E-text prepared by Al Haines
Transcriber's note:
The book's Frontispiece was missing. There were no other
illustrations.
HOW JANICE DAY WON
by
HELEN BEECHER LONG
Author of "Janice Day the Young Homemaker,"
"The Testing of Janice Day,"
"The Mission of Janice Day," Etc.
Illustrated by Corinne Turner
The Goldsmith Publishing Co.
Cleveland
Copyright, 1917, by
Sully & Kleinteich
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. TROUBLE FROM NEAR AND FAR
II. "TALKY" DEXTER, INDEED
III. "THE SEVENTH ABOMINATION"
IV. A RIFT IN THE HONEYMOON
V. "THE BLUEBIRD--FOR HAPPINESS"
VI. THE TENTACLES OF THE MONSTER
VII. SWEPT ON BY THE CURRENT
VIII. REAL TROUBLE
IX. HOW NELSON TOOK IT
X. HOW POLKTOWN TOOK IT
XI. "MEN MUST WORK WHILE WOMEN MUST WEEP"
XII. AN UNEXPECTED EMERGENCY
XIII. INTO THE LION'S DEN
XIV. A DECLARATION OF WAR
XV. AND NOW IT IS DISTANT TROUBLE
XVI. ONE MATTER COMES TO A HEAD
XVII. THE OPENING OF THE CAMPAIGN
XVIII. HOPEWELL SELLS HIS VIOLIN
XIX. THE GOLD COIN
XX. SUSPICIONS
XXI. WHAT WAS IN THE PAPER
XXII. DEEP WATERS
XXIII. JOSEPH US COMES OUT FOR PROHIBITION
XXIV. ANOTHER GOLD PIECE
XXV. IN DOUBT
XXVI. THE TIDE TURNS
XXVII. THE TEMPEST
XXVIII. THE ENEMY RETREATS
XXIX. THE TRUTH AT LAST
XXX. MARM PARRADAY DOES HER DUTY
HOW JANICE DAY WON
CHAPTER I
TROUBLE FROM NEAR AND FAR
At the corner of High Street, where the lane led back to the stables of
the Lake View Inn, Janice Day stopped suddenly, startled by an eruption
of sound from around an elbow of the lane--a volley of voices,
cat-calls, and ear-splitting whistles which shattered Polktown's usual
afternoon somnolence.
One youthful imitator expelled a laugh like the bleating of a goat:
"Na-ha-ha-ha! Ho! Jim Nar-ha-nay! There's a brick in your hat!"
Another shout of laugher and a second boy exclaimed:
"Look out, old feller! You'll spill it!"
All the voices seemed those of boys; but this was an hour when most of
the town lads were supposed to be under the more or less eagle eye of
Mr. Nelson Haley, the principal of the Polktown school. Janice
attended the Middletown Seminary, and this chanced to be a holiday at
that institution. She stood anxiously on the corner now to see if her
cousin, Marty, was one of this crowd of noisy fellows.
With stumbling feet, and with the half dozen laughing, mocking boys
tailing him, a bewhiskered, rough-looking, shabby man came into sight.
His appearance on the pleasant main thoroughfare of the little lakeside
town quite spoiled the prospect.
Before, it had been a lovely scene. Young Spring, garbed only in the
tender greens of the quickened earth and the swelling buds of maple and
lilac, had accompanied Janice Day down Hillside Avenue into High Street
from the old Day house where she lived with her Uncle Jason, her Aunt
'Mira, and Marty. All the neighbors had seen Janice and had smiled at
her; and those whose eyes were anointed by Romance saw Spring dancing
by the young girl's side.
Her eyes sparkled; there was a rose in either cheek; her trim figure in
the brown frock, well-built walking shoes of tan, and pretty toque, was
an effective bit of life in the picture, the background of which was
the sloping street to the steamboat dock and the beautiful, blue,
dancing waters of the lake beyond.
An intoxicated man on the streets of Polktown during the three years of
Janice Day's sojourn here was almost unknown. There had been no demand
for the sale of liquor in the town until Lem Parraday, proprietor of
the Lake View Inn, applied to the Town Council for a bar license.
