A MEETING WITH AN OLD FRIEND
The day of the excursion to Northampton was one of those clear mornings
when a light frost turned the maples to vermilion and in a single night
transformed the ripening summer foliage to the splendor of autumn. The
Tolman family were in the highest spirits; it was not often that Mr.
Tolman could be persuaded to leave his business and steal away for a
week-end and when he did it was always a cause for great rejoicing.
Doris, elated at the prospect of rejoining her college friends, was also
in the happiest frame of mind and tripped up and down stairs, collecting
her forgotten possessions and jamming them into her already bulging
suitcase.
As for Steve, the prickings of conscience that had at first tormented
him and made him shrink from being left alone with his father had quite
vanished. He had argued himself into a state of mental tranquility
where further punishment for his misdemeanor seemed superfluous. After
his hairbreadth escape from disaster there was no danger, he argued, of
his repeating the experiment, and was not this the very lesson all
punishments sought to instill? If he had achieved this result without
bothering his father about the details, why so much the better. Did not
the old adage say that "experience is the best teacher"? Certainly in
this case the maxim held true.
Having thus excused his under-handedness and stifled the protests of his
better nature he felt, or tried to feel, entirely at peace with the
world; and as he now sauntered out to greet the new day he did it as
jauntily as if he had nothing to conceal. Already the car was at the
door with the luggage aboard and its engine humming invitingly. As the
boy listened to the sound he could not but rejoice that the purring
monster could tell no tales. How disconcerting it would be should the
scarlet devil suddenly shout aloud: "Well, Steve, don't you hope we do
not get stalled to-day the way we did going to Torrington?" Mercifully
there was no danger of that. The engine might puff and purr and snort
but at least it could not talk, and his secret was quite safe. This
reflection lighted his face with courage and when the family came out to
join him no one would have suspected that the slender boy waiting on the
doorstep harbored a thought of anything but anticipation in the prospect
of the coming holiday.
"Is everything in, Steve?" asked his father, approaching with Doris's
remaining grip.
"I think so, Dad," was the reply. "It certainly seems as if I had piled
in almost a dozen suitcases."
"Nonsense, Stevie," pouted Doris. "There were only four."
"Five, Miss Sophomore!" contradicted her brother. "Five! That one Dad is
bringing makes the fifth, and I would be willing to bet that it is
yours."
"That's where you are wrong, Smartie," the girl laughed good-humoredly,
making a mischievous grimace at him from beneath the brim of her saucy
little toque of blue velvet. "I am not guilty of the extra suitcase.
It's mother's."
"Your mother's!" ejaculated Mr. Tolman incredulously. "Mercy on us! I
never knew your mother to be starting out on a short trip with such an
array of gowns." Then turning toward his wife, he added in bantering
fashion: "Aren't you getting a little frivolous, my dear? If it were
Doris now--"
"But it isn't this time!" interrupted the young lady triumphantly.
Her mother exchanged a glance with her and they both laughed.
"No, Henry, I am the one to blame," Mrs. Tolman admitted. "You see, if I
am to keep pace with my big son and daughter I must look my best; so I
have not only brought the extra suitcase but I am going to be
tremendously fussy as to where it is put."
"I do believe Mater's brought all her jewels with her!" Steve declared
wickedly. "Well, she shall have her sunbursts, tiaras, and things where
she can keep her eye on them every moment. Suppose I put them down here
at your feet, Mother."
Without further ado, he started to lift the basket suitcase into the
car.
"Don't tip it up, son. Don't tip it up!" cautioned his mother.
"Your mother is afraid of knocking some of the pearls or emeralds out of
their setting," chuckled Mr. Tolman. "Go easy, Steve!"
A general laugh arose as the offending piece of baggage was stowed away
out of sight. An instant later wraps and rugs were bundled in, everybody
was cosily tucked up, and Mr. Tolman placed his hands on the wheel.
"Now we're off, Dad!" cried Stephen, as he sprang in beside his father.
Mr. Tolman needed no second bidding.
