,” he answered. “I've been tapping Alberson's till and he knows it. You think you've been keeping me going? What could I do with the scraps of money you've been giving me? Chicken feed!”
Henrietta was very white.
“You've been stealing?” she whispered.
“Yes, and got caught; that's the worst of it. And I've got to make it good, for Johnnie is going to put me through. Now you know it; what are you going to do about it?”
“Oh, Freeman!” she moaned. She dared not weep, for Gay, or any one, might be watching her. Mrs. Bruce, in one of the houses across the street, did come to her door and Henrietta waved a merry hand. “How much did you take?” Henrietta asked Freeman.
“Three hundred, I guess, but old Johnnie don't know it. He says it is two hundred. That's what I have to make good. 'Make good or go to the jug,' was what he said. And he'll do it. I 'm nobody, you see. I 'm none of the ancient and honorable Riverbank families. Nobody'll stop trading with Johnnie if I'm jugged. It will be 'whoof!' and I'm gone.”
“Oh, Freeman! How could you? And so little I can do. What can I do? Do you think, if I saw him—” questioned Henrietta.
“If you saw him? Yes, with a roll of cash in your fist,” laughed Freeman. “What would you do? Kiss him? The best thing you can do is hunt up two hundred ducats.”
“That's impossible, of course,” Henrietta said flatly. “How long will he wait?”
“He'll be quick enough, don't fret!”
“Freeman, if I think I can do some good by seeing him, may I?”
“I don't care a hoot what you do,” Freeman Todder said. “And I don't care a hoot what happens. That's how I feel.”
Henrietta put her hand ever so briefly on his arm.
“I know. And I'm sorry. It is all my fault. I'll do the best I can. I must go back now.”
“So long,” Freeman said, and went on down the hill.
Henrietta turned and went toward the house, trying to make her step springy and her face bright. She felt very old and worn. As she neared the gate Gay came across the street and Henrietta waited for her and slipped her arm through Gay's and forced a smile.
“You look happy,” Gay laughed.
“Happy? Why shouldn't I?” asked Henrietta. “I feel like a Pippa ready to chirp, 'All's right with the world,' this fair morn.”
“I honestly believe you're the youngest thing I know,” said Gay, and she meant it. She was a bit jealous. She had seen Henrietta place her hand on Freeman Todder's arm and, as such thoughts will come, had come the thought that Henrietta might be in love with Freeman.
What more the two women might have said was interrupted by the rattle of a cart that drove to the gutter and stopped at the Redding gate. In the vehicle were Harvey Redding, the newly self-appointed saint, as fat as ever, and a man of spare and awkward construction whose long neck suggested that of an ostrich in the act of swallowing an orange. He was in his shirt sleeves, without a waistcoat, but on one of his suspenders straps he wore one of the largest nickel-plated stars that ever adorned a human being. This star bore the legend, “Riverbank Municipal Police; Canine Division, No. I,” and had been presented to Officer Schulig by a group of playful citizens with a speech. While properly credentialed as a deputy member of the Riverbank police force and as full and complete Dog Warden, Officer Schulig now received no pay and considered it fitting to do no work except when driven to it by direct orders from the Town Marshal. As he said himself, he had “soured onto the schob” when the City Council took away the twenty-five cent fee for capturing and impounding stray dogs. He had even given up wearing his star in public, except when it was absolutely necessary, because it had become the custom of the lighter-minded to shield their eyes when the star approached, as if its glory was too great. At the same time these ungodly rascals would read the badge, saying, “Rifferbangk Muntzipipple Poleetz. Canine Divitzion. No one,” this having been the manner in which Officer Schulig had read it upon its presentation. What made it more annoying to Officer Schulig was that when any one read “Canine Divitzion. No one,” some one always chanted, with surprise, “What, no one at all?” and the answer, apologetically given, was, “Well, hardly any one.”
The custom of teasing Officer Schulig when he was performing any police duty had become so common, and made him so angry, that he no longer waited to be teased; he became angry as soon as he was called upon to perform any official task. And he was angry now.
