and a helping hand. Mamie Bing was, after all, a good-hearted woman. By
this time, Mr. Baker had been told. He had kicked a hole in the long
looking-glass in Pauline's bedroom and flung a pot of rouge through the
window and scattered talcum powder all over the place and torn a new
silk gown into rags and burnt it in the kitchen stove and left the house
slamming the door behind him. Susan had gone to bed and he had probably
gone to the club or somewhere. Perhaps he would commit suicide. Of all
this, it is enough to say that for some hours there was abundant
occupation for the tender sympathies of Mrs. J. Patterson Bing. Before
she left, Mr. Baker had returned for luncheon and seemed to be quite
calm and self-possessed when he greeted her in the hall below stairs.
On entering her home, about one o'clock, Mrs. Bing received a letter
from the hand of Martha.
"Phyllis told me to give you this as soon as you returned," said the
girl.
"What does this mean?" Mrs. Bing whispered to herself, as she tore open
the envelope.
Her face grew pale and her hands trembled as she read the letter.
"_Dearest Mamma_," it began. "I am going to Hazelmead for luncheon
with Gordon King. I couldn't ask you because I didn't know where
you were. We have waited an hour. I am sure you wouldn't want me to
miss having a lovely time. I shall be home before five. Don't tell
father! He hates Gordon so.
"_Phyllis._"
"The boy who insulted her! My God!" Mrs. Bing exclaimed in a whisper.
She hurried to the door of the butler's pantry. Indignation was in the
sound of her footsteps.
"Martha!" she called.
Martha came.
"Tell James to bring the big car at once. I'm going to Hazelmead."
"Without luncheon?" the girl asked.
"Just give me a sandwich and I'll eat it in my hand."
"I want you to hurry," she said to James as she entered the glowing
limousine with the sandwich half consumed.
They drove at top speed over the smooth, state road to the mill city. At
half past two, Mrs. Bing alighted at the fashionable Gray Goose Inn
where the best people had their luncheon parties. She found Phyllis and
Gordon in a cozy alcove, sipping cognac and smoking cigarettes, with an
ice tub and a champagne bottle beside them. To tell the whole truth, it
was a timely arrival. Phyllis, with no notion of the peril of it, was
indeed having "a lovely time"--the time of her young life, in fact. For
half an hour, she had been hanging on the edge of the giddy precipice of
elopement. She was within one sip of a decision to let go.
Mrs. Bing was admirably cool. In her manner there was little to indicate
that she had seen the unusual and highly festive accessories. She sat
down beside them and said, "My dear, I was very lonely and thought I
would come and look you up. Is your luncheon finished?"
"Yes," said Phyllis.
"Then let us go and get into the car. We'll drop Mr. King at his home."
When at last they were seated in the limousine, the angry lady lifted
the brakes in a way of speaking.
"I am astonished that you would go to luncheon with this young man who
has insulted you," she said.
Phyllis began to cry.
Turning to young Gordon King, the indignant lady added: "I think you are
a disreputable boy. You must never come to my house again--_never_!"
He made no answer and left the car without a word at the door of the
King residence.
There were miles and miles of weeping on the way home. Phyllis had
recovered her composure but began again when her mother remarked, "I
wonder where you learned to drink champagne and cognac and smoke
cigarettes," as if her own home had not been a perfect academy of
dissipation. The girl sat in a corner, her eyes covered with her
handkerchief and the only words she uttered on the way home were these:
"Don't tell father!"
While this was happening, Mr. Baker confided his troubles to Judge
Crooker in the latter's office. The Judge heard him through and then
delivered another notable opinion, to wit: "There are many subjects on
which the judgment of the average man is of little value, but in the
matter of bringing up a daughter it is apt to be sound. Also there are
many subjects on which the judgment of the average woman may be trusted,
but in the matter of bringing up a daughter it is apt to be unsound. I
say this, after some forty years of observation."
"What is the reason?" Mr. Baker asked.
"Well, a daughter has to be prepared to deal with men," the Judge went
on. "The masculine temperament is involved in all the critical problems
of her life. Naturally the average man is pretty well informed on the
subject of men. You have prospered these late years. You have been so
busy getting rich that you have just used your home to eat and sleep in.
You can't do a home any good by eating and snoring and reading a paper
in it."
"My wife would have her own way there," said Baker.