There was a whir, a leap forward, and the automobile glided down the
long avenue and out into the highway.
Steve, studying the road map, was too much interested in tracing out the
route they were to follow to notice that after the car had spun along
smoothly for several miles its speed lessened, and it was not until it
came to a complete standstill that he aroused himself from his
preoccupation sufficiently to see that his father was bending forward
over the starter.
"What's wrong, Henry?" inquired his wife from the back seat.
"I can't imagine," was the impatient reply. "Had I not left the tank
with gasoline in it, I should say it was empty; but of course that
cannot be the case, for I always keep enough in it to carry us to the
garage. Otherwise we should be stalled at our own doorstep and not able
to get anywhere."
Climbing out, he began to unscrew the metal top of the tank while
Stephen watched him in consternation.
The boy did not need to hear the result of the investigation for already
the wretched truth flashed upon him. The tank was empty; of course it
was! He knew that without being told. Had not the workman who had
replenished it Wednesday said quite plainly that there was only enough
gas in it to get him home to Coventry? He should have remembered to stop
at the garage and take on an extra supply on the way back as his father
always did. How stupid he had been! In his haste to get home he had
forgotten every other consideration and the present dilemma was the
result of his thoughtlessness. Yet how could he have stopped at the
Coventry garage even had he thought of it? All the men there knew him
and his father, and if he had gone there or had even driven through the
center of the town somebody would have been sure to see him and mention
the incident. Why, it was to avoid this very danger that he had returned
by the less frequented way.
The man in the brown jeans had certainly calculated to a nicety when he
measured out that gasoline. He had not meant him to do any more riding
that day; that was apparent. What business was it of his, anyway, and
why was he so solicitous as to where he went? There was something
puzzling about that man. Steve had thought so at the time. Not that it
mattered now. All that did matter was that here they were stalled at the
side of the road in almost the same spot where he had been stalled the
other day; and they were there because he had neglected to procure
gasoline.
The lad felt the hot blood throb in his cheeks. Again the chance for
confession confronted him and again his tongue was tied. In a word he
could have explained the whole predicament; but he did not. Instead he
sat as if stunned, the heart inside him pounding violently. He saw that
his father was not only deeply annoyed but baffled to solve the
incident.
"The gas is all out; that's the trouble!" he announced.
"What are we going to do, Dad?" inquired Doris anxiously.
"Oh, we can get more all right, daughter," returned her father
reassuringly. "Don't worry, my dear. But what I can't understand is how
we come to be in such a plight."
"Doesn't gasoline evaporate, Henry?" suggested Mrs. Tolman.
"To some extent, yes; but there could be no such shrinkage as this
unless there was a leak in the tank. I never dreamed the supply was so
low. Well, it is my own fault. I should have made sure everything was
right before we started."
Steve shifted his position uncomfortably. He was manly enough not to
enjoy hearing his father shoulder blame that did not rightfully belong
to him.
"Now let me think what we had better do," went on Mr. Tolman.
"Unfortunately there isn't a house in sight from which we can telephone
for help; and we are fully five miles from Torrington. Our only hope is
that some one bound for the town may overtake us and allow Steve to ride
to the village for aid."
"Couldn't I walk it, Dad?" asked the boy, with an impulse to make good
the mischief he had done.
"Oh, no; I wouldn't do that unless the worst befalls," his father
replied kindly. "We should gain nothing. It is a long tramp and would
simply be a waste of time. Let us wait like Mr. Micawber, and see if
something does not turn up."
Wretchedly Stephen settled back into his seat. He would rather have
walked to Torrington, done almost anything rather than remain there in
the quiet autumn stillness and listen to the accusations of his
conscience. What a coward he was!
"It is a shame for us to be tied up here!" he heard Doris complain.
"I know it, daughter, and I am as sorry as you are," responded her
father patiently. "In fact, probably, I am more sorry, since it is
through my own carelessness that we are stranded."
