OUT OF THE FRYING PAN
But they caught him, and caged him. They found him in the camp of
railroad workers near Clover Valley where he had spent a week or so of
happy days. And they left nothing undone. They investigated the
histories of that rough and ready crew, for they were after the man
higher up, the “master mind” in back of the robbery.
They unearthed the fact that one of them, Nebraska Ned, had been a
sailor and had deserted his ship to assist in a revolution in South
America. It was then that Hervey made a most momentous decision. He
abandoned Montana quite suddenly and chose South America as the future
theatre of his adventurous career.
No master mind was discovered, not even the true master mind, Harlem
Hinkey. He was not implicated and he neglected to uphold the chivalrous
honor of Harlem by coming forward as the originator of the prank which
had such a grave sequel. In the hearing in court, Hervey never mentioned
his name. And there you have Hervey Willetts. You may take your choice
between the “million dollar theatre” and South America.
There was a pathos about the quiet resignation, the poise and fairness
in face of all, which Mr. Walton presented in that memorable scene at
the hearing. I like Mr. Walton, good man that he was. He sat, a tall,
gaunt figure, one lanky limb across the other, and listened without any
outward show of humiliation. His tired gray eyes, edged by crow’s-foot
wrinkles singularly deep, rested tolerantly on the prim young man,
Horton Manners, who was having his day in court with a vengeance.
And Hervey, too, looked upon the young treasurer musician with interest,
with dismay indeed, for he recognized in him the very same young man
into whose lap he had stumbled on the train coming home after his
triumphal season at helpless Temple Camp. Horton Manners looked down
from his throne on the witness box, gazing through Hervey rather than at
him, and adjusted his horn spectacles in a way that no one should do who
is under fifty years old. He held one lapel of his coat and this simple
posture, so common with his elders, gave him somehow the absurd look of
an experienced business man of about twenty-two years.
He was not in the least embarrassed. He testified that he was treasurer
of the Farrelton Band and confessed that he played a small harp. If he
had said that he played a drum nobody would have believed him. He said
that he had lived in Farrelton but a short while and made his home with
his married sister. Then, on invitation of the likely looking young man
representing the prosecutor, he told how Hervey had mentioned on the
train that he was going to Montana and that he was going to “collop” the
money to get there.
“And when did you next see him?”
“Not till this very day; in fact--here in court.”
“When he spoke of Montana, did he ask you how much it would cost to get
there?”
“He did, and I informed him that it would cost at least a hundred
dollars. I advised him against going.” There was a slight titter of the
spectators at this.
“I think that’s all, your Honor,” said the interrogator. “Since the boy
admits he took the satchel, we need not prove that.”
“Just one moment,” drawled Mr. Walton, drawing himself slowly to his
feet. He had employed no lawyer, and would not, unless his stepson were
held for trial on the serious charge of robbery.
“You say you live with your married sister?” he drawled ruminatively.
“Mrs. Winton C. DeGraw, yes.”
“Then your name would not be in the ’phone book?”
“Presumably not.”
“Hmph.”
“I don’t see any significance in that,” said the young prosecutor.
“I simply want to find out if my boy has told me the truth,” said Mr.
Walton. “This isn’t a trial, of course. When I have satisfied myself
about certain matters I will ask the court to hear me. One more
question, Mr. Horton--I mean Mr. Manners. Do you know the meaning of the
word _collop_?”
“I never investigated it.”
“Well, I _have_ investigated it,” said Mr. Walton, with the faintest
twinkle in his eye. Hervey looked rather surprisedly at his stepfather.
“It does not mean to steal. It means to earn or to get by the
performance of a foolhardy act--what boys call a stunt. Do you know what
a stunt is?”
“I suppose when I was knocked down----”
“You mean tripped.”
“Well, tripped. I suppose that was a stunt.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Walton. “That’s all it was and nothing more. I have
talked with boys and I find that if a boy jumps from a high fence to get
another boy’s jack-knife, he _collops_ it. It’s a long time since you
and I were boys, Mr. Horton Manners,” Mr. Walton added with a smile. “Do
you really want to charge this youngster with a felony?” he continued in
a tone of quiet kindness. “Isn’t the case hard enough without that? Did
you never perform a stunt?”
Oh, Hervey Willetts, if you had no thrill in that moment for the
patient, kindly, harassed man--your friend and counselor; then indeed
was there no hope for you! But he had a thrill. For the first time in
all his life his eyes filled and brimmed over as he looked at the man
who wanted only to make sure of him, to know that he was not dishonest;
who could stand for anything save that.
“I think, your Honor,” said Mr. Walton quietly, “that this affair
simmers down to a piece of mischief with an unintendedly serious
consequence. I know, of course, about the recent affair of the fire. My
boy gave himself up because he would not be despicable. He does not lie,
much less steal. I believe the story he told me; that he thought the
satchel contained a musical instrument and that he intended to blow it
and cause panic to those gathered in the church. He saw the police
officer, thought he was watched, and carried out the part of innocence
by bringing the satchel home. It proved an elephant on his hands, a
guilty burden to one really innocent. He told me he could not find this
young man’s name in the ’phone book and it develops that the name is not
there. I have here two men who saw him looking in the ’phone book in a
lunch room near the station----”
The judge interrupted and surprised him. “I think we need not prolong
this,” said he. “I think the boy had no intention of committing a
serious crime, or any crime at all. I believe the story he told when
arrested. I’d like to think the consequence will prove a lesson to him.
But do you think it will?”
“I’m afraid it will not,” said Mr. Walton. “And I may say now that it is
my intention to send him somewhere where he will be under rigid
discipline. I think I may be left to deal with him.”
“Well, the charge of robbery is dismissed,” said the judge. Then he
appeared to ruminate. “But the boy is still with us and there’s the
problem. This is the second time he has been brought into court. He
kicked up quite a rumpus and bit an officer. Where is this kind of thing
going to end?” He seemed kindly and spoke rather sociably and not as an
official. “Why don’t you put him in the Boy Scouts?” he added.
“The Boy Scouts haven’t given him a knockout blow yet,” smiled Mr.
Walton. “I’m always hoping they’ll reach him. But I suppose they’ll have
to do a stunt that pleases him. Meanwhile, I’m going to send him to a
military school. It seems like a confession of defeat, but I’m afraid
it’s the only thing to do.”
The judge turned to Hervey. “You’d better go home with your father,”
said he. “And you take my advice and get into the Boy Scouts while there
is time, or the first thing you know you’ll land in a reformatory. So
you want to go to Montana, eh?”
“Sure, they have train robbers out there?” said Hervey.
“And how do you like having a hundred dollars that doesn’t belong to
you?”
“Nix on that stuff,” Hervey said gayly.
“Yet you like train robbers.”
“Bimbo, that’s different.”
Mr. Horton Manners, still sitting like an owl on the witness stand,
gazed at Hervey with a look of utter bewilderment.
“But in South America they have rebellions,” said Hervey.
“Well, let us have no more rebellion here,” smiled the judge.
And he winked at Mr. Walton.