The request had been granted without much opposition. Mr. Cross Moore,
President of the Council, held a large mortgage on the Parraday
premises, and it was whispered that this fact aided in putting the
license through in so quiet a way.
It was agreed that Polktown was growing. The "boom" had started some
months before. Already the sparkling waters of the lake were plied by
a new _Constance Colfax_, and the C. V. Railroad was rapidly completing
its branch which was to connect Polktown with the Eastern seaboard.
Whereas in the past a half dozen traveling men might visit the town in
a week and put up at the Inn, there had been through this Winter a
considerable stream of visitors. And it was expected that the Inn, as
well as every house that took boarders in the town, would be well
patronized during the coming Summer.
To Janice Day the Winter had been lovely. She had been very busy.
Well had she fulfilled her own tenet of "Do Something." In service she
found continued joy. Janice loved Polktown, and almost everybody in
Polktown loved her.
At least, everybody knew her, and when these young rascals trailing the
drunken man spied the accusing countenance of Janice they fell back in
confusion. She was thankful her cousin Marty was not one of them; yet
several, she knew, belonged to the boys' club, the establishment of
which had led to the opening of Polktown's library and free
reading-room. However, the boys pursued Tim Narnay no farther. They
slunk back into the lane, and finally, with shrill whoops and laughter,
disappeared. The besotted man stood wavering on the curbstone,
undecided, it seemed, upon his future course.
Janice would have passed on. The appearance of the fellow merely
shocked and disgusted her. Her experience of drunkenness and with
drinking people, had been very slight indeed. Gossip's tongue was busy
with the fact that several weak or reckless men now hung about the Lake
View Inn more than was good for them; and Janice saw herself that some
boys had taken to loafing here. But nobody in whom she was vitally
interested seemed in danger of acquiring the habit of using liquor just
because Lem Parraday sold it.
The ladies of the sewing society of the Union Church missed "Marm"
Parraday's brown face and vigorous tongue. It was said that she
strongly disapproved of the change at the Inn, but Lem had overruled
her for once.
"And, poor woman!" thought Janice now, "if she has to see such sights
as this about the Inn, I don't wonder that she is ashamed."
The train of her thought was broken at the moment, and her footsteps
stayed. Running across the street came a tiny girl, on whose bare head
the Spring sunshine set a crown of gold. Such a wealth of tangled,
golden hair Janice had never before seen, and the flowerlike face
beneath it would have been very winsome indeed had it been clean.
She was a neglected-looking little creature; her patched clothing
needed repatching, her face and hands were begrimed, and----
"Goodness only knows when there was ever a comb in that hair!" sighed
Janice. "I would dearly love to clean her up and put something decent
to wear upon her, and----"
She did not finish her wish because of an unexpected happening. The
little girl came so blithely across the street only to run directly
into the wavering figure of the intoxicated Jim Narnay. She screamed
as Narnay seized her by one thin arm.
"What ye got there?" he demanded, hoarsely, trying to catch the other
tiny, clenched fist.
"Oh! don't do it! don't do it!" begged the child, trying her best to
slip away from his rough grasp.
"Ye got money, ye little sneak!" snarled the man, and he forced the
girl's hand open with a quick wrench and seized the dime she held.
He flung her aside as though she had been a wisp of straw, and she
would have fallen had not Janice caught her. Indignantly the older
girl faced the drunken ruffian.
"You wicked man! How can you? Give her back that money at once! Why,
you--you ought to be arrested!"
"Aw, g'wan!" growled the fellow. "It's my money."
He stumbled back into the lane again--without doubt making for the rear
door of the Inn barroom from which he had just come. The child was
sobbing.
"Wait!" exclaimed Janice, both eager and angry now. "Don't cry. I'll
get your ten cents back. I'll go right in and tell Mr. Parraday and
he'll make him give it up. At any rate he won't give him a drink for
it."
The child caught Janice's skirt with one grimy hand. "Don't--don't do
that, Miss," she said, soberly.
"Why not?"
