A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
That supper was one of the incidents in David Jenison's life always to
stand out clear and undimmed. The party of five sat at a table in a
remote corner of the dingy little eating-house. At no time were they
free from the curious gaze of the people who filled the place, a noisy
bumptious crowd of country people making the most of a holiday. The
glamour was over them. Some one had recognized "Little Starbright" in
the simply clad, demure young girl; the word was passed from table to
table. She was stared at and whispered about from the time she entered
the place until she left.
David, alert and dogged, soon forgot the boorishness of the
country-folk, however, in the painful study of conditions near at hand.
Colonel Grand, the host, was most affable. More than that, he was
tactful. While there was an unmistakable air of proprietorship in his
manner, he had the delicacy or the cleverness not to allow it to become
even remotely oppressive. He managed it so that the conversation was
carried on almost entirely by the two men. Now and then the three
palpably unwilling guests were drawn into it, but with such subtlety on
the part of their host that they were surprised into a momentarily
active participation. Thomas Braddock, cleanly shaven and rather
uncomfortably neat as to the matter of linen, was garrulous to the
point of noisiness. He confined his remarks to the Colonel, or, in a
general way, to the tables near by, with an occasional furtive glance
at his wife's set, unsmiling face by way of noting the effect on her.
The topics were commonplace enough: the weather, the prospects ahead,
the improvements to be made in the show as business got better.
Mrs. Braddock, who sat at the Colonel's left, was so noticeably pale
and repressed that David wondered if she would be able to go to the end
of the wretched travesty without fainting. Unutterable despair hung
over her lowered eyelids; it stood out plainly in the lines at the
corners of her mouth. Christine seldom looked up from her plate. She
sat next to David. He felt the restraint and embarrassment under which
the girl suffered. Her cheek went red on more than one occasion when
her father's coarse humor offended her delicate sensibilities; she
paled under the veiled, insinuating compliments of the other. Once
David's hand accidentally touched hers, below the edge of the table.
His strong fingers at once closed over hers and for many minutes he
held them tight, unknown to any but themselves. The dark lashes drooped
lower on her cheeks; he could almost detect the flutter in her throat.
The ghastly meal drew to a close. The Colonel, leaning forward, was
gazing through half-closed lids at the profile of the woman beside him.
His long, white fingers fumbled with an unused spoon beside her plate.
Once she had hitched her chair a little farther away from his,--an
abrupt proceeding that had not failed to attract David's attention.
"Well, we will have many of these jolly little spreads," he was saying
in his oiliest tones. "Birds of a feather, you know. Ha, ha! That's
rather a clever way of putting it, eh, Jack?"
Braddock laughed boisterously. He had lighted a cigar regardless of the
waiter's polite announcement that smoking was not allowed.
"Yes, we will dine together frequently. I like these gay little
affairs," went on the Colonel, not even attempting to conceal his shrug
of disgust for Braddock. "I am leaving for home to-night, but I expect
to return in two or three days. You must all join hands in breaking me
into the circus business. Don't let me be a--what is it you call it? A
rube, that's it. We'll be the show's happy family. Every circus has a
'happy family.' Yes, 'pon my soul, I like the life. I _do_ enjoy these
quiet, impromptu little suppers."'
David was suddenly conscious that Braddock's eyes were upon him. He met
the gaze, curiously impelled. The man's face was almost purple; the
look in his eyes was not of anger, but of a shame that sprung from what
little there was of manhood left in him. Braddock looked away quickly,
and an instant later announced that it was time to get back to the
"lot."
In front of the restaurant they came upon Artful Dick Cronk. The
pickpocket made no attempt to speak to them, but when his eye caught
David's, he closed it slowly in a very expressive wink.
Braddock hurried on ahead, explaining that he was obliged to look after
something at the grounds.
"I'll look after them," said the Colonel affably. "With Jack's
assistance," he supplemented. Christine clutched her mother's arm. The
Colonel and David dropped behind, for the narrow sidewalk was crowded.
In this fashion they made their way to the show grounds. Mrs. Braddock
and Christine did not once look behind. Colonel Grand chatted amiably
with his young companion, but never for an instant was his gaze
diverted from the straight, proud figure of the woman ahead.
He entered the dressing-tent with them. There he quietly said good-by
to the three of them. The tears of indignation were still standing in
Christine's eyes. He willfully misinterpreted their significance. A
hateful tenderness came into his voice, but it did not disturb the
sneer on his lips.
"Don't cry, little one; it is only for a few days," he said.
Christine's face flamed.
"It's--it's not because you are going away!" she cried in angry
astonishment. "I wish you would never come back! Never!"
