CHAPTER XXI
Mafferty Unfolds a Plot
Mrs. Tom Everest was putting her baby to bed. Surely there never was such a provoking baby. He laughed, and played, and gurgled in his throat, he caught her hands in his own, he tried to bite his toes, he lapped at a little black bag she wore on her belt; in short, he was so naughty that at last she said seriously, “Baby, if you don’t lie down mother will slap your hannies.”
At this he shouted with laughter. He clapped his offending hands, he made a wild dash at her with his mouth, then suddenly there was silence. He was dead tired; all day he had been just as bad as he could be. He was braving the old Sleep Man, and now, in the twinkling of an eye, he had succumbed. One tired yawn, one last exquisite baby look of perfect trust in the young mother bending over him, and Tom junior was off for Sleepy Town.
Mrs. Tom laid the downy head on the pillow, she drew the coverlet over the pink limbs, she dropped a kiss, light as thistle down, on the moist cheek. How could she leave him, her one baby, her treasure, and she was fussing over him in the unique way that mothers have when there was a knock at the door.
“What is it, Daisy?” she whispered, turning her head.
“Mr. Mafferty, ma’am,” said the little maid; “in the parlor. Wants to see you special.”
“Tell him I will come at once,” and only waiting to adjust a screen about baby’s tiny bed, young Mrs. Everest tripped downstairs.
“How do you do, Barry?” she said, extending a hand with a frank girlish smile, as she entered the large, comfortable, but plainly furnished room.
“Good evening,” he replied, gravely.
“You have something on your mind, Barry,” she said, shrewdly. “Come, now, out with it to your mother confessor.”
He gave her a glance that partook largely of the nature of adoration.
“Seems like the other day,” he said, dreamily, “that I was sauntering into this town a lazy, good-for-nothing, despised tramp.”
Mrs. Everest smiled. “I have almost forgotten that brown-faced man out by the iron works.”
“I’ll never forget how you looked that day,” he said, earnestly, “such a clean, sweet slip of a girl.”
“Four years ago, Barry,” she said, shaking her head; “four years ago.”
“And I had the impudence to ask you for money,” he went on, “and worse, to threaten you, and you forgave me, and brought me in to town and gave me shelter and food. May the Lord bless you for it!”
“I have my reward now,” she said, quietly. “You don’t know what a pleasure it is to me to see you living happily out on the island with your wife. She is a good woman, Barry.”
“Too good for me,” he said, bitterly, “for I give her lots of trouble yet.”
“But, Barry, you are doing better.”
“I never was a criminal,” he said, seriously. “Heaven forgive me for saying it, but I believe that the real, genuine criminal rarely reforms. I was and am a drunkard. It seems as if I can’t get rid of the thirst.”
“Pray to God, Barry, and work hard yourself.”
“O, it’s all very well for you,” he said, with an impatient shake of his head. “You have a fresh heart and soul. Mine are old, and dull, and hard. Intellectually I see things as clearly as ever, but when it comes to feeling—”
“Barry,” she interrupted, gently, “you are too hard on yourself.”
He clenched one hand and brought it down softly on the other. “Mrs. Everest, keep the children innocent and tender. That’s my thought about them. Now I’ve come to speak to you to-night about what I fear is a plot against a little child. There’s no one near to hear us, is there?” and he looked fearfully over his shoulder.
“No one, Barry. You may speak freely.”
He threw himself back in his chair with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been under tension for the last two days. Queer, isn’t it, what different kinds of people there are in the world. Seems as if the Lord makes some of us better than others. Now you live here in this vile street like a lily growing out of mud. You know the mud is here, but it doesn’t contaminate you.”
“Some one says that familiarity with vice is not necessarily pollution,” murmured Mrs. Everest, gently. “The lily regrets her environment, but her roots running out and fresh soil introduced may purify the mud.”
“The street is better than it used to be, fifty per cent,” he said, “but I must get on with my story. I hate to speak to you of the underworld, but it exists. Even the children know it. Some persons are bad and make their living off others. Now, as I said before, I never was a criminal. In fact, I was too low down for one, for I didn’t want to work. But traveling about the country I used to hear about famous sharpers. I was as dust under their feet, but when I would get into a tramp’s refuge of any kind I used to hear them talking of this one and that who had distinguished himself in the world of crime—you are listening, are you?” and he peered forward to look at Mrs. Everest’s face.
“Yes, Barry, listening and interested, but the light from that hall gas is not enough. I will light the lamp on this table,” and she took off its glass shade.