"'Twon't do no good. Pop's all right when he's sober, and he'll be
sorry for this. I oughter kep' my eyes open. Ma told me to. I could
easy ha' dodged him if I'd been thinkin'. But--but that's all ma had
in the house and she needed the meal."
"He--he is your father?" gasped Janice.
"Oh, yes. I'm Sophie Narnay. That's pop. And he's all right when
he's sober," repeated the child.
Janice Day's indignation evaporated. Now she could feel only sympathy
for the little creature that was forced to acknowledge such a man for a
parent.
"Ma's goin' to be near 'bout distracted," Sophie pursued, shaking her
tangled head. "That's the only dime she had."
"Never mind," gasped Janice, feeling the tears very near to the
surface. "I'll let you have the dime you need. Is--is your papa
always like that?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no! He works in the woods sometimes. But since the
tavern's been open he's been drinkin' more. Ma says she hopes it'll
burn down," added Sophie, with perfect seriousness.
Suddenly Janice felt that she could echo that desire herself.
Ethically two wrongs do not make a right; but it is human nature to see
the direct way to the end and wish for it, not always regarding ethical
considerations. Janice became at that moment converted to the cause of
making Polktown a dry spot again on the State map.
"My dear!" she said, with her arm about the tangle-haired little
Sophie, "I am sorry for--for your father. Maybe we can all help him to
stop drinking. I--I hope he doesn't abuse you."
"He's awful good when he's sober," repeated the little thing,
wistfully. "But he ain't been sober much lately."
"How many are there of you, Sophie?"
"There's ma and me and Johnny and Eddie and the baby. We ain't named
the baby. Ma says she ain't sure we'll raise her and 'twould be no use
namin' her if she ain't going to be raised, would it?"
"No-o--perhaps not," admitted Janice, rather startled by this
philosophy. "Don't you have the doctor for her?"
"Once. But it costs money. And ma's so busy she can't drag clean up
the hill to Doc Poole's office very often. And then--well, there ain't
been much money since pop come out of the woods this Spring."
Her old-fashioned talk gave Janice a pretty clear insight into the
condition of affairs at the Narnay house. She asked the child where
she lived and learned the locality (down near the shore of Pine Cove)
and how to get to it. She made a mental note of this for a future
visit to the place.
"Here's another dime, Sophie," she said, finding the cleanest spot on
the little girl's cheek to kiss. "Your father's out of sight now, and
you can run along to the store and get the meal."
"You're a good 'un, Miss," declared Sophie, nodding. "Come and see the
baby. She's awful pretty, but ma says she's rickety. Good-bye."
The little girl was away like the wind, her broken shoes clattering
over the flagstones. Janice looked after her and sighed. There seemed
a sudden weight pressing upon her mind. The sunshine was dimmed; the
sweet odors of Spring lost their spice in her nostrils. Instead of
strolling down to the dock as she had intended, she turned about and,
with lagging step, took her homeward way.
The sight of this child's trouble, the thought of Narnay's weakness and
what it meant to his unfortunate family, brought to mind with crushing
force Janice's own trouble. And this personal trouble was from afar.
Amid the kaleidoscopic changes in Mexican affairs, Janice's father had
been laboring for three years and more to hold together the mining
properties conceded to him and his fellow-stockholders by the
administration of Porfirio Diaz. In the battle-ridden State of
Chihuahua Mr. Broxton Day was held a virtual prisoner, by first one
warring faction and then another.
At one time, being friendly with a certain chief of the belligerents,
Mr. Day had taken out ore and had had the mine in good running
condition. Some money had flowed into the coffers of the mining
company. Janice benefited in a way during this season of plenty.
Now, of late, the Yaquis had swept down from the mountains, Mr. Day's
laborers had run away, and his own life was placed in peril again. He
wrote little about his troubles to his daughter, living so far away in
the Vermont village, but his bare mention of conditions was sufficient
to spur Janice's imagination. She was anxious in the extreme.
"If Daddy would only come home on a visit as he had expected to this
Spring!" was the longing thought now in her mind. "Oh, dear me! What
matter if the season does change? It won't bring him back to me.
I'd--I'd sell my darling car and take the money and run away to him if
I dared!"