"That doesn't alter the fact that you have neglected your home. You have
let things slide. You wore yourself out in this matter of money-getting.
You were tired when you got home at night--all in, as they say. The bank
was the main thing with you. I repeat that you let things slide at home
and the longer they slide the faster they slide when they're going down
hill. You can always count on that in a case of sliding. The young have
a taste for velocity and often it comes so unaccountably fast that they
don't know what to do with it, so they're apt to get their necks broken
unless there's some one to put on the brakes."
Mr. Emanuel Baker arose and began to stride up and down the room.
"Upon my word, Judge! I don't know what to do," he exclaimed.
"There's only one thing to do. Go and find the young people and give
them your blessing. If you can discover a spark of manhood in the
fellow, make the most of it. The chances are against that, but let us
hope for the best. Above all, I want you to be gentle with Pauline. You
are more to blame than she is."
"I don't see how I can spare the time, but I'll have to," said Baker.
"Time! Fiddlesticks!" the Judge exclaimed. "What a darn fool money
makes of a man! You have lost your sense of proportion, your
appreciation of values. Bill Pritchard used to talk that way to me. He
has been lying twenty years in his grave. He hadn't a minute to spare
until one day he fell dead--then leisure and lots of leisure it would
seem--and the business has doubled since he quit worrying about it. My
friend, you can not take a cent into Paradise, but the soul of Pauline
is a different kind of property. It might be a help to you there. Give
plenty of time to this job, and good luck to you."
The spirit of the old, dead days spoke in the voice of the Judge--spoke
with a kindly dignity. It had ever been the voice of Justice, tempered
with Mercy--the most feared and respected voice in the upper counties.
His grave, smooth-shaven face, his kindly gray eyes, his noble brow with
its crown of white hair were fitting accessories of the throne of
Justice and Mercy.
"I'll go this afternoon. Thank you, Judge!" said Baker, as he left the
office.
Pauline had announced in her letter that her husband's name was Herbert
Middleton. Mr. Baker sent a telegram to Pauline to apprise her of his
arrival in the morning. It was a fatherly message of love and good-will.
At the hotel in New York, Mr. Baker learned that Mr. and Mrs. Middleton
had checked out the day before. Nobody could tell him where they had
gone. One of the men at the porter's desk told of putting them in a
taxicab with their grips and a steamer trunk soon after luncheon. He
didn't know where they went. Mr. Baker's telegram was there unopened. He
called at every hotel desk in the city, but he could get no trace of
them. He telephoned to Mrs. Baker. She had heard nothing from Pauline.
In despair, he went to the Police Department and told his story to the
Chief.
"It looks as if there was something crooked about it," said the Chief.
"There are many cases like this. Just read that."
The officer picked up a newspaper clipping, which lay on his desk, and
passed it to Mr. Baker. It was from the _New York Evening Post_. The
banker read aloud this startling information:
"'The New York police report that approximately 3600 girls have run
away or disappeared from their homes in the past eleven months, and
the Bureau of Missing Persons estimates that the number who have
disappeared throughout the country approximates 68,000.'"
"It's rather astonishing," the Chief went on. "The women seem to have
gone crazy these days. Maybe it's the new dancing and the movies that
are breaking down the morals of the little suburban towns or maybe it's
the excitement of the war. Anyhow, they keep the city supplied with
runaways and vamps. You are not the first anxious father I have seen
to-day. You can go home. I'll put a man on the case and let you know
what happens."
CHAPTER THREE
WHICH TELLS OF THE COMPLAINING COIN AND THE MAN WHO LOST HIS SELF
There was a certain gold coin in a little bureau drawer in Bingville
which began to form a habit of complaining to its master.
"How cold I am!" it seemed to say to the boy. "I was cold when you put
me in here and I have been cold ever since. Br-r-r! I'm freezing."
Bob Moran took out the little drawer and gave it a shaking as he looked
down at the gold piece.
"Don't get rattled," said the redoubtable Mr. Bloggs, who had a great
contempt for cowards.
It was just after the Shepherd of the Birds had heard of a poor widow
who was the mother of two small children and who had fallen sick of the
influenza with no fuel in her house.
"I am cold, too!" said the Shepherd.
"Why, of course you are," the coin answered. "That's the reason I'm
cold. A coin is never any warmer than the heart of its owner. Why don't
you take me out of here and give me a chance to move around?"
