[Illustration: 0386]
BEVERIDGE recovered first, and said in a businesslike way, “You 'll have
to give me your weapons.”
Henry at once handed over two large-caliber revolvers, and emptied his
pockets of fully half a hundred cartridges. “It's a lucky thing for
you, Mister Beveridge,” he said, “that Dick came out just when he did. A
minute more and I should have finished you.”
But Beveridge's thoughts were not heading in the same direction. His
reply was, “Where's Spencer?”
“Spencer? You didn't get him?”
“No.”
“Then he's in Canada.”
“Oh, I see.” Beveridge turned to Smiley. “Well, Dick, for a man that got
things exactly wrong, you came nearer to being right than I should have
thought possible.”
As they walked back toward Van Deelen's, Henry fell in with his cousin.
“You don't seem very talkative, Dick. Guess I must have surprised you.”
But Dick could not find his voice to reply.
“And you surprised me too, rather. How did you happen to be up here with
this man?”
“Then you don't know that he's holding me for Whiskey Jim?” cried Dick.
“No--is he?”
Dick, overcome with fatigue and emotion, nodded. Henry stopped and
turned to the special agent, who was walking close behind.
“You didn't think Dick here was in this business, did you?”
“We 'll discuss that later. Move along, please.”
“But this won't do, Beveridge. Dick has nothing to do with it, nothing
whatever.”
“I suppose he didn't know where his schooner went and what he carried
aboard her, eh?”
“Oh, I can explain all that. He's all right. I'm the man you want.”
“I 'll talk with you again, Mr. Smiley. We can't stop now.”
They found Wilson in a bad way. Mrs. van Deelen had been doing her
utmost during the night for her two patients, but to attempt moving
either was out of the question. Beveridge left some money to cover
the expense of caring for his subordinate, and Henry good-naturedly
contributed toward the care of Estelle. It was arranged that Van Deelen
should drive Beveridge and his party back to Spencer's, stopping on the
way to send Lindquist or his boy to Hewittson for a doctor. Nothing more
could be done here, and so they hurried Van Deelen into hitching up at
once. Beveridge could not sleep in comfort until his prisoner should be
safe under guard on the revenue cutter.
“There's one thing,” said the special agent to Henry Smiley, as the four
haggard men climbed into the wagon that was to take them on the long
drive through the forest, “there's one thing I don't understand. Why
didn't you fellows pick up a horse at one of these places and drive,
instead of footing it,--with a woman along, too?”
“We did start in Spencer's wagon, but it broke down before we'd gone ten
miles, the road was so bad.”
“But we didn't see it,” said Pink.
“We must have passed it on the first stretch before we found the road.”
“And then,” said Henry, “I thought we'd better stick it out on foot. You
see, I didn't believe it would occur to you that we would take to the
woods. And even if it should, I thought we should have plenty of time
before you started after us. I misjudged it there, you see. I was
thinking hardest about the other end of it--about what we should do
when we got down into Indiana, with maybe your men on the lookout for us
everywhere. And then a horse is a give-away--you can't hide it. And the
road is so heavy with sand that it's 'most as quick to walk. I thought it
all over and decided it that way. So we dragged the wagon off into the
bushes, and led the horse off and shot him. But why didn't you ride?”
“We didn't get a chance until we reached Lindquist's. And then we were
so close on your trail--and I knew you were on foot--that I decided the
same way. If we had been rattling along in a wagon, you might have heard
us quarter of a mile ahead, and all you would have had to do then would
be to step into the bushes and let us go by.”
At a few minutes before noon the party alighted from the wagon at
Spencer's wharf, where the _Merry Anne_ still lay, waved a signal to the
launch, and were carried out past False Middle Island to the _Foote_.
“I guess there isn't much doubt what we 'll do next,” said Beveridge,
with a yawn, as the launch drew near to the companion-ladder, which had
been let down forward of the paddle-wheel.
“I guess there ain't,” Pink replied with another yawn.
“One thing, Dick,” said Beveridge, “before we go away from here,--it
isn't right to leave your schooner in there for the porcupines to chew
to pieces.”
Dick, who had been studying the bottom of the boat, looked up quickly
and with a peculiar expression. After Henry's confession, would he be
allowed to sail her back himself? Beveridge caught the look, and for an
instant his face showed the faintest trace of confusion. “You see,” he
went on, “I've been thinking it over on the way back from Van Deelen's.
It's rather an irregular thing to do, but I'm willing, if Captain
Sullivan will let us have a few men, to turn the schooner over to Harper
here. He's competent to handle her, isn't he?”