This was a desperate thought indeed, for the Kremlin automobile her
father had bought Janice the year before remained the apple of her eye.
That very morning Marty had rolled it out of the garage he and his
father had built for it, and started to overhaul it for his cousin.
Marty had become something of a mechanic since the arrival of the
Kremlin at the Day place.
The roads were fast drying up, and Marty promised that the car would
soon be in order. But the thought now served to inspire no
anticipation of pleasure in Janice's troubled mind.
She passed Major Price just at the foot of Hillside Avenue. The major
was Polktown's moneyed man--really the magnate of the village. His was
the largest house on the hill--a broad, high-pillared colonial mansion
with a great, shaded, sloping lawn in front. An important looking
house was the major's and the major was important looking, too.
But Janice noted more particularly than ever before that there were
many purple veins distinctly lined upon the major's nose and cheeks and
that his eyes were moist and wavering in their glance. He used a cane
with a flourish; but his legs had an unsteadiness that a cane could not
correct.
"Good day! Good day, Miss Janice! Happy to see you! Fine Spring
weather--yes, yes," he said, with great cordiality, removing his silk
hat. "Charming weather, indeed. It has tempted me out for a
walk--yes, yes!" and he rolled by, swinging his cane and bobbing his
head.
Janice knew that nowadays the major's walks always led him to the Lake
View Inn. Mrs. Price and Maggie did their best to hide the major's
missteps, but the children on the streets, seeing the local magnate
making heavy work of his journey back up the hill, would giggle and
follow on behind, an amused audience. This was another victim of the
change in Polktown's temperance situation.
Poor Major Price----
"Hi, Janice! Did you notice the 'still' the major's got on?" called
the cheerful voice of Marty, her cousin. "He's got more than he can
carry comfortably already; Walky Dexter will be taking him home again.
He did the other night."
"No, Marty! did he?" cried the troubled girl.
"Sure," chuckled Marty. "Walky says he thinks some of giving up the
express business and buyin' himself a hack. Some of these old soaks
around town will be glad to ride home under cover after a session at
Lem Parraday's place. Think of Walky as a 'nighthawk'!" and Marty, who
was a short, freckled-faced boy several years his cousin's junior, went
off into a spasm of laughter.
"Don't, Marty!" cried Janice, in horror. "Don't talk so lightly about
it! Why, it is dreadful!"
"What's dreadful? Walky getting a hack?"
"Be serious," commanded his cousin, who really had gained a great deal
of influence over the thoughtless Marty during the time she had lived
in Polktown. "Oh, Marty! I've just seen such a dreadful thing!"
"Hullo! What's that?" he asked, eyeing her curiously and ceasing his
laughter. He knew now that she was in earnest.
"That horrid old Jim Narnay--you know him?"
"Sure," agreed Marty, beginning to grin faintly again.
"He was intoxicated--really staggering drunk. And he came out of the
back door of the Inn, and some boys chased him out on to the street,
hooting after him. Perry Grimes and Sim Howell and some others. Old
enough to know better----"
"He, he!" chuckled Marty, exploding with laughter again. "Old Narnay's
great fun. One of the fellows the other day told him there was a brick
in his hat, and he took the old thing off to look into it to see if it
was true. Then he stood there and lectured us about being truthful.
He, he!"
"Oh, Marty!" ejaculated Janice, in horror. "You never! You don't!
You _can't_ be so mean!"
"Hi tunket!" exploded the boy. "What's the matter with you? What d'ye
mean? 'I never, I don't, I can't'! What sort of talk is that?"
"There's nothing funny about it," his cousin said sternly. "I want to
know if _you_ would mock at that poor man on the street?"
"At Narnay?"
"Yes."
"Why not?" demanded Marty. "He's only an old drunk. And he is great
fun."
"He--he is disgusting! He is horrid!" cried the girl earnestly. "He
is an awful, ruffianly creature, but he's nothing to laugh at. Listen,
Marty!" and vividly, with all the considerable descriptive powers that
she possessed, the girl repeated what had occurred when little Sophie
Narnay had run into her drunken parent on the street.