“Got a hurry mit you, und out from my buggy get. By gollies, I ain't got all day yet for fooling aroundt. I shouldt take a club to you if I ain't left it to home already,” he ordered; and Saint Harvey hefted his huge bulk from the seat and clambered out of the cart backward. When he turned toward the house he, too, was red with anger and with the unusual exertion. On his fat wrists were a pair of glittering handcuffs.
“Dod-baste you!” he exclaimed whole-heartedly to Officer Schulig. “You ain't got no right to drag me into my sister's house with these here things on me. Take 'em off!”
“Stop now! You don't say to me dot you baste me!” shouted Schulig, white with rage. “Nobody hass a righdt to baste me. Baste yourself! Und I don't take hand-cuffers off from any man vot says he bastes me. Und anyhow I don't. I leaf my keys by my house. So shut up once!”
CHAPTER VII
What on earth is the matter?” Henrietta asked Officer Schulig. “What have you got those handcuffs on Mr. Redding for?”
“Why this dod-basted lunatic went an' arrested me,” sputtered Harvey. “I whanged him on the head an' you'd 'a' whanged him on the head, too, if he'd come arrestin' you when you was n't doin' nothin' but sittin' in your rockin'-chair meditatin'—”
“Meditate!” exclaimed the red-faced Officer Schulig. “What it is 'meditate' I don't know. Iss it chumping up und schlogging an officer on der head mitout notice? Yes? In der yard I come und klop! goes his fist on my head, und no notice beforehand. Is it to meditate, such a business? Yes?”
“Sittin' there. An' meditatin',” said Harvey. “Like a saint should. Doin' no harm to nobody. Out in the fresh sunshine with a gentle heart, just startin' in to be a saint, an' up he comes—”
“Starting in to be what?” asked Henrietta.
“A saint, dod-baste it,” said Harvey angrily. “Livin' a life of purity an' gentleness, bein' kind to stray dogs an' one sort of thing an' another. Mortifyin' my flesh on bread an' water, and here he comes. Dod-baste it, a man can't set up in the saint business without a dod-basted dog police comin' an'—Why! dod-baste it, I got to begin all over again. I got to start new, an' begin all over, an' all because he come fetchin' his red face an' pokin' it at me—”
“I neffer!” cried Schulig indignantly. “Neffer do I poke my face. Fetch it along mit me; yes! But poke it? Neffer! I tell you who poked my face: you poked it! Mit your fist. Und you blame me!”
He frowned ferociously.
“I got a right to fetch my face vere I go, aind't I?” he demanded.
“No, you ain't,” said Harvey angrily. “What right you got to poke a face at a man that's just set out to be a saint, temptin' him, an' angerin' him all up, an' settin' him to swearin' an' cussin' like a pirate, an' gettin' him so mad he starts beatin' up a fellow human? What right you got to bust into a saint's first day, spoilin' the whole dod-basted business, an' arrestin' him an' pokin' faces at him an'—”
“What did he arrest you for, Mr. Redding?” Gay asked.
“Receiving stolen goods. Und grooldy to animals. Und assaulting a Chew, und also schloggin' me by my head afterwards,” said Schulig promptly.
“An' me tryin' to be a saint,” complained Harvey. “Me settin' there an' tryin' to be a saint. It ain't no wonder I got mad at him. Who ever heard of a saint gettin' arrested for all them things, I'd like to know? It ain't right. It ain't normal.”
“But receiving stolen goods!” exclaimed Gay. “That's serious.”
“Und mebby for conspiracies together to have such stealings go ahead,” said Schulig. “I bet you he gets yet into a blace I don't poke my face into! Chail. Goundy chail!”
“Don't laugh, Gay,” Henrietta urged. “This is serious. What is it you want here, Mr. Schulig? I suppose you want Miss Redding to furnish bail.”
“Bail is none of my business,” said Schulig.
“No; better I like it should he rot by der chail. I come for der boy.”
“The boy? Not Lem!” Henrietta exclaimed. “What did Lem do?”