“Oh, yes,” Dick replied in a dry voice, “he is competent enough.”
Pink's eyes brightened. “Sure thing,” he said, “I can run her easy.”
Dick glanced at Pink, then dropped his eyes again. The boy had heard
only the words; he had not caught the thoughts that were passing between
his captain and the special agent. To Dick this decision, coming in the
lull after the excitement, coming after what seemed to him proof of his
innocence, sounded like the judge's sentence. Through the hour or two
that followed, during the dinner on the steamer, after the launch had
gone back into the harbor with Pink and his crew, even when the old
side-wheeler had raised her anchor and started on her lumbering way
around through the Straits and up Lake Michigan to Chicago, Dick,
lying dressed in his berth, was trying to puzzle out the meaning of
Beveridge's words and of the momentary confusion that had accompanied
them. And it did not raise his spirits that, after each struggle with
the problem, his thoughts were directed to Annie. Perhaps Beveridge
himself, if he had laid his thoughts bare, could not have helped him
much. For it was not reasoning that had shown him the tactical folly
of allowing Dick to come sailing gloriously in to Annie's very front
door,--red shirt, neckerchief, and all the appurtenances of a hero; it
was the instinct that made it impossible for him to resist holding every
advantage that came to his hand. Beveridge had done a big thing. He
had run down--killed or captured or driven out of the country--several
members of the most skilful gang in the history of smuggling on the
Great Lakes. He had done it alone. He was even beginning to put down his
surprise over the capture of Henry Smiley, and to feel that Henry was
the one man he had been after from the first. Yes, he had made his
success--the thing left was to win Annie. And to do this he must not
only see her before Dick could see her; he must also arrange that Dick's
appearance on the scene, when all the delays had been exhausted, should
be an inglorious one. Some of his finest work was yet to come. In
thinking it over, lying in his berth in the room next to Dick's, their
heads not two feet apart, he fell asleep with a smile on his lips. And
never had the _Foote_ seen such sleeping as followed. When all three
men, accusers and accused, had slept through the afternoon and on
through the night, when they failed to hear even the breakfast gong,
Captain Sullivan began to wonder if they meant to wake at all.
Afterward, for a day or two, all three, Beveridge, Dick, and Henry, were
very quiet. They sat yawning in deck chairs, or dozed in their berths.
But during this time, thanks to the sunny skies and the peaceful lake,
and thanks to Beveridge's elation and good-nature, to Henry's surprising
cheerfulness, and to the difficulty Dick found in showing the depth
of his feelings, the relations of the three were growing more and more
pleasant. By common consent they avoided discussing the chase or its
cause.
On the afternoon of the last day out, Dick and Beveridge sat smoking on
the after deck. The _Foote_ was rumbling slowly down the coast somewhere
below Milwaukee, and should make Chicago before midnight if nothing
broke in the engine room. They were discussing the Michigan peach crop
when Henry drew up a chair and joined them.
“Would you mind telling me,” said Henry to Beveridge, filling his pipe
as he spoke, “what you are going to do with Dick, here?” So Henry was
the one to open the subject. Dick's lips drew together and his hand
trembled, but his eyes were steady.
Beveridge was evasive. “What am I going to do with him?” he repeated.
“Yes. You will have a good deal of say about that, won't you?”
“Why--yes, and no.”
“Now that you know he had nothing to do with it, you 'll be able to get
him right off, won't you?”
“Why--yes, so far as I know. I should expect it to turn out that way.”
Henry saw that a definite answer was not to be expected, so he puffed
a moment, looking off to the green shore-line. Finally he said, “Your
man,--what's his name?”
“Wilson?”
“Yes, he's in pretty bad shape, isn't he?”
“There's no doubt about that.”
“Do you think he 'll pull through?”
“I couldn't say.”
“What would be the penalty if he didn't?”
“That is for a judge and jury to decide.”
“I suppose.”
Henry paused again. Dick was gazing out at the water with fixed eyes.
This cool talk made him shudder.
“I've been thinking this over,” Henry went on. “Of course, you caught
me red handed; and that, along with what I'm going to tell you, any time
when you're ready, gives you a pretty clear case against me. My outlook
isn't what you would call cheerful. I've never made a will, but I
guess now is about as good a time as any to get about it. I've got my
schooner, and I've got a little money put away,--some of it drawing
interest and some in the bank,--and what there is of it is to go to
Dick. He's the nearest approach to a relation I have, you know. And if I
were you, Dick, I should take some of it the first thing and pay up for
the _Anne_. That 'll make you more or less independent. Do you fellows
mind coming down into the cabin and fixing it up now?”
“Certainly not,” said Beveridge, rising.