He smiled broadly. "Dear me! And I thought we were getting on so
nicely. Pray control yourself, my dear. I had no idea you could be so
ferocious. Who does she get it from, Mary?"
Mrs. Braddock started as if stung. Her eyes dilated. It was the first
time he had called her by her Christian name.
"How dare you?" she cried, her breast heaving with suppressed anger.
He shook his head dejectedly. "I have much to learn, it seems."
She opened her lips to say more, but reconsidered, and abruptly turned
away, drawing Christine after her into the women's section.
Colonel Grand turned to David. "Young man," he said sharply, "I don't
like the way you look at me. Stop! Not a word, sir! I have taken up the
show business seriously. I find that our animal tamers are entirely
competent. What we need here is a tamer for vicious and ungentle
bipeds. There is a way to tame them, just as there is a way to break
the spirit of the lion or the tiger. It shall be my special duty to
deal with these unruly human beings. I hope you grasp my meaning. It
would not be to my liking to begin my experiments on a young gentleman
of Virginia."
"Sir, you've already begun!" cried David in a choking voice. "You may
do what you like with me, but you've just got to let _her_ alone. You--"
Colonel Grand held up his hand. David seemed to be gasping for breath.
"That's the very thing I like about you, Jack," said his late host
derisively. "I can always depend upon you to look after the ladies.
They will be absolutely safe while you are with them. There is a
distinct advantage in having a real gentleman about. You see, I can't
always be on hand to--to protect them from such bullies as Thomas
Braddock."
His allusion to Braddock was strikingly impersonal.
"I am making you my first lieutenant--no, my aide-de-camp, Jack. All
you are required to do is to obey orders. Don't run the risk of a
court-martial, my lad. It occurs to me that an uncle of yours has had
an experience of that--but, never mind. Your first duty, sir, is to
convince the ladies that I shall expect them to be in better humor when
I return from the East."
The words came from his lips with biting emphasis; the smooth oily tone
was gone. There was no pretense now; he was showing his fangs.
David could only glare at him, white to the lips. He could not speak.
He could only look the hatred that welled in his heart. But down in
that heart he was telling himself that some day he would crush this
monster.
Colonel Grand studied the clean-cut, aristocratic face for a moment. A
conciliatory smile came to his lips.
"Don't forget that I am doing you a good turn," he said. "Christie is a
very pretty girl. She's fond of you. If you're smart, you'll make the
most of her. You ought to thank me instead of--ah, but I see you do
thank me." He willfully misjudged the expression on David's face. "I
see no reason why you can't spend a most agreeable season with us.
Jack."
"Colonel Grand," said David very slowly, controlling himself admirably,
"if it were not that I now regard it as my sacred duty to stay with
this show, I would defy you, sir, and denounce you, let the
consequences be as disastrous to me as you like. I am not afraid of
you. I _can_ go back home--to jail--with my head up and my heart clean,
if you choose to send me there. I am not afraid of even that. But I
_am_ afraid of something else. That is why I am ready to bear your
insults, to humble myself, to submit to your--your commands. Not for my
own safety, but for the safety of others. Permit me, sir, as a
gentleman, to assure you that you can depend on me to carry out at
least a part of your instructions as faithfully as God will let me. I
mean by that, sir, your instructions to _protect the ladies!_"
He turned on his heel and left the Colonel standing there, a flush
mounting to his flabby cheek.
"Braddock," he said, a few minutes later, "I'm going to break that
Jenison boy if it takes me a year--yes, ten years."
"What's up?" demanded Braddock, rolling his cigar over uneasily. "Been
sassing you?"
"People of his class do not sass, as you call it," said Colonel Grand
shortly.
"Well, shall I kick him out of the show?" asked the other, perplexed.
Remembering David's money, he supplemented quickly: "Say in a week or
two?"
"No. That is just what I don't want you to do. He stays, Braddock.
Understand?"
"All right," agreed the other hastily. "I like the kid. He's good
company for Christie, too. _Tony_ sort of a chap, ain't he? I can tell
'em every pop. I said to my wife that first night--"
"Yes, yes, you you've told me that," interrupted Grand impatiently.
"You keep him here, that's all. When I'm through with him you may kick
him out. There won't be much left to kick."
For a long time after the departure of his new partner, Thomas
Braddock's attitude of extreme thoughtfulness puzzled those who took
the trouble to observe him. At last, when his cigar was chewed to a
pulp and the night's performance was half over, light broke in upon
him. He fancied that he had solved the Colonel's designs regarding
David Jenison. His face cleared, but again clouded ominously; he
conversed with himself, aloud.