Things that would not say a word to other boys often spoke to the
Shepherd.
"Let him go," said Mr. Bloggs.
Indeed it was the tin soldier, who stood on his little shelf looking out
of the window, who first reminded Bob of the loneliness and discomfort
of the coin. As a rule whenever the conscience of the boy was touched
Mr. Bloggs had something to say.
It was late in February and every one was complaining of the cold. Even
the oldest inhabitants of Bingville could not recall so severe a
winter. Many families were short of fuel. The homes of the working folk
were insufficiently heated. Money in the bank had given them a sense of
security. They could not believe that its magic power would fail to
bring them what they needed. So they had been careless of their
allowance of wood and coal. There were days when they had none and could
get none at the yard. Some of them took boards out of their barn floors
and cut down shade trees and broke up the worst of their furniture to
feed the kitchen stove in those days of famine. Some men with hundreds
of dollars in the bank went out into the country at night and stole
rails off the farmers' fences. The homes of these unfortunate people
were ravaged by influenza and many died.
Prices at the stores mounted higher. Most of the gardens had been lying
idle. The farmers had found it hard to get help. Some of the latter,
indeed, had decided that they could make more by teaming at Millerton
than by toiling in the fields, and with less effort. They left the boys
and the women to do what they could with the crops. Naturally the latter
were small. So the local sources of supply had little to offer and the
demand upon the stores steadily increased. Certain of the merchants had
been, in a way, spoiled by prosperity. They were rather indifferent to
complaints and demands. Many of the storekeepers, irritated, doubtless,
by overwork, had lost their former politeness. The two butchers, having
prospered beyond their hopes, began to feel the need of rest. They cut
down their hours of labor and reduced their stocks and raised their
prices. There were days when their supplies failed to arrive. The
railroad service had been bad enough in times of peace. Now, it was
worse than ever.
Those who had plenty of money found it difficult to get a sufficient
quantity of good food, Bingville being rather cut off from other centers
of life by distance and a poor railroad. Some drove sixty miles to
Hazelmead to do marketing for themselves and their neighbors.
Mr. and Mrs. J. Patterson Bing, however, in their luxurious apartment at
the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York, knew little of these conditions
until Mr. Bing came up late in March for a talk with the mill
superintendent. Many of the sick and poor suffered extreme privation.
Father O'Neil and the Reverend Otis Singleton of the Congregational
Church went among the people, ministering to the sick, of whom there
were very many, and giving counsel to men and women who were
unaccustomed to prosperity and ill-qualified wisely to enjoy it. One
day, Father O'Neil saw the Widow Moran coming into town with a great
bundle of fagots on her back.
"This looks a little like the old country," he remarked.
She stopped and swung her fagots to the ground and announced: "It do
that an' may God help us! It's hard times, Father. In spite o' all the
money, it's hard times. It looks like there wasn't enough to go
'round--the ships be takin' so many things to the old country."
"How is my beloved Shepherd?" the good Father asked.
"Mother o' God! The house is that cold, he's been layin' abed for a week
an' Judge Crooker has been away on the circuit."
"Too bad!" said the priest. "I've been so busy with the sick and the
dying and the dead I have hardly had time to think of you."
Against her protest, he picked up the fagots and carried them on his own
back to her kitchen.
He found the Shepherd in a sweater sitting up in bed and knitting socks.
"How is my dear boy?" the good Father asked.
"Very sad," said the Shepherd. "I want to do something to help and my
legs are useless."
"Courage!" Mr. Bloggs seemed to shout from his shelf at the window-side
and just then he assumed a most valiant and determined look as he added:
"Forward! march!"
Father O'Neil did what he could to help in that moment of peril by
saying:
"Cheer up, boy. I'm going out to Dan Mullin's this afternoon and I'll
make him bring you a big load of wood. I'll have you back at your work
to-morrow. The spring will be coming soon and your flock will be back in
the garden."
It was not easy to bring a smile to the face of the little Shepherd
those days. A number of his friends had died and others were sick and he
was helpless. Moreover, his mother had told him of the disappearance of
Pauline and that her parents feared she was in great trouble. This had
worried him, and the more because his mother had declared that the girl
was probably worse than dead. He could not quite understand it and his
happy spirit was clouded. The good Father cheered him with merry jests.