Dick found it difficult to reply, but he followed them below, and sat
with them at the dining-table. Beveridge got pen, ink, and paper.
“Now, I 'll tell you,” said Henry. “I 'll just make out sort of a schedule
of what I'm worth. It won't take long. I know just what it is. There,
now, I guess it 'll be enough to say that I devise and bequeath it all,
without any conditions or exceptions, to Dick, he to take everything of
mine for his own, to hold and to use in any way that he may choose. Will
you witness this, Beveridge?”
“Certainly.”
“We ought to have some others.”
“I 'll get them.” Beveridge stepped out, and returned shortly with
Captain Sullivan and his second officer. These put their signatures
under that of the special agent and with the exchange of only a word
or two returned to their posts. Nothing could have been more
matter-of-fact, could have savored more strongly of humdrum, everyday
life.
The three men sat there looking at the paper. Finally Henry, with a
smile, blotted it, folded it, and handed it to his cousin. “I'm going
to hand this over to you, Dick,” he said. “That's the easiest way of
disposing of it.”
Dick accepted it and turned it slowly over and over in his hands. “I--of
course, Henry--I appreciate this, but--” and then his face surged with
color, and he broke out in a round voice: “What's the use of talking of
this sort of thing now! Wilson isn't gone yet. I don't believe he will
go either. You make my blood run cold! You'd better just--”
“No,” Henry interrupted. “No, I'd rather leave it like this.”
“But, look here, Henry,--why, great guns! You aren't even convicted of
illicit distilling yet, let alone--why, even if you should be, don't you
see, you might lose a few years, but--”
“Oh, there wouldn't be any doubt about the conviction, Dick. The game is
up, so far as I am concerned. Supposing I should escape, what good would
it do me? I should be a fugitive. I should have to leave the country,
and go to a new place and begin all over again, just as I began here on
the Lakes twenty odd years ago. I have amounted to something here,--I
have held first place. I have kept these fellows,”--he indicated
Beveridge, with a slight upward turn at the corners of his mouth--“I
have kept these fellows guessing from the start. Anywhere else I should
be nobody, and at my age that doesn't appeal very strongly to a man.
Supposing, even, I could buy an acquittal and stay right on here, would
it be any better? You see, my boy, I have been ambitious in a way. I
have built up a machine--a new kind of a machine. If I could have been
let alone a year or so longer, I should have had everything running as
smooth and safe as the Republican County Committee. That was the one
thing I set out to do. But it's busted now. With these fellows once on
to the whole thing, it could never be carried on again. Oh, in a cheap,
shyster way, maybe; but that's not my way. It was my work and now it's
over. And when a man has come as near success as I have, and spent
the best part of his life working up toward it, he doesn't care about
beginning at the little end of something else. His mainspring is
broken.”
They were silent. Henry was easily the most self-possessed of the three.
Finally Beveridge said:--
“You have spoken once or twice, Mr. Smiley, about telling us how you
worked this business.”
“Yes, certainly, any time,--now, if you like.”
“You won't mind if I take down the main points and then ask you to put
your name to it?”
“Not at all. I supposed of course you would want to do that.”
This cold-blooded courtesy brought Dick near to shuddering again. But he
straightened up in his chair and prepared to listen.
“You say you are the man known as Whiskey Jim?”
“Yes. That is the name the papers have given to the whole organization,
and the organization, of course, is me.”
“Would you mind talking rather slowly? I know shorthand, but I'm
decidedly out of practice at it.”
“Certainly not. Suppose I explain the organization in a few words.”
“That 'll do first-rate.”
“If I forget and get to going too fast, just stop me. You see, as master
of the _Schmidt_, doing a tramp lumber business all around Lake Michigan
and Lake Huron, I was able to run the whole thing at both ends and still
keep about my business. I didn't have to use the mails--I didn't have
to do a thing that didn't look as solemn and proper as the Methodist
minister and his parish calls.”
“I see. It was ingenious--no doubt about it.”
“To be on the safe side, I located my stills over in Canada.”
“I know,--at Burnt Cove.”
“Yes; it was about as inaccessible there as any place on the Lakes. And
as we didn't try to sell the stuff over there, but shipped it all across
to the States, we were really safe enough. I don't know what either
country could have done about it, so far as the stills are concerned.”
“Suppose I take it up here, Mr. Smiley, do you mind?”
“No, go ahead.”
“Well, when you had got it put up and ready to ship, you brought it
across Lake Huron in Spencer's schooner.”
“Yes--yes.”
“And at Spencer's it was repacked in the timber.”