“Once, in Boston,” continued Barry, when she sat down again opposite him, “I had one of the best-known all-round criminals in the country pointed out to me. They said he could do anything, and he was only a young fellow. I saw him again later in the year in a small New Hampshire town. He was running away from justice, and the chase was getting hot. I recognized him, accosted him, and helped him. He laid over a few days in a shanty in the woods I was occupying, and proud enough I was of the honor, though at the same time, low-down tramp as I was, I had a kind of contempt for him. But it was an honor to boast of having been the host of Jim Smalley.”
“Poor Barry!” murmured Mrs. Everest, sympathetically.
“Now from that day till two days ago I have never set eyes on him,” pursued Barry. “But I’ve seen him on Grand Avenue. You know I took a liking to Judge Sancroft, and when I come to the city my feet always carry me up to take a turn round his house. Well, the other day I was getting near. I was plodding along by Saint Mark’s Church, when suddenly I saw a man in front of me sauntering along, smoking a cigarette.”
“Surely it wasn’t Smalley?” said Mrs. Everest, excitedly.
“Wait a bit,” replied Barry, with a gratified smile to think that he had aroused her interest. “I was gazing at him as one will gaze at a fellow stroller, when he quietly turned his head in the direction of the Judge’s house. I felt something cold come over me. It was Smalley.”
“Just imagine!” exclaimed his companion.
“Mrs. Everest,” he said, earnestly, “I can’t tell you how frightened I was and how glad. I felt as if a snake had uprisen in my path, and I was glad that I felt it was a snake. ‘Brace up, Barry,’ I said to myself, ‘you’re getting good. Once upon a time a meeting with the redoubtable Smalley would have afforded you amusement. Now your one thought is to get away from him.’”
“Good Barry!” said Mrs. Everest, approvingly.
“My dear young lady,” continued Barry, “have you ever heard that a caged bird will dash itself against the bars of its prison when it sees an hereditary enemy of its kind flying overhead?”
“No,” she replied, curiously; “why does it do it?”
“Instinct, intuition. Now, I believe—indeed, criminologists tell us—that an innocent child or a good man or woman will often feel a strange, involuntary dislike for an evil person, even when there is no proof of evil apparent. Now, Smalley is rather an artless-looking young man. He has not a vicious face, and nothing that has happened for a long time pleased me as much as my shrinking from him.”
Mrs. Everest smiled sympathetically, and as a sudden thought occurred to him he went on: “When I spoke of the intuitive dislike of the innocent for the guilty, just now, I was not thinking of myself, but of you, or Bethany, for example. Alas! I am only half reformed.”
“But you are sufficiently reformed to hate Smalley and his evil ways.”
“That I am,” he said, earnestly. “I hope that he will be brought to confusion.”
“And repentance.”
“From my heart—if it is possible; but I fear, I fear!” and he shook his head sadly.
“I suppose your first thought was to run away from him.”
“It was, but my second was to discover if he had any object in being in that neighborhood. He had—I knew my man well. He gave careless glances at the houses of the Judge’s neighbors. His look at one hundred and ten was long, shrewd, and calculating. ‘There’s mischief afoot,’ I said to myself; ‘I wonder what it is.’ I didn’t want him to see me, and yet if he had heard me coming I didn’t want to stop. It was a raw, east-windy day, and as good luck would have it I had on the fur-lined coat the Judge sent me and the fur cap I found in the pocket of it. I put up a hand, turned up my collar, pulled down my cap, then I walked straight on. I thought of stopping and taking a memorandum book out of my pocket as if to consult it, but I didn’t. It might have attracted Smalley’s attention—they say he has an extra sense. Well, he walked on in front of me, but I saw him give another look at the Judge’s house. Some people don’t see anything in a look. Smalley’s spoke volumes to me. He had some particular reason for singling out number one hundred and ten. Then, to confirm my suspicion, he gave a sidelong glance up the driveway to the stable. He was dying to go up there, but he didn’t like to.”
“How little he thought you were watching him!”
“Yes, he hadn’t a suspicion of me. I had to pass him, he was going so slowly. I felt him look me all over.”
“And did he recognize you?” she inquired, breathlessly.
“Not a bit of it. My flesh stopped crawling. I was a relieved man. You see, my appearance was so different from that of the dirty tramp he had met, and then he would never expect to find me wearing good clothes and walking on a swell avenue, and finally he would never expect to meet me at all—would never think of me.”
