I
One day there arrived at Brine's Rip Mills, driving in a smart trap
which looked peculiarly unsuited to the rough backwoods roads, an
imposing gentleman who wore a dark green Homburg hat, heavy, tan,
gauntletted gloves, immaculate linen, shining boots, and a well-fitting
morning suit of dark pepper-and-salt, protected from the contaminations
of travel by a long, fawn-coloured dust-coat. He also wore a monocle
so securely screwed into his left eye that it looked as if it had been
born there.
His red and black wheels labouring noiselessly through the sawdust of
the village road, he drove up to the front door of the barn-like wooden
structure, which staggered under the name, in huge letters, of the
CONTINENTAL HOTEL. There was no one in sight to hold the horse, so he
sat in the trap and waited, with severe impatience, for some one to
come out to him.
In a few moments the landlord strolled forth in his shirt-sleeves,
chewing tobacco, and inquired casually what he could do for his visitor.
"I'm looking for Mr. Blackstock--Mr. J. T. Blackstock," said the
stranger with lofty politeness. "Will you be so good as to direct me
to him?"
The landlord spat thoughtfully into the sawdust, to show that he was
not unduly impressed by the stranger's appearance.
"You'll find him down to the furder end of the cross street yonder," he
answered pointing with his thumb. "Last house towards the river.
Lives with old Mrs. Amos--him an' Woolly Billy."
The stranger found it without difficulty, and halted his trap in front
of the door. Before he could alight, a tall, rather gaunt woodsman,
with kind but piercing eyes and brows knitted in an habitual
concentration, appeared in the doorway and gave him courteous greeting.
"Mr. Blackstock, I presume? The Deputy Sheriff, I should say,"
returned the stranger with extreme affability, descending from the trap.
"The same," assented Blackstock, stepping forward to hitch the horse to
a fence post. A big black dog came from the house and, ignoring the
resplendent stranger, went up to Blackstock's side to superintend the
hitching. A slender little boy, with big china-blue eyes and a shock
of pale, flaxen curls, followed the dog from the house and stopped to
stare at the visitor.
The latter swept the child with a glance of scrutiny, swift and intent,
then turned to his host.
"I am extraordinarily glad to meet you, Mr. Blackstock," he said,
holding out his hand. "If, as I surmise, the name of this little boy
here is Master George Harold Manners Watson, then I owe you a debt of
gratitude which nothing can repay. I hear that you not only saved his
life, but have been as a father to him, ever since the death of his own
unhappy father."
Blackstock's heart contracted. He accepted the stranger's hand
cordially enough, but was in no hurry to reply. At last he said slowly:
"Yes, Stranger, you've got Woolly Billy's reel name all O.K. But why
should you thank me? Whatever I've done, it's been for Woolly Billy's
own sake--ain't it, Billy?"
For answer, Woolly Billy snuggled up against his side and clutched his
great brown hand adoringly, while still keeping dubious eyes upon the
stranger.
The latter took off his gloves, laughing amiably.
"Well, you see, Mr. Blackstock, I'm only his uncle, and his only uncle
at that. So I have a right to thank you, and I see by the way the
child clings to you how good you've been to him. My name is J.
Heathington Johnson, of Heathington Hall, Cramley, Blankshire. I'm his
mother's brother. And I fear I shall have to tear him away from you in
a great hurry, too."
"Come inside, Mr. Johnson," said Blackstock, "an' sit down. We must
talk this over a bit. It is kind o' sudden, you see."
"I don't want to seem unsympathetic," said the visitor kindly, "and I
know my little nephew is going to resent my carrying him off." (At
these words Woolly Billy began to realize what was in the air, and
clung to Blackstock with a storm of frightened tears.) "But you will
understand that I have to catch the next boat from New York--and I have
a thirty-mile drive before me now to the nearest railway station. You
know what the roads are! So I'm sure you won't think me unreasonable
if I ask you to get my nephew ready as soon as possible."
Blackstock devoted a few precious moments to quieting the child's sobs
before replying. He remembered having found out in some way, from some
papers in the drowned Englishman's pockets or somewhere, that the name
of Woolly Billy's mother, before her marriage, was not Johnson, but
O'Neill. Of course that discrepancy, he realized, might be easily
explained, but his quick suspicions, sharpened by his devotion to the
child, were aroused.
"We are not a rich family, by any means, Mr. Blackstock," continued the
stranger, after a pause. "But we have enough to be able to reward
handsomely those who have befriended us. All _possible_ expense that
my nephew may have been to you, I want to reimburse you for at once.
And I wish also to make you a present as an expression of my
gratitude--not, I assure you, as a payment," he added, noticing that
Blackstock's face had hardened ominously. He took out a thick
bill-book, well stuffed with banknotes.
"Put away your money, Mr. Johnson," said Blackstock coldly. "I ain't
taking any, thank you, for what I may have done for Woolly Billy. But
what I want to know is, what authority have you to demand the child?"
"I'm his uncle, his mother's brother," answered the stranger sharply,
drawing himself up.
"That may be, an' then again, it mayn't," said Blackstock. "Do you
think I'm goin' to hand over the child to a perfect stranger, just
because he comes and says he's the child's uncle? What proofs have
you?"
The visitor glared angrily, but restrained himself and handed
Blackstock his card.
Blackstock read it carefully.
"What does that prove?" he demanded sarcastically. "It might not be
your card! An' even if you are 'Mr. Johnson' all right, that's not
proving that Mr. Johnson is the little feller's uncle! I want legal
proof, that would hold in a court of law."
"You insolent blockhead!" exclaimed the visitor. "How dare you
interfere between my nephew and me? If you don't hand him over at
once, I will make you smart for it. Come, child, get your cap and
coat, and come with me immediately. I have no more time to waste with
this foolery, my man." And he stepped forward as if to lay hands on
Woolly Billy.
Blackstock interposed an inexorable shoulder. The big dog growled, and
stiffened up the hair on his neck ominously.
"Look here," said Blackstock crisply, "you're goin' to git yourself
into trouble before you go much further, my lad. You jest mind your
manners. When you bring me them proofs, I'll talk to you, see!"
He took Woolly Billy's hand, and turned towards the door.
The stranger's righteous indignation, strangely enough, seemed to have
been allayed by this speech. He followed eagerly.
"_Don't_ be unreasonable, Mr. Blackstock," he coaxed. "I'll send you
the documents, from my solicitors, at once. I'm sure you don't want to
stand in the dear child's light this way, and prevent him getting back
to his own people, and the life that is his right, a day longer than is
necessary. Do listen to reason, now." And he patted his wad of
bank-notes suggestively.
But at this stage, Woolly Billy and the big dog having already entered
the cottage, Blackstock followed, and calmly shut the door. "You'll
smart for this, you ignorant clod-hopper!" shouted Mr. Heathington
Johnson. He clutched the door-knob. But for all his rage, prudence
came to his rescue. He did not turn the knob. After a moment's
hesitation he ground his heel upon the doorstep, stalked back to his
gig, and drove off furiously. The three at the window watched his
going.
"We won't see _him_ back here again," remarked the Deputy. "_He_
wasn't no uncle o' yours, Woolly Billy."
That same evening he wrote to a reliable firm of lawyers at Exville,
telling them all he knew about Woolly Billy and Woolly Billy's father,
and also all he suspected, and instructed them to look into the matter
fully.