Henry smiled a little at this. “Some of it was. Of course you know
better than to think that what I could bring down in a load of timber
once in a month, or two, or three, was my only way of getting the goods
to market.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“I have done things on a fairly large scale, you know. But you are right
in the main. Spencer's was the distributing point for all our goods.
The old man himself was what you might call the shipping clerk of the
organization. But we 'll go ahead with the timber scheme. That one line,
if you follow it up, will be enough to base your case on, won't it?”
“Yes, for the present. Though you were concerned in the attempt to run a
pipe line under the Detroit River.”
“No, not very deep. I put a little money into it, but when I saw who was
running it, I got out. I knew they would get nipped sooner or later.
They went at it wrong.”
“Well, you brought your loaded timbers to the pier at Lakeville. From
there they were hauled by wagons to Captain Stenzenberger's yards.
Stenzenberger, working through Mc-Glory, distributed the stuff in
Chicago.” Henry shook his head with a touch of impatience. “You're
getting off the track there. Stenzenberger had nothing to do with it. I
fooled him through some of his men.”
Beveridge looked incredulous. “So that's the way you want it to go down,
is it?”
“That's the way it was.”
“Excuse me, Smiley, but that's absurd. I already have a case against
Stenzenberger. Even if I hadn't, it would outrage common-sense to state
that this man, a lumber merchant, could handle quantities of hollow
timbers, could have them right there under his nose all this time,
without knowing it.” But Henry was stubborn.
“Very well,” added Beveridge, “this is your statement. I will take down
just what you choose to say.”
“You've got about enough there, I should imagine. Oh, about Wilson! I
was in the bushes just below the bridge, when he started to run around
the house, and I shot him. There, now, with the confession of the
smuggling and the shooting, you ought to have a case. Copy it out,
put it in the right legal shape, and I 'll sign it. All but the
Stenzen-berger part. I admit nothing about him.”
“All right. I 'll put it down as you want. It makes no difference to me,
for you can never save him.”
“One thing, Henry,” said Dick, “that I don't understand. What was
McGlory after when he ran the _Anne_ up to Burnt Cove that time?”
“McGlory,” Henry replied, “was a fool. When you first told me about it,
I didn't know what to think myself, but after thinking it over, and from
the way he has talked since when he was a little drunk, I think I
have made it out. He has been planning for some time to skip with this
Estelle--desert his wife. He arranged it with her that time he came up
with you. And as what ready money he had was down in Chicago, where he
couldn't very well get at it without his wife knowing it, he took the
chance of getting to Burnt Cove while you were sleeping off--” Henry
smiled. “I guess old Spencer served you some pretty strong fluids up
there that day. Well, anyway, McGlory thought he could take quite a lot
of the stuff aboard, sell it through one of our regular trade channels,
and get off with the money without going home. He couldn't get it into
his head that you really knew nothing about the business. It was a crazy
thing to do.”
“I should think so.”
“McGlory and Roche are pretty good examples of the sort of thing I have
had to contend with. I've never been able to get good reliable men to
work for me.”
Beveridge wanted to smile over the incongruity in this speech, but he
controlled himself and listened soberly. Henry went on:--
“If I could have handled it alone, or with only Spencer to help, you
would never have got me. But with such a big business, I had to employ
a good many men. That was my weak spot. I've known it all along and
dreaded it, but I had to run the risk. There's a risk in every business,
and that was the risk in mine. No, sir, if I could have had competent
men, I should be laughing to-day at the whole revenue system.”
“I should take exception to that, Smiley,” said Beveridge. “Your men
weren't the only thing that gave you away, not by any means.”
“Oh, weren't they?”
“No, the most important clew was the label you used. But say, Smiley,
here is what puzzles me. Why is it that you, a man of unusual ability,
haven't put in your time at something respectable? The brains and work
you have wasted on smuggling would have made you a comfortable fortune
in some other line.”
“What do you mean by 'respectable,' Beveridge,--politics, trading,
preaching?”
“I guess you recognize the distinction.”
“On the contrary, I don't recognize it at all. I asked for information.”
“Oh, well, there is no use opening up that question. We all know the
difference between right and wrong, honesty and dishonesty.”
“Do we? Do you?”
“I have always supposed I did.”
“You're an unusual man. I congratulate you.”
“See here, Smiley, this is interesting. You don't mean to say that you
consider smuggling an honorable business?”
“Why not?”
“Why not! Why--why--”
“It might clear your ideas, Beveridge, to go into this question a
little. Smuggling means, I suppose, the bringing of merchandise from,
say, Canada to this country.”
“Dutiable merchandise, yes.”
“What makes it dutiable?”