Again the impulse to blurt out the truth and take the blame that
belonged to him took possession of Stephen; but with resolution he
forced it back. Nervously he fingered the road map. If he had only
spoken at the beginning! It was harder now. He should have made a clean
breast of the whole affair when his father got home from New York. Then
was the time to have done it. But since he had let that opportunity pass
it was awkward, almost absurd, to make confession now. He would much
better keep still.
In the meanwhile a gradual depression fell upon the occupants of the
car. Mrs. Tolman did not speak; Doris subsided into hushed annoyance;
and Mr. Tolman began to pace back and forth at the side of the road and
anxiously scan the stretch of macadam that narrowed away between the
avenue of trees bordering the highway. Presently he uttered an
exclamation of relief.
"Here comes a truck!" he cried. "We will tip the driver and persuade him
to let you ride on to Torrington with him, Steve. This is great luck!"
Stepping into the pathway of the approaching car he held up his hand and
the passer-by came to a stop beside him.
Stephen looked up expectantly; then a thrill of foreboding seized him
and he quickly turned his head aside. It needed no second glance to
assure him that the man whom his father was addressing was none other
than the workman in the brown jeans who had rescued him from his former
plight. He bent lower over the road map, trying to conceal his face and
decide what to do. In another moment the teamster would probably
recognize him, recall the incident of their former meeting, and hailing
him as an old acquaintance, relate the entire story. The possibility was
appalling, but terrible as it was it did not equal the disquietude he
experienced when he heard his father ejaculate with sudden surprise:
"Why, if it isn't O'Malley! I did not recognize you, Jake. You are just
in time to extricate us from a most inconvenient situation. We are
headed for Northampton and find ourselves without gasoline. If you can
take my son along to Torrington with you so he can hunt up a garage and
ride back with some one on a service car I shall be very grateful to
you."
"I'd be glad to go myself, sir."
"No, no! I shall not allow you to do that," protested Mr. Tolman. "You
are on your way to work and I could not think of detaining you. All I
ask is that you take my boy along to the village."
"I'd really be pleased to go, sir," reiterated O'Malley. "I am in no
great rush."
"No, I shan't hear to it, Jake," Mr. Tolman repeated. "Nevertheless I
appreciate your offer. Take the boy along and that is all I'll ask.
Come, Steve, jump aboard! O'Malley, son, is one of our railroad people,
whose services we value highly. He is going to be good enough to let you
ride over to Torrington with him."
Although the introduction compelled Stephen to give the waiting employee
a nod of greeting, he did not meet his eye or evince any sign of
recognition, and he sensed that the light that had flashed into the
man's face at sight of him died out as quickly as it had come. The boy
had an uncomfortable realization as he climbed to the seat of the truck
and took his place beside its driver that O'Malley must be rating him as
a snob. No one but a cad would accept a stranger's kindness and then cut
him dead the next time he encountered him. It was better to endure this
misjudgment, however, than to acknowledge a previous acquaintance with
the mechanic and thereby arouse his father's suspicion and curiosity.
Hence, without further parley, he settled himself and in silence the
truck started off.
For some minutes he waited, expecting that when they were well out of
earshot of the family the man at the wheel would turn and with a laugh
make some reference to the adventure of the past week. It certainly must
have amused him to find the great red car again stalled in the same
spot, and what would be more natural than that he should comment on the
coincidence and perhaps make a joke of the circumstance? But to the
boy's chagrin the teamster did no such thing. Instead he kept his eyes
fixed on the road and gave no evidence that he had ever before seen the
lad at his elbow.
Stephen was aghast. It was not possible the workman had forgotten the
happening. He began to feel very uncomfortable. As the landscape slipped
past and the car sped on, the distance to Torrington lessened. Still
there seemed to be no prospect of the stranger at the wheel breaking his
silence. If it had merely been a silence perhaps Steve would not have
minded so much; but there was an implied rebuke in the stillness that
nettled and stung and left him with a consciousness of being ignored by
a superior being.