"By thunder, if he thinks I'm going to let him gobble up that kid's
money, he's mistaken. Why didn't I think of this before? I might have
known. It's the long green he's after. I wonder who told him about the
two thousand." He scratched his head in sudden perplexity. "I wonder
what's got into Dick Cronk. He's too blamed good, all of a sudden. That
brother of his might try the job, but--no, he'd bungle it. Besides,
he'd probably stick a knife into Davy if the kid made a motion." He
began chewing a fresh cigar; his pop-eyes were leveled with unseeing
fierceness at a certain patch in the "main top"; his brain was seeing
nothing but that packet of banknotes. How to get it into his
possession: that was the question that produced the undiverted stare
and the lowering droop at the corners of his mouth.
"I've got to get that wad," he was saying to himself, over and over
again, with almost tearful insistence. Driven by the value of
propinquity, he finally made his way to the dressing-tent. The
performers were surprised to find him unnaturally sober and quite
jovial. A certain nervousness marked his manner. He chatted amiably
with the leading men and women in his company; the fact that he removed
the cigar from his lips while conversing with Ruby Noakes and the
Iron-jawed Woman, created no little amazement in them. He was
especially gentle with his wife, and superlatively so with his
daughter, both of whom were slow to show the slightest sense of
responsive warmth. He proudly, almost belligerently, proclaimed
Christine to be the loveliest creature that ever stepped into the
sawdust ring. In spite of that fact, however, it was his plan to have
her retire at the end of the season, when, if all went well, she was to
go to a splendid school for young ladies.
Mrs. Braddock eyed him narrowly. She was searching for the cause of
this sudden ebullience, this astounding surrender to her own views
regarding their daughter. As for Christine, she was more afraid of him
than she had been in all her life. This new mood suggested some vague,
undefinable trouble for her mother. The girl's rapidly developing
estimate of her father was taking away all the illusions she had been
innocently cherishing up to the last few weeks. To her horror, she was
beginning to look for something sinister in all that he undertook to do
or say.
Unable to face the speculative anxiety in the eyes of his wife and
child, Braddock edged off to the men's section of the tent. His
furtive, nervous glances about the small apartment escaped the notice
of the men who were changing their apparel. To his own disgust, a cold
perspiration began to ooze out all over his body--the moisture of
extreme nervousness and indecision. He took a stiff pull at his brandy
flask.
His shifting gaze ultimately rested on David Jenison's neatly deposited
clothing. The boy was in the ring. His "street-wear" lay on a "keester"
somewhat apart from the heterogeneous pile of men's apparel on the
adjacent boxes. David's "pile" was close to the outside wall of the
tent. Braddock marked its location in respect to a certain side pole.
He began to tremble; a weakness fell upon him; the resolution partly
formed in the big tent, and which had drawn him resistlessly to this
very spot, gained strength as his blinking eyes swerved their gaze from
time to time in the direction of the "pile." All the while he was
talking volubly and without a sentient purpose.
After fifteen minutes he sauntered from the section, cold with
apprehension but absolutely determined on the action which was to
follow. Leaving the tent, he strolled off toward the ticket wagon,
carefully noting the position of the men who were loading the menagerie
tent for the trip ahead. A cautious _detour_ brought him back to the
dressing-tent, and directly in front of the spot where David's clothing
was deposited.
The trembling increased. His mouth filled with saliva. He felt of his
hair. It was wet. As he stood there shivering and irresolute, the band
struck up the tune that signified much to his present venture,--the
tune heralding the approach of the entire company of male performers in
the "ground and lofty tumbling act." It meant that the men's section
would be entirely deserted for five or ten minutes.
Thomas Braddock was not a thief. He never had stolen anything in his
life. He did not intend to steal now. Before he entered the
dressing-tent, half an hour ago, he had justified himself unto himself:
he was not going to steal David's money. His purpose was an honest one,
or so his conscience had been resolutely convinced. He meant to
surreptitiously borrow the idle money, that was all. Toward the end of
the season, when he was vastly prosperous--as he was sure to be--he
would go to David and restore the money, with interest; whereupon the
grateful young man would fall upon his neck and rejoice. He needed the
money. David did not need it.
What would his wife say if she came to know of this? What would
Christine think of him? They were harsh questions and they troubled
him. But above these questions throbbed a still greater one--the one
that made his body damp with fear: was the money still in the boy's
pocket, or was he carrying it with him in the ring?
Of one thing he was sure: David trusted to the integrity of his fellow
performers. As for that, so did Thomas Braddock. In all his experience
with circus performers he had never known one of them to steal;
somewhat irrelevantly he reminded himself that circus women were
notably chaste. No; David's money was quite safe in that dressing-tent.