“The law.”
“What makes the law?”
“The law is made by the people.”
“What people?”
“Oh, see here, Smiley, this--”
“No, wait a minute. The trouble with you is you don't do your own
thinking; I 'll do a little for you. Take an imaginary case: There is
a little group of men in this country who manufacture, say, tacks. As
every man should, they are looking out for their own interests. They are
out to make money. The tacks mean nothing to them, except as they can be
turned into money. That is right and proper, isn't it?”
“Certainly.”
“Now suppose, among them all, they employ a good many thousand men in
their tack factories, all of them voters. Suppose they're rich, and
ready to contribute a neat little sum to the campaign fund. Now then,
if any other group of men start up, just over the Canadian line, where
labor is cheaper, making tacks, and underselling our tack market, the
natural thing for our tack men to do is to go to their representatives
in Congress and say, 'Here, if you want our votes and our money, you
must pass a law putting a duty on tacks.' Why do they say this? Because
with such a law they can make more money. The people aren't helped
by it, mind you; the people have to pay all the more. The only men to
profit by it are the little group of tack manufacturers who want to get
rich and fat at the expense of this public you talk about. Now do the
Congressmen fall into line and pass the law? Certainly. Why?
Because _they_ are helped by it. They get the votes and the money
contributions--and probably a neat bribe besides. All this while, mind
you, the people are out of the game. They are being robbed by a law that
was made entirely to enrich a little group of men. These bribe givers
and takers put up a job on us, the most dishonest kind of a job, and yet
you seem to think I'm dishonest, too, because I follow their example and
look out for number one.”
“Hold on, Smiley, there's a fallacy there--”
“Where? Point it out. I'm doing an honest business. The stuff I sell is
well made. Do you suppose I care what your government people think? Why,
the whole government system is a network of bribes and rake-offs and
private snaps.”
“Of course, if you're an anarchist--”
“Look here, Beveridge, this talk seems to be rather personal--suppose we
make it more so. Let's see if we can't find out what your motives are in
this business. Are they Christian, or patriotic, or are you, like myself
and the tack men, and the law-makers, looking out for number one? The
man that was out here before you came I bought off. But it didn't
take me long to see that you couldn't be bought. Now why? That's the
question.
“Was it because you have principles against it? Not at all. Don't get
mad. I don't doubt a minute that you have some principles that you
learned in Sunday-school; but Lord, when a man's grown up and has his
living to fight for, do you think the Sunday-school has any chance. So,
you see, I thought it over, and reasoned it out about like this: You and
the other man were both ambitious, but where he wanted money, you
want position. It's to your interest to keep the confidence of your
superiors. That's why I couldn't buy you; it's all right, you've done
a good job, but don't try to persuade yourself that your integrity
is armor plate, that you've been doing right for the good of the
Sunday-school or from patriotic motives. Just because you happen to be
on the winning side, because your gang happens to be on top, don't
make the mistake of thinking you're better than the rest of us. For you
aren't.”
Dick saw that Beveridge's tongue was trembling with a keen retort, and
he broke in, “But you haven't told how I was worked into this, Henry.”
“Oh, that's simple. I wanted to boost you along in the world, but you
were young and had notions. So I thought if I could once make you bring
down a load of the stuff without knowing it, you would find yourself in
for it, and then I could make you see things in the right proportions.
I wanted you, bad. With one such man as you, I could have fooled them
forever.” He paused and added meditatively: “And I would have made you
a rich man, Dick. But just when I had it arranged, you came and told me
that you had gone daffy over Cap'n Fargo's little girl, and I saw I had
as good as lost you. Yes, sir, I could have made your fortune. Well,
anyhow, you 'll get something out of it, after--”
Beveridge rose to go to his room, gathering up the papers. “I'm going to
write this out now, boys. I 'll see you later.”
Late in the evening the statement was ready. Henry read it through,
suggested a few emendations, and signed it. Then the three went on deck.
Far down on the southwestern horizon was a row of twinkling lights.
Above them, in the sky, was spread a warm glow.
“We're getting along,” said Henry. “There's Chicago.”
“Oh, is it?” exclaimed Beveridge with interest.
“Yes. We 'll soon be in. Isn't it about time to put the handcuffs on me?”
Beveridge smiled. “That will hardly be necessary.”
“But Chicago's a bad town. I might get away from you.”
“We won't worry about that.”
“Do you carry the things on you? I never saw any.”
Beveridge drew a pair from his hip pocket, and handed them to Henry.
“How do they work?”
“Easily. Slip them on--this way.”
There was a click and Henry's hands were chained together.