“But, Barry,” said Mrs. Everest, wonderingly, “suppose he had recognized you. What harm could he do?”
“No harm, but he could make it mighty uncomfortable for me. If he had found out I was trying to reform a word from him would have sent every New England tramp this way to quarter themselves on me, and if I refused to harbor them to make up ugly stories about me. Lies are the breath of life to trampdom.”
“Well, what happened? This is very interesting!” she exclaimed, with her eyes shining. “Please hurry on, Barry.”
“My! but you have a good heart,” the man said, admiringly. “I am old enough to be your father, but I always feel as if you were my mother.”
“Go on, go on,” she reiterated, in girlish impatience; “don’t stop to analyze your feelings. You can do that some other time. What else did Smalley do?”
“He didn’t do anything more just then, and you will think that up to this time he had done very little to justify my suspicion of him. However, I returned to the Judge’s after dark. Roblee had gone to bed, but Brick, like all niggers, likes to sit up late. Presently we heard a knocking below. I told Brick to open the window and put his head out. He said, ‘Who’s dere?’ and you know whose voice replied.”
“Smalley’s,” she returned, promptly.
“Yes, Smalley’s. He asked, as smooth as silk, ‘Is Thomas in?’
“‘What Thomas is dat?’ asked Brick.
“‘Thomas the coachman,’ replied Smalley.
“I gave Brick a pull. ‘Brick,’ I said, ‘that’s a bad fellow. Set Bylow on him.’
“‘Isn’t this Mr. Brown’s?’ Smalley was inquiring in guileless surprise.
“‘No, it aint Mistah Brown’s,’ replied Brick, ‘but dis here dog’ll take you to Mistah Brown,’ and he rattled downstairs with Bylow.
“Smalley ran, and Bylow ran. I knew the dog wouldn’t hurt him, but he did some ripping. When he and Brick came back I pulled a piece of cloth from between the dog’s jaws. I recognized it as a sample of Smalley’s smart trousers. He wouldn’t do any more reconnoitring round the Judge’s house after dark.”
Mrs. Everest looked puzzled. “I don’t quite understand, Barry.”
“Smalley wanted to see the back of the house and to find out what kind of a watch was kept in the stable, and if it would be easy to enter the Judge’s house at night. I think Bylow informed him on these questions. He came early in the evening, so as not to risk his reputation by prowling round it later. O, he is a clever scamp is Smalley. As soon as we got rid of him I hurried down to the public library. Now my fears were fulfilled. Smalley had designs upon something or some one at one hundred and ten. In the library I think I found the clew to Smalley’s presence here.”
“And what was it?”
He looked round, then got up, went to the door, and coming back again sat down and spoke in a lower voice: “You don’t know little Bethany’s origin?”
“No, except that her mother was a lady.”
“Well, I do. Mrs. Tingsby was very much excited at the time the Judge took her, and little by little I got the whole story from her. Bethany’s father was a scamp, a semi-criminal, or possibly a whole one. He was of good stock, though. Her mother was a Hittaker.”
“Of Hittaker’s soap?”
“The same. There were two Hittaker brothers. One made money, the other didn’t. Bethany’s grandfather was the unfortunate one. However, his rich brother helped him during his lifetime. But he wouldn’t help his children, who are now all dead. The rich Hittaker is about as mean a man that ever lived. He was only good to his own. Now, what do you think I found in the New York papers?”
“Something about the Hittakers, of course,” replied Mrs. Everest.
“Just so. A week ago a terrible accident occurred to old Hittaker’s daughter, her husband, and children. His son-in-law came from Canada, and he had taken his wife and children home on a visit. They went sleighing; the ice was rotten on a river or lake—I forget which—that they crossed, or, rather, I believe it was an airhole they got into. To tell the truth, I read the thing in such a hurry lest Smalley should come upon me that I don’t remember the details. Anyhow, they were all drowned—Hittaker’s daughter, her husband, and children.”
“Dreadful!” murmured Mrs. Everest, with a contraction of her brows. “Who can understand sorrow like that?”
“The papers all agreed in one thing,” continued Barry, grimly, “that the old man was floored. You see, he had staked all on his only child and her children. Now they are taken from him, and he has nothing left.”
He was silent for a few seconds, and Mrs. Everest said, seriously, “What has this to do with Bethany?”