“Beddy larceny,” said Officer Schulig. “A schunk of lead so big as my head he stole. From off of Moses Schuder, out from his chunkyard. Und sold it to his papa here. Yes!”
“Oh! just junk!” said Henrietta, greatly relieved. After all boys will be boys, and she had been a teacher too long to have a violent belief in the innate depravity of boys who steal junk. She inclined to the belief that no one could expect old iron, copper bottoms of wash-boilers, and other cashable metals to be entirely safe unless nailed down and bolted fast, when boys were around. The thoughts of a small-town boy turn to junk as the sparks fly upward. “Is that all!” she said.
When the group reached the house Susan Redding was at the door, for Lorna had seen the four approaching and had called her.
“Well,” Susan exclaimed bitterly to her brother, “you're making a nice sort of saint, ain't you? What's all this ruckus about, I want to know? What you been doing this time?”
Lem, peering wide-eyed from behind his aunt, felt his conscience at that moment as he had never felt it before. It felt as big as a house. He turned to slip quietly away, but Officer Schulig saw him.
“Shtop him! Shtop dot boy!” he cried, and sprang for Lem, but not loosening his hold on Harvey's arm. The handcuffs clinked on Harvey's wrists, but Harvey was too heavy to be jerked about casually. His hat fell to the porch floor.
“Dod-baste you!” he exclaimed, and jabbed Schulig with his elbow.
Miss Susan put her hand on Lem's arm pro-tectingly.
“Now, don't you be afraid, Lemuel,” she said. “Nobody's going to harm you whilst I'm here, I tell them that! What you want, Rudolf Schulig? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, scaring the wits out of a poor child, I won't be a mite surprised if Harvey has got into some shape of devilment, for I will say to his face I've been expecting it this long time, but this boy never did a mean thing, I 'll warrant.”
“Does he or don'dt he, is none of my business,” said Schulig. “Der chutch makes dot oudt. Chutch says it, und I go und do it.”
“Judge who?”
“Chutch Bruce,” said Schulig. “Says to me der chutch, 'Schulig, go und get me Harfey Redding und such a boy is called Lempuel Redding.' Und I get them. Else is not my business. I go und get them.”
“But you can't. You have to have a warrant,” said Henrietta. “Is n't that what you have to have—a warrant? Have you got a warrant?”
“Sure I got von,” said Schulig, and he produced it. “I don'd know you vant it. Here iss.”
“What's it say?” Susan asked, and Gay, leaning against Henrietta's arm, read it.
“It says Lem and one boy known as Swatty Swartz, together with one boy known as Bony, did steal, and so forth, a chunk of lead metal, of a value of three or more dollars, from the junkyard of one Moses Schuder,” said Gay.
“There!” said Miss Susan triumphantly, “I knew it! You've got the boys mixed up, somehow. Lemuel don't steal. He ain't that kind of boy. You don't know anything about it, do you, Lem?”
Lem looked up into his aunt's face. “Yes, mam,” he said.
“Well, maybe you do,” said Miss Susan. “I dare say that Swatty boy and Bony boy fetched the lead to your pa's junkyard. It's like enough they did. But you never knew it was stole, did you, Lem?”
“Yes, mam, I did know,” Lem said. “I knew it.”
“But you did not help them steal it,” said Miss Susan sharply.
“Yes, mam,” said Lem again. “Or, anyway, I did n't help them. They were the ones that helped me.”
There was no bravado in the boy's voice. He was frightened. His face was so white with fear that the freckles stood out as if they floated above the skin and were not on it. Miss Susan was almost as white, but with shame, indignation, and anger, and her eyes were hard now.
“Well!” she exclaimed. “Well, indeed! A nice sort of boy I have had boosted onto me. A nice sort of boy you put into pawn, Harvey Redding! A thief, and he admits it, and brags about it! A nice sort of boy—going off with a lot of hoodlums and leading them to steal and rob! And I suppose,” she said, turning on Lemuel, “you went right to your saintly father and sold that lead to him!”
“Yes, mam,” said Lem, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I—I sold it to him for three dollars.”
“And you and the other young rascals divided the money amongst you!”