“That's easy enough, isn't it?” said he, walking a few steps up and down
the deck, surveying himself. Then he went to the rail and leaned on it,
looking silently off toward the lights.
Just what came next, Dick never could remember. He had turned away to
gaze at the alternating red-and-white lights that marked Grosse Pointe
and home, so that he saw little more than Henry's swift movement and
Beveridge's start. An instant more and he was standing at the rail
with Beveridge, in the place where Henry had been standing a moment
before--gazing down at the foam that fell away from the bows. He heard
the special agent sing out: “Stop her, stop her, Cap'n! Man overboard!”
He was conscious that the engines had stopped; and he heard the
Captain's voice from the bridge: “No use! He went under the wheel!” Then
came the order to lower a boat, and the rush of feet across the deck.
CHAPTER XIV--IN WHICH BEVERIDGE SURPRISES HIMSELF
[Illustration: 0416]
DICK and Beveridge stood on the wharf at Chicago. The lights that
wavered over their faces from the lanterns of the Foote and from the arc
lamp overhead showed them sober, silent. The _camaraderie_ of the chase
and of the voyage that followed had ceased to be. Beveridge's elation
had been subdued by the distressing event of the evening, but still
the mind behind his decorously quiet face was teeming with plans and
schemes. Dick was gloomy, bewildered. Both seemed to be waiting for
something. They stood watching the bustle aboard the revenue cutter as
the crew made her snug for the night, until finally Dick spoke:--
“You haven't told me yet what I'm to do next, Bill.”
“What you're to do next?”
“Why--yes. You see--”
“Go on. I'm listening.”
But Dick found it hard to go on. “I didn't know but what--”
Beveridge turned abruptly at a noise up the street, placed two fingers
in his mouth, and whistled. And after a moment Dick saw what had kept
him waiting. It was no sense of delicacy. Beveridge had been looking for
a carriage. “Get in, Smiley,” he said, when the driver pulled up.
“Get in?”
“Yes--after you.”
“You mean, then--”
“Well, what?”
“I didn't suppose after what has happened that you'd need me any
longer.”
“Not need you, Smiley?” They were seated within the vehicle now, the
door was shut, and the driver, the special agent's whispered word in
his ear, was whipping up his horses. “I'm afraid you don't understand. I
have no authority to let you off.”
It was his manner more than his words that suddenly swept away Dick's
delicacy and aroused his anger. “The hell you haven't!” was his reply.
“Certainly not.”
“You don't expect me to believe that. You have no case against me now.”
“I grant you that. And I can promise you that you won't be detained more
than a few days at the outside. But this business has passed up out of
my hands now. All I can do is to deliver you up, make my report, and set
the machinery in motion for your release.”
Dick sat motionless, gazing into the shadows before him. “What right had
you to let Pink go, then?”
“That was different.”
“How?--How?”
“Nobody ever looked on Harper as of any importance in the business.”
“That is no answer. You're holding me on a technicality. The importance
of the man makes no difference when you are dealing in red tape.”
“See here, Smiley, don't you think you had better stop abusing me, and
take a sensible view of it?”
As he spoke, they were crossing State Street, and the brighter light
illuminated the interior of the carriage. For reply, Dick turned and
looked at his custodian, looked him through and through with a gaze of
profound contempt. Words were not necessary; Beveridge saw that Dick
had fathomed his motives, Dick saw that he was understood. At the moment
neither was thinking of the gloomy city that was closing in around
them; for both saw the wide, free beach, the gleaming lake, the two long
piers, the quaint little house on stilts, the upper balcony with its
burden of forget-me-nots and geraniums and all the blossoms that Annie
loved. And both had in their nostrils the refreshing smell of the east
wind--made up of all the faint mingled odors of Lake Michigan--a little
pine in it, a little fish in it, but, more than all, the health and
strength and wholesome sweetness of the Lakes. And both were silent
while the carriage rattled along, while they stepped out, crossed the
walk, and entered a stone building with barred windows, while, with
Beveridge on one side and a guard on the other, Dick walked to his cell.
Beveridge caught the half-past eight train for Lakeville the next
morning, and walked straight down to the house on stilts. Annie was out
on the lake, her mother said, looking at him, while she said it, and
after, with doubtful, questioning eyes. So he sat down on the steps and
looked out over the beach and the water. It was a fine warm day, with
just breeze enough to ripple, the lake from shore to horizon, and set it
sparkling in the sun. The sky was blue and white; and the cloud shadows
here and there on the water took varied and varying colors--deep blue,
yellow, sea-green. The shore-line dwindled off to the northward in long
scallops, every line of the yellow beach cut out cleanly, every oak on
the bluff outlined sharply. In truth, it was a glorious day--just the
day Beveridge would have chosen had the choice been his--the day of
days, on which he was to make the last arrangements in clinching his
success, in assuring his future. Annie had gone out to the nets with her
father. She was, at the moment, rowing him in. On other days Beveridge
had sat here and watched her coming in from the nets, with a great box
of whitefish aboard.