“Why, don’t you see, the child is his heir or heiress—sole heiress. The papers didn’t say anything about her. They merely stated that Hittaker was without other relatives. Now, as I figure it out, Smalley or some of his gang read that account with as much interest as I did. Some of them would know about Smith—Bethany’s father—having married Hittaker’s niece. I believe that on the strength of the old man’s meanness they are counting on the assurance that when he recovers from his knockdown blow he will be likely to seek Bethany out and leave his money to her rather than to charity.
“Well!” said Mrs. Everest, in astonishment. “Well, Barry Mafferty, you are a clever man.”
“Smalley is going to kidnap the little young one,” he went on, positively, “as sure as fate, and hold her for a ransom from the Judge and old Hittaker, so I’ve come to you to talk about it.”
“Why didn’t you go to the Judge?”
Barry wrinkled his forehead. “Upon my word, I don’t know, unless it is that I don’t believe I could bend him to my views as I think I can you and your husband, for I want you to consult him.”
“What do you think the Judge would do?” she asked.
“He’s a very straightforward man,” said Barry, thoughtfully. “He wouldn’t shilly-shally with fellows like Smalley. He’d run him out of town. Now, I’d like to catch him. There was a famous child-kidnapping case some time ago in New York. I believe Smalley was in it from something I read at the time, and beside that I’ve heard of him as a kidnapper. If we caught him red-handed now, this capture might throw light on the former case. Anyhow, I’d like to see Smalley shut up. It would be for his good.”
Mrs. Everest’s face had got very red, and Barry, seeing it, smiled in gratification. “I knew you would be with me,” he went on, “in trying to catch him. Anything about children appeals to you.”
Mrs. Everest tried to speak, but could not. Her voice was shaking with anger and emotion. “The vile wretch!” she ejaculated at last. “I hope the Lord will put some charity in my heart for him, but now I am so angry, so angry! To steal a little one—a mere baby!”
“Well,” said Barry, reassuringly, “we mustn’t be too hard on him. We’ve got to watch. But, frankly, I must say that I never heard of Smalley doing any good thing, and he’s mostly after big game. Probably if he’s planning to take the child he won’t do it himself. He’ll arrange everything, then slip off and have confederates come. You see, his face will get known in the city, and he might be suspected. But I fancy the confederates will go back on him and confess if we capture them.”
“Well, what do you propose to do?” asked Mrs. Everest.
“I propose selfishly to keep out of the way. Smalley might possibly recognize me if he saw me, and if he recognized me the whole thing would be up. He’d know I would give him away.”
“We could not warn Bethany.”
“O, no, that would not be wise.”
“We should keep the children from knowledge of the evil in the world as long as possible,” continued Mrs. Everest. “At the same time, I don’t think it does any harm to tell any child to be careful about talking to strangers or going with them.”
“I wouldn’t say a word to her,” said Barry, emphatically.
“What would you do?”
“I’d speak to the English boy; he’s had some experience of the world. Tell him to keep a lookout for strangers prowling about the house, but not to be too watchful. And I’d warn the little girl’s school-teacher. I guess about the only time of day she’s alone is when she goes to and comes from school. That’s the time of all she’s got to be watched.”
“I know who’ll do that without attracting attention,” said Mrs. Everest, promptly.
“Who is it?”
“Cracker, the ex-newspaper boy. He is so bad, and has nothing to do, so I got him a bicycle. The avenue is his favorite riding place.”
“Good,” remarked Barry, in a low voice. “And he’ll delight in watching some one worse than himself. Can you trust him, though?”
“Yes, I have means to bind him, and he really seems attached to me. I have him sleeping in this house now. He was so dreadful that no one would take him. His grandfather’s life was worried out of him. He is on very good behavior now, for he likes to be here.”
“Well, try him, and now, to catch these fellows red-handed, we’ve got to be mighty careful, for they are as shy as wild ducks and as clever as foxes.”
“Hello!” said a hearty voice, “whom have you got here, Berty? O, meow, meow, as baby says when he sees Barry. How do you do, Mafferty?” and Mrs. Everest’s happy-looking young husband strode into the room.
“Bonny is in the hall,” he said to his wife, “looking for the best place to show off his fine new spring hat—for spring is coming, Mafferty. Do the pussies tell you that?”
“You know my brother Boniface,” said Mrs. Everest, under her breath, to her caller. “Let us tell him, too. He is very discreet.”
Barry nodded, and presently the three young people and the middle-aged man were all seated in a corner of the parlor talking in low tones of the best plan to be adopted to safeguard the rights of the little child and to punish the guilty unfortunates who wished to invade them.