"I say!" he burst out, when he could endure the ignominy of his position
no longer, "don't you remember me, Mr. O'Malley?"
The man who guided the car did not turn his head but he nodded.
"I remember you all right," replied he politely. "I just thought you did
not remember me."
"Oh, I remembered you right away," declared Steve eagerly.
"Did you?"
There was a subtle irony in the tone that the lad was not clever enough
to detect.
"Of course."
"Is that so!" came dryly from O'Malley.
"Yes, indeed! I remembered you right away," Steve stumbled on. "You are
the man who gave me the gasoline when I was stuck here Wednesday."
"I am."
"I knew you the first minute I saw you," repeated Stephen.
"I did not notice any sign that you did," was the terse response.
"Oh--well--you see, I couldn't very well speak back there," explained
Steve with confusion. "They would all have wanted to know where I--I
mean I would have to--it would just have made a lot of talk," concluded
he lamely.
For the first time the elder man, moving his eyes from the ribbon of
gleaming highway, confronted him.
"So your father did not know you had the car out the other day?" said
he.
"N--o."
The workman showed no surprise.
"I guessed as much," he remarked. "But of course you have told him
since."
"Not yet," Steve stammered. "I was going to--honest I was; but things
kept interrupting until it got to be so late that it seemed silly to
rake the matter all up. Besides, I shan't do it again, so what is the
use of jawing about it?"
He stopped, awaiting a response from the railroad employee; but none
came.
"Anyhow," he argued with rising irritability, "what good does it do to
discuss things that are over and done with? You can't undo them."
The man at the wheel vouchsafed no answer.
"It is because I forgot to stop for more gas when I went home the other
day that we are in this fix now," Steve finally blurted out, finding
relief in brutal confession.
Still the only reply to his monologue was the chugging of the engine.
At last his voice rose to a higher pitch and there was anger in it.
"I'm talking to you," he shouted in exasperation.
"I am listening."
"Well, why don't you say something?"
"What is there to say?"
"Why--eh--you could tell me what you think."
"I guess you know that already."
Stephen's face turned scarlet.
"I did intend to tell my father," repeated he, instantly on the
defensive. "Straight goods, I did."
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"It was only that it didn't seem to come right. You know how things go
sometimes."
He saw the workman's lip curl.
"You think I ought to have told."
"Have I said so?"
"No, but I know you do think so."
"I wasn't aware I'd expressed any opinion."
"No--but--well--hang it all--you think I am a coward for not making a
clean breast of the whole thing!" cried Stephen, now thoroughly enraged.
"What do you think yourself?" O'Malley suddenly inquired with
disconcerting directness.
"Oh, I know I've been rotten," admitted the boy. "Still, even now--" He
paused.
"You mean that even now it isn't too late?" put in the truckman, his
face lighting to a smile.
"N--o; that wasn't exactly what I was going to say," began the lad,
resuming his argumentative tone. "What I mean is that--"
A swift frown replaced the elder man's smile.
"Here we are at the garage," he broke in. "They will do whatever you
want them to."
He seemed in a hurry and as Stephen could find no excuse for lingering
he climbed reluctantly out of the truck and stood balancing himself on
the curb that edged the sidewalk.
"I'm much obliged to you for bringing me over," he observed awkwardly.
"That's all right."
The man in the brown jeans started his engine.
"Say, Mr. O'Malley!" called Stephen desperately.
"Well?"
"You--you--won't tell my father about my taking the car, will you?" he
pleaded wretchedly.
"_I_ tell him?"
Never had he heard so much scorn compressed into three words.
"You need have no worries," declared the man over his shoulder, a
contemptuous sneer curling his lips. "I confess my own wrong-doing but I
do not tattle the sins of other people. Your father will never be the
wiser about you so far as I am concerned. Whatever you want him to know
you will have to tell him yourself."
Baffled, mortified, and stinging with humiliation as if he had been
whipped, Stephen watched him disappear round the bend of the road.
O'Malley despised him, that he knew; and he did not at all relish being
despised.