The boat grounded on the sand. Captain Fargo stepped out and drew it up.
Beveridge rose and smiled lazily while he waited for Annie to come up
to the steps. The sun had been in her eyes, and at first she did not see
him distinctly.
“Well,” said Beveridge, “hello! Didn't expect to see me, did you?”
She stopped abruptly and looked at him. He did not know just how to
interpret her expression.
“Aren't you going to speak to me, Annie?” Her answer, when it came,
blanketed him, and left him, so to speak, flapping in the wind. She
said, “What have you done with Dick?”
“Dick? Why--oh, he's all right.”
“Why hasn't he been back?”
“He 'll be around all right. They thought it would be necessary to hold
him for a few days.”
“To hold him,--where?”
“Don't you see--”
“Is he in prison?”
“Yes, but that will be fixed--”
“In Chicago?”
“Yes, he--”
“Father,” said she, “Dick's in prison. We must go down to see him.”
And she turned back to Beveridge with the question, “When can we get a
train?”
What could Beveridge do but fumble in his pockets, bring out a handful
of papers, look them over until he found a time-table, and announce that
the next train was the ten-twelve?
“You will have to show us how to get there, Mr. Beveridge,” said
Annie. “Come and change your clothes, father. Will you wait here, Mr.
Beveridge?”
Beveridge said that he would, certainly. And then when father and
daughter had hurried into the house, and after Captain Fargo had turned
his box of fish over to a boy who acted on occasions as his helper, the
special agent sat down again and looked at the Lake. The sun was shining
on, bright as ever; the water was still varicolored, the sky still
blue-and-white; but he saw them not.
In something more than twenty minutes Annie was down and waiting
impatiently for her father. Her whole mind was bent on getting to town.
She hardly saw Beveridge. As for him, chagrined as he was, he had to
admit that she looked very pretty in her trim blue gown. He had never
before seen her dressed for the city. He was inclined to feel awed as
well as bewildered. Then, finally, appeared the Captain in his Sunday
clothes. And the three set out for the train and Dick.
All the way Annie was preoccupied. Hardly a word could Beveridge get.
From the train they hurried over to the stone building with the barred
windows. Here the special agent held a short, whispered conversation
which ended in the unbarring of doors and the word to follow down a
corridor. And finally the last door was opened and Dick stood before
them, dishevelled, unshaven, but indisputably Dick. Beveridge found
himself slipping into the background when Annie and the prisoner were
clasping hands without a word; but he watched them. He saw the question
in Dick's eyes,--the something deep and burning, the something that
was _not_ a question, in Annie's. He saw that she did not think of
withdrawing her hand; he knew that in one short moment more her arms
would be thrown around Dick's neck. He turned away, and, leaving them
there, walked out into the street.
The lights were out at “The Teamster's Friend.” It was ten o'clock at
night, and from Stenzenberger's lumber office on one corner through to
the corner at the farther end of the block the street was deserted. But
Beveridge, who slowly turned the corner by the lumber yard,--Beveridge,
who had passed the most turbulent day of his life trying to realize that
he had lost Annie,--knew where to look. Lonely, miserable, plunged into
dejection now that the strain was over, he turned into the driveway that
led to the sheds in the rear of the saloon, and, pausing, looked up.
Yes, there was a light in the upper rear window. He whistled. The
curtain went up a little way--some one was looking down. The curtain
went down again; the light slowly disappeared, leaving grotesque shadows
on the curtain as it was carried from the room. Steps sounded in the
hall; the bolt slipped back, and Madge stood in the doorway.
“Hello,” said Beveridge. “Here I am.”
“Oh,” cried Madge, with what sounded like a gasp of relief. She drew him
quickly in, closed and locked the door, and stood looking at him.
“I had to go out of town, Madge. I didn't get in till late last night. I
have some news for you.”
“Come in,” she said. And they went back into the dining room, where she
had set down the lamp. They took chairs on opposite sides of the table.
Madge rested her elbows on the red cloth, propped her chin on her
two hands, and waited. Beveridge, while he looked at her, was rapidly
getting back his self-possession.
“Well, Madge, there's a good deal to tell you. McGlory--”
She waited as long as she could, then exclaimed, in an uncertain voice:
“What about him? Where is he?”