Two full minutes passed before he could whip the conscience into
submission. It was, as it afterwards turned out to be, the last stand
of the thing called honor as it applied to whiskey-soaked Tom Braddock.
Then he shot forward across the black shadows to the side pole he had
been glaring at for a quarter of an hour. Through the lacings in the
sidewall he saw that the section was empty.
When David put his hand inside the lining of his waistcoat an hour
later, he turned pale and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. For an
instant he permitted them to sweep the laughing, unconscious group of
men surrounding him.
"Joey," he said a moment later, taking the clown aside, "my pocketbook
is gone."
"Wot!" gasped Joey. "'Ave you lost it?"
"It has been stolen."
Joey's face grew very sober. "Don't say that, Jacky. It was in your
ves'cut--as usual?"
"Yes. The lining is slashed with a knife."
"Jacky, are you sure?" almost groaned the clown. "Why--why, there ain't
nobody 'ere as would steal a pin. No, sir, not one of--"
"I know that, Joey," said David. He was very white and his eyes were
heavy with pain. "I know who stole it."
Grinaldi looked up sharply. Something darted into his mind like a flash
of lightning.
"You--you don't mean--"
"I won't say the name. And you mustn't say it either, Joey. But I am as
sure of it as I am sure my heart beats. Casey said he--the man came in
here for half an hour--I can't believe he is a thief! Joey, _they_ must
never know. We must not mention this thing to any one. I don't mind the
money. It is nothing--"
Joey wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Right-o! Not a blooming word. I see your meaning. By Gripes, he's
sinking pretty low. But," hopefully, "mebby he didn't do it."
"I hope he didn't, but--" The boy shuddered. "Joey, I passed him as I
came from the ring awhile ago. He was leaning against a quarter pole.
The look he gave me was so queer, so ferocious, that I turned away; I
couldn't understand it. But I do now, Joey. It's as clear as day to me.
He had discovered that instead of twenty-five hundred dollars, there
were but six ten-dollar notes in that pocketbook. Do you understand? He
was black with rage and disappointment--"
"I see! Well, blow me, I--I--" Here Joey began to chuckle. "He's
wondering where the balance of it is. He was trying to look through
your shirt, Jacky. He--"
"Do you remember that he followed us in here and watched us change
clothes? Well, I noticed that he never took his eyes off me. He was
watching to see if I had anything hidden about me--a belt, a package,
or--anything. Joey, it's as plain as day."
"And he did kick that little property boy a minute ago. I remember
that. He is mad! He's crazy mad, Jacky, we've got to keep our eyes
peeled, you and me--and another pusson, too. We got to stand by tonight
to protect 'er. He probably thinks that pusson can tell 'im where it
is."
But Thomas Braddock was not thinking of his wife in connection with the
disappointment that had come to him in that last hour of degradation.
He was thinking of Colonel Bob Grand and wondering what magic influence
he had exercised over the boy to compel him to deliver so much money
into his hands. Down in the darkest corner of his soul he was cursing
Bob Grand for a scheming thief, and David Jenison for a hopeless
imbecile.
Before the wagons were well under way for the next stand he was dead
drunk in the alley back of the hotel bar, having first thrashed a
porter who undertook to eject him from the place.
Mrs. Braddock and Christine waited for him at the lot until the men
began to pull down the dressing-tent. David was with them. Not far away
was Joey Noakes, the center of a group of performers, held together by
his wonderful tale concerning the sensational bit of pocketpicking that
had occurred early in the evening. A congressman had been "touched" for
his purse and three hundred dollars while waiting for a train at the
depot. The town was wild over the theft.
In the midst of the narrative, Artful Dick sauntered up to the group,
coming, it seemed, from nowhere. The gossiper abruptly stopped his tale.
"They say it's going to rain before morning," said Dick airily. "You
guys will get rust on your joints if you stay out in it. Ta-ta! I'm
looking for my brother. Seen him?"
He strolled on, as if he owned the earth.
"That feller'll be as rich as the devil some day, if he keeps on," said
one of the group.
That was the mild form of opprobrium that followed Artful Dick into the
shadows. As he passed by the Braddocks and David, he doffed his derby
gallantly. To this knowing chap there was something significant in the
dreary, half-hearted smile that the mother and daughter gave him. At
any rate, he took a second look at them out of the corner of his eye.
"Brad's up to something," he thought.
The smile he bestowed upon Ruby Noakes, who stood near by with several
of the women, was all-enveloping. Ruby's dark eyes looked after him
until his long, jaunty figure disappeared in the darkness.
