His uncle almost forgot about Tommy for some time. He had a letter from
the boy every week--a stupid, schoolboy letter which he hardly bothered
to read. “The weather had been very hot. I guess you are glad not to be
here, aren’t you? There is a lot of hay fever around now. It is
certainly a lucky thing that you didn’t come”--and that sort of thing.
Then, while Uncle James was enjoying his little breakfast at the corner
table in the grill room, which he had occupied for years and years, just
as he was about to taste that invariable bowl of oatmeal with cream and
powdered sugar, his eye was caught by a headline on the front page of
his paper. He dropped his spoon on the floor.
FATHER SHOOTS GIRL’S BETRAYER--TRAGEDY NARROWLY AVERTED AT THE
HOTEL TRESSILLON--SON OF THE LATE THOMAS ELLINGER WOUNDED
He stared and stared at the thing. The paper crackled in his trembling
hands, the letters swam before his eyes. Nonsense! “Son of the late
Thomas Ellinger”--must be a mistake!
He read the story with a furious sort of incredulity. It was a nasty
story of a young city man going out to a little country town for a
vacation, boarding in the house of a decent farmer, and running off one
night with the poor little sixteen-year-old daughter. He had taken her
to a disreputable hotel and registered as man and wife, which they
weren’t. And the decent farmer, the outraged, the desperate father, had
tracked them, and, standing in the doorway of the crowded and noisy
restaurant, had fired two shots at the girl’s betrayer--at Tommy! At the
boy who a few months ago had been sitting opposite Uncle James at this
very table!
“No! Nonsense!” he cried, crumpling up the paper and throwing it under
the table. “One of those beastly newspaper stories! Damned lies, all of
them!”
He went up to his room, got his hat and stick, and hurried out, furtive,
terrified, afraid that every one was pointing him out as the uncle of
that fellow. He wanted to telephone, where he would not be seen or
heard, somewhere outside of his hotel. He went into a booth in a cigar
store, and called for the Hotel Tressillon.
“Mr. Ellinger,” he demanded.
In a moment he heard that familiar young voice, with its exaggerated
accent.
“This is Mr. Ellinger speaking.”
“Thomas!” cried the old gentleman.
The boy gave a sort of gasp. Then, with his unfailing genius for doing
the wrong thing, he assumed an airy and offhand tone.
“Hello, Uncle James!” he said jauntily. “I didn’t know that you were
back in town again.”
“See here!” shouted the old gentleman, in a tremendous voice. “Is it
true--this abominable thing I saw in the papers? Is it _you_?”
“Yes,” replied Tommy.
“Yes?” repeated his uncle’s voice, incredulous. “Yes? _You_ did a thing
like that? Good God! Explain yourself, Thomas!”
“I can’t!” said Tommy.
There was a brief silence.
“You--you young cur!” The old man’s voice was trembling. “Don’t ever
come near me again. Don’t let me see you. I’d like to shoot you! You
miserable, dastardly cur! You’ve disgraced the whole family. You’ve
disgraced your father’s name. I’d like to see you hanged--only hanging’s
too good for you!”