“He's gone.”
“Where?”
“Nobody on earth can tell you that.”
She leaned across the table and caught his arm. “Is he dead?”
“Yes, dead--and buried.”
She leaned back in her chair. She could not take her eyes from his face,
and yet she said nothing. It could not be said that her face showed
a trace of happiness, but there was, nevertheless, a strange sort of
relief there.
For a long time neither spoke. But Beveridge's impetuous nature could
not long endure this silence. “Well, Madge,” he broke out, “do you still
want me?”
She did not answer.
“That's what I've come to know. If you 'll do it, we will be married
to-night.”
“You couldn't--” her voice was low and dreamy. “You couldn't get a
license before to-morrow,” she said.
“It's queer,” said Dick, “but that is the Beveridge of it. You can't
tell what he is going to do next. I don't believe he knows himself half
the time.”
The _Captain_, with Annie at the tiller and Dick stretched lazily out
beside her, was skimming and bounding along off the Grosse Pointe light.
“Wasn't it--” Annie wore a conscious expression--“wasn't it rather
sudden?”
“It must have been. But that is Beveridge.”
“And she was a saloon keeper's wife?”
“Yes,--but it wasn't so bad as it sounds when you say it that way. She
was too good for McGlory.”
“Oh, you--you know her?”
“I've seen her, yes.”
“But isn't she--old?”
“Not so very. She can't be much older than Beveridge. She is good
looking--almost pretty. And she looks sort of--well, when you saw her
there in McGlory's place, it seemed too bad. She was quiet, and she
looked as if she was made for something better.”
They were silent for a time. Then their eyes met, and she missed his
answering smile. “What is it, Dick?” she asked.
“I was thinking about Henry--about what he was, and then what he did for
me. We have everything to thank him for, you and I, Annie.” He paused,
then went on. “I suppose he was wrong--he must have been wrong if we
are to believe in law at all. But that night on the steamer, when he
was telling us about it, I watched him and Beveridge both pretty
closely,--the expression of their faces and their eyes. The way a man
looks at you tells so much, Annie. And I knew all the while, though
Beveridge was standing there for the law, and Henry for what they call
crime, still--”
“What, Dick?”
“--if I were in a tight place again and had to choose which of those two
men to trust my life with, I shouldn't need to stop to think. It would
be Henry, every time.”
He sat up to shift his position, when something which he saw on the
northern horizon drove the clouds from his face. This was a great day
for Dick. “Look, Annie!” He was pointing eagerly. “Look there!”
“Where?”
“Can't you see it--the _Anne?_”
Then Annie's heart leaped too. And she ordered Dick to ease off the
sheet, adding only, “We 'll meet her, shan't we?” To which Dick responded
with a nod.
So they headed north, with everything drawing full and the bubbles
dancing by. Pink saw them and came up into the wind. The _Captain_
slipped alongside, a sailor caught the painter, Dick handed Annie up,
clambered after, stepped to the wheel, and they swung slowly off.
“Make the boat fast astern,” called Dick to one of the revenue cutter
men.
“All right, sir.”
“Things gone all right, Pink?”
“First class. Not much wind in the Straits.”
“I hardly thought there would be.”
Annie was perched on the cabin trunk, looking at Dick with laughing
eyes. She enjoyed watching him, she liked his easy way of falling into
the command of his schooner, she admired the muscles on his forearm (for
he had rolled up his sleeves). He caught her glance. “Want to take her,
Annie?”
“Oh, yes, Dick. Will you let me?”
“If you want to.”
So Annie took the wheel. She stood there, a merry, graceful
figure,--though Dick kept close by and reached out a steadying hand now
and then,--while the schooner came about, headed for the long pier, ran
up neatly into her berth, threw out her lines, and stopped, her voyage
over.
_[Note:--In the spring, when the ice broke up in the streams of
Michigan, a party of lumbermen found what had been the body of a man
lying in a shallow creek, deep in the forest. Particulars would be
unpleasant. It is enough to say that they buried him there, being rough
men and far from a coroner; and that on a water-soaked envelope in his
pocket was found a name which, as nearly as anything, seemed to spell
“Roche.” To the persons of this tale his end remained a mystery. It
might be added that Beveridge found more difficulty than he had foreseen
in weaving his net around Stenzenberger. In fact the special agent had
failed, at last accounts, to disturb the serenity of the lumber dealer,
in spite of the moral certainty that his share in the guilt was the
largest of any. Perhaps his secret went to the bottom of Lake Michigan
with Henry Smiley.--S.M.]_
[Illustration: 0431]