"Too bad he's a thie--what he is," ventured the Iron-jawed Woman
pityingly. She addressed the reflection to Ruby, who started and then
positively glared at the speaker.
David escorted Mrs. Braddock and Christine to the hotel, where he also
was to "put up" under the new dispensation. They had but little to say
to each other. A deep sense of restraint had fallen upon them. He
understood and appreciated their lack of interest in anything but their
own unexpressed thoughts. As for himself, he was sick at heart over the
discovery he had made. Not for all the world would he have added to
their unhappiness by voicing the thoughts that were uppermost in his
mind, rioting there with an insistent clamor that almost deafened him.
Christine's father was a thief!
From time to time, as they walked down the dark, still street, he
glanced at her face, half fearing that his thoughts might have reached
her by means of some mysterious telepathic agency. Even in the shadows
her face was adorable. He could not see her dark eyes, but he knew they
were troubled and afraid. He would have given worlds to have taken her
in his arms, then and there, to pour into her little sore heart all the
comfort of his new-found adoration.
For days it had been growing upon him, this delicious realization of
what she had come to stand for in his life. She had crept into his
heart and he was glad. Innate gallantry and a sense of the fitness of
things had kept him from uttering one word of love to this young,
trusting, unconscious girl. He was very young--stupidly young, he
felt--but he was old enough to know that she would not understand. He
was content to wait, content to watch. The time would come when he
could tell her of the love that was in his heart; but it was not to be
thought of now.
He walked between them, carrying Mrs. Braddock's handbag. Christine
refused to burden him with hers. As they neared the business section of
the town--one of the Ohio River towns--they encountered drunken men and
merry-makers. A particularly noisy but amiable group approached them
from the opposite direction. Christine nervously clutched David's arm.
She came very close to him. He was thrilled by the contact. After the
revelers had lurched by them, she gave an odd little laugh and would
have removed her hand. He pressed his arm close to his side,
imprisoning it. She looked up quickly, a sharp catch in her breath.
Then she allowed her hand to rest there passively.
They were nearing the hotel when David impulsively gave utterance to
the hungry cry that was struggling in his throat:
"Oh, Mrs. Braddock, if I were free to go back to Jenison Hall! I could
ask you and Christine to come there and stay. You'd love it there. It's
the finest old place in--"
"Why, David!" cried Mrs. Braddock in surprise.
"Forgive me!" he cried abjectly.
"Oh, I should love it--I should love it, David," cried Christine in a
low, wistful voice. It seemed to him that there was a strange,
mysterious wail at the back of the words.
Mrs. Braddock uttered a short, bitter laugh. "How good you are, David.
What would your friends think if you took circus people there to visit
you?"
He replied with grave dignity. "My friends, Mrs. Braddock, include the
circus people you mention. I am not likely to forget that you took me
in and--"
"And made a clown of you," she interrupted. He was gratified to see a
smile on her lips. The light from a window shone in her face. Her eyes
were wet and glistening.
He held his tongue for a moment, wavering between impulse and delicacy.
His gaze went to Christine's half-averted face. He was moved by sudden
apprehension. Was she beginning to suspect the real attitude of Colonel
Bob Grand toward her mother? Was it something more than mere antipathy
that filled her heart?
"See here, Mrs. Braddock," he began hastily, "I'm right young to be
saying this to you, but I want you to know that I am terribly
distressed by what has taken place in--in your life. I know you hate
Colonel Grand. I know he is a bad man. His new interest in this show is
the outgrowth of an old one."
She started. Her eyes were full upon his face.
"You are not likely to know any more peace or happiness here. Why don't
you give it up? Why don't you leave the show? Why--"
"David," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "you don't know what you
are saying."
"You could go back to your father," he went on ruthlessly. "I know it
would be all right. He would not--"
She interrupted him quickly.
"Who has been talking to you of my affairs?"
He bit his lip. "Why, I--well, Joey Grinaldi. He is your best, truest
friend. He told me all--"
Christine was leaning forward, peering past him at her mother's averted
face. The girl's clutch on his arm tightened perceptibly.
"Mother," she said wonderingly, "what does he mean? Isn't--isn't your
father dead? What is it that Joey Noakes has told you, David?"
David realized and was dumb with a sort of consternation. Mrs. Braddock
hesitated for a moment, and then said to him, drear despair in her
voice:
"Poor David! You don't know what you have done. No, Christine, my
father is not dead. Be patient, my darling; I will tell you all there
is to tell."
"To-night?" half whispered Christine, dropping David's arm, moved by
the horrid fear that there was some dark secret in her life which was
to put a barrier between him and her forever.
"Yes, my dear."