“No, mam. Or—yes, mam. Or—we did n't divide it. I got one half an' Swatty an' Bony got one half. I got a dollar an' a half an' they only got a dollar an' a half for both of them. Because I was the one that thought of gettin' it back from Moses, an' I was the one that sold it to pop. So I got half.”
“And you went and planned that all out beforehand, in cold blood—like—like criminals?”
“No, mam,” said Lem faintly. “The' was n't nothin' planned out about dividin'; not beforehand. I had to fight 'em for it, afterward. I licked 'em, an' they let me have half.”
Henrietta Bates, had it not been for the way in which Miss Susan was taking all this, might have laughed, although her own situation and her morning talk with Freeman Todder had left her little inclination to laughter. Miss Susan, however, was taking the affair with deadly seriousness, and it was not an occasion when a laugh could lessen the tension. Miss Susan stood motionless, looking toward the street, her fingers wrinkling the hem of her apron. When she spoke her voice was hard.
“Take him along,” she said, not looking at Lem. “I'm through with him. I don't want to have aught to do with a thief.”
“Oh! Miss Susan!” Lorna exclaimed. “He's only a boy!”
“He's a thief; I'm through with him,” Miss Susan repeated, and turned to enter the house. Schulig stepped forward.
Lem looked then, not at Gay, not at Lorna, not at his father, not even at his aunt or at Schulig, but at Henrietta Bates, and in his eyes was an appeal.
“I don't want to go to jail,” he said pitifully. “Don't be afraid; you'll not be there long, Lem,” Henrietta said, and as her heart bled for him she stooped to wrap her arms around him.
The boy's eyes fastened on her face eagerly as if they could not leave it. He swayed slightly and closed his eyes.
“Look out! He's falling!” Lorna cried, and Henrietta caught him in her arms as he fell, and lowered him to the porch floor.
“He's fainted!” Gay exclaimed, and bent to help Henrietta.
The boy's face was white as death, and his eyes were closed, but his head did not droop and he seemed to breathe. Gay, taking his hand to chafe it, looked up in alarm.
“Why—why—he's all stiff!” she exclaimed. “He's dead!”
Lorna, too, was on her knees at Lem's feet now, and Miss Susan, her face now white with fright, was grasping the boy's other hand and crying, “Lem! Lem!”
Henrietta, calm, as one might have known she would be, bent forward and raised one of Lem's eyelids. It remained open and the uncovered eye stared glassily. She gently closed the eyelid and arose.
“He is not dead and he has not fainted,” she said. “I have seen such cases before. It is a cataleptic fit, I think. Has he ever had them before?” she asked Harvey.
“He ain't, but his ma used to,” said Harvey.
“You see!” Henrietta said. “I think you had better put him to bed, Miss Susan, and you had better send for a doctor. His heart is strong and I am sure there is no danger. He may be thus for an hour or a week.”
She turned to Gay and Lorna.
“We must go,” she said. “We will be late for school as it is. Miss Susan can carry him to his room.”
“I can and will,” said Miss Susan grimly.
“And we will stop and tell Dr. Grace to come at once,” said Henrietta.
Miss Susan raised the boy in her strong arms. Gay touched his face with her soft fingers.
“Poor kid!” she said. “Poor little Lem!”
From Saint Harvey of Riverbank came a sound like a mighty sob. He raised his linked hands high above his head and there was a jangle of steel chain. When he had raised his hands to their utmost reach, Saint Harvey brought his united fists down upon the top of Officer Schulig's unprotected head with a blow that made the porch floor palpitate and the dog policeman's knees to bend.
“Dod-double-baste you!” cried Saint Harvey of Riverbank. “You get away from me, an' get away quick!”
Officer Schulig was willing. He tried to. He made a leap for the porch steps, but Saint Harvey's linked hands had encircled the officer's neck and the two men tottered to the edge of the steps.
“Chail!” yelled Schulig, pushing at Harvey's chest. “More chail for this, I bet you!”
Then they reached the edge of the porch and fell and rolled down the steps together, locked in a close but most unaffectionate embrace.