Marty was a boy, and not a thoughtful boy at all; but, as he listened,
the grin disappeared from his face and he did not look like laughing.
"Whew! The mean scamp!" was his comment. "Poor kid! Do you s'pose he
hurts her?"
"He hurts her--and her mother--and the two little boys--and that
unnamed baby--whenever he takes money to spend for drink. It doesn't
particularly matter whether he beats her. I don't think he does that,
or the child would not love him and make excuses for him. But tell me,
Marty Day! Is there anything funny in a man like that?"
"Whew!" admitted the boy. "It does look different when you think of it
that way. But some of these fellers that crook their elbows certainly
do funny stunts when they've had a few!"
"Marty Day!" cried Janice, clasping her hands, "I didn't notice it
before. But you even _talk_ differently from the way you used to.
Since the bar at the Inn has been open I believe you boys have got hold
of an entirely new brand of slang."
"Huh?" said Marty.
"Why, it is awful! I had been thinking that Mr. Parraday's license
only made a difference to himself and poor Marm Parraday and his
customers. But that is not so. Everybody in Polktown is affected by
the change. I am going to talk to Mr. Meddlar about it, or to Elder
Concannon. Something ought to be done."
"Hi tunket! There ye go!" chuckled Marty. "More _do something_
business. You'd better begin with Walky."
"Begin what with Walky?"
"Your temperance campaign, if that's what you mean," said the boy, more
soberly.
"Not Walky Dexter!" exclaimed Janice, amazed. "You don't mean the
liquor selling has done him harm?"
"Well," Marty said slowly, "Walky takes a drink now and then.
Sometimes the drummers he hauls trunks and sample-cases for give him a
drink. As long as he couldn't get it in town, Walky never bothered
with the stuff much. But he was a little elevated Saturday
night--that's right."
"Oh!" gasped Janice, for the town expressman was one of her oldest
friends in Polktown, and a man in whom she took a deep interest.
A slow grin dawned again on Marty's freckled countenance. "Ye ought to
hear him when he's had a drink or two. You called him 'Talkworthy'
Dexter; and he sure is some talky when he's been imbibing."
"Oh, Marty, that's dreadful!" and Janice sighed. "It's just wicked!
Polktown's been a sleepy place, but it's never been wicked before."
Her cousin looked at her admiringly. "Hi jinks, Janice! I bet you got
it in your mind to stir things up again. I can see it in your eyes.
You give Polktown its first clean-up day, and you've shook up the dry
bones in general all over the shop. There's going to be _something
doing_, I reckon, that'll make 'em all set up and take notice."
"You talk as though I were one of these awful female reformers the
funny papers tell about," Janice said, with a little laugh. "You see
nothing in my eyes, Marty, unless it's tears for poor little Sophie
Narnay."
The cousins arrived at the old Day house and entered the grass-grown
yard. It was an old-fashioned, homely place, a rambling farmhouse up
to which the village had climbed. There was plenty of shade, lush
grass beneath the trees, with crocuses and other Spring flowers peeping
from the beds about the front porch, and sweet peas already breaking
the soil at the side porch and pump-bench.
A smiling, cushiony woman met Janice at the door, while Marty went
whistling barnward, having the chores to do. Aunt 'Mira nowadays
usually had a smile for everybody, but for Janice always.
"Your uncle's home, Janice," she said, "and he brought the mail."
"Oh!" cried the girl, with a quick intake of breath. "A letter from
daddy?"
"Wal--I dunno," said the fleshy woman. "I reckon it must be. Yet it
don't look just like Brocky Day's hand of write. See--here 'tis. It's
from Mexico, anyway."
The girl seized the letter with a gasp. "It--it's the same stationery
he uses," she said, with a note of thankfulness. "I--I guess it's all
right. I'll run right up and read it."
She flew upstairs to her little room--her room that looked out upon the
beautiful lake. She could never bring herself to read over a letter
from her father first in the presence of the rest of the family. She
sat down without removing her hat and gloves, pulled a tiny hairpin
from the wavy lock above her ear and slit the thin, rice-paper
envelope. Two enclosures were shaken out into her lap.