Near the end of their talk the boy said: "There's one thing in this room
that makes me unhappy. It's that gold piece in the drawer. It does
nothing but lie there and shiver and talk to me. Seems as if it
complained of the cold. It says that it wants to move around and get
warm. Every time I hear of some poor person that needs food or fuel, it
calls out to me there in the little drawer and says, 'How cold I am! How
cold I am!' My mother wishes me to keep it for some time of trouble that
may come to us, but I can't. It makes me unhappy. Please take it away
and let it do what it can to keep the poor people warm."
"Well done, boys!" Mr. Bloggs seemed to say with a look of joy as if he
now perceived that the enemy was in full retreat.
"There's no worse company, these days, than a hoarded coin," said the
priest. "I won't let it plague you any more."
Father O'Neil took the coin from the drawer. It fell from his fingers
with a merry laugh as it bounded on the floor and whirled toward the
doorway like one overjoyed and eager to be off.
"God bless you, my boy! May it buy for you the dearest wish of your
heart."
"Ha ha!" laughed the little tin soldier for he knew the dearest wish of
the boy far better than the priest knew it.
Mr. Singleton called soon after Father O'Neil had gone away.
"The top of the morning to you!" he shouted, as he came into Bob's room.
"It's all right top and bottom," Bob answered cheerfully.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" the minister went on. "I'm a
regular Santa Claus this morning. I've got a thousand dollars that Mr.
Bing sent me. It's for any one that needs help."
"We'll be all right as soon as our load of wood comes. It will be here
to-morrow morning," said the Shepherd.
"I'll come and cut and split it for you," the minister proposed. "The
eloquence of the axe is better than that of the tongue these days.
Meanwhile, I'm going to bring you a little jag in my wheelbarrow. How
about beefsteak and bacon and eggs and all that?"
"I guess we've got enough to eat, thank you." This was not quite true,
for Bob, thinking of the sick, whose people could not go to market, was
inclined to hide his own hunger.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed Mr. Bloggs, for he knew very well that the boy was
hiding his hunger.
"Do you call that a lie?" the Shepherd asked as soon as the minister had
gone.
"A little one! But in my opinion it don't count," said Mr. Bloggs. "You
were thinking of those who need food more than you and that turns it
square around. I call it a golden lie--I do."
The minister had scarcely turned the corner of the street, when he met
Hiram Blenkinsop, who was shivering along without an overcoat, the dog
Christmas at his heels.
Mr. Singleton stopped him.
"Why, man! Haven't you an overcoat?" he asked.
"No, sir! It's hangin' on a peg in a pawn-shop over in Hazelmead. It
ain't doin' the peg any good nor me neither!"
"Well, sir, you come with me," said the minister. "It's about dinner
time, anyway, and I guess you need lining as well as covering."
The drunkard looked into the face of the minister.
"Say it ag'in," he muttered.
"I wouldn't wonder if a little food would make you feel better," Mr.
Singleton added.
"A little, did ye say?" Blenkinsop asked.
"Make it a lot--as much as you can accommodate."
"And do ye mean that ye want me to go an' eat in yer house?"
"Yes, at my table--why not?"
"It wouldn't be respectable. I don't want to be too particular but a
tramp must draw the line somewhere."
"I'll be on my best behavior. Come on," said the minister.
The two men hastened up the street followed by the dejected little
yellow dog, Christmas.
Mrs. Singleton and her daughter were out with a committee of the
Children's Helpers and the minister was dining alone that day and, as
usual, at one o'clock, that being the hour for dinner in the village of
Bingville.
"Tell me about yourself," said the minister as they sat down at the
table.
"Myself--did you say?" Hiram Blenkinsop asked as one of his feet crept
under his chair to conceal its disreputable appearance, while his dog
had partly hidden himself under a serving table where he seemed to be
shivering with apprehension as he peered out, with raised hackles, at
the stag's head over the mantel.
"Yes."
"I ain't got any _Self_, sir; it's all gone," said Blenkinsop, as he
took a swallow of water.
"A man without any Self is a curious creature," the minister remarked.
"I'm as empty as a woodpecker's hole in the winter time. The bird has
flown. I belong to this 'ere dog. He's a poor dog. I'm all he's got. If
he had to pay a license on me I'd have to be killed. He's kind to me.
He's the only friend I've got."
Hiram Blenkinsop riveted his attention upon an old warming-pan that hung
by the fireplace. He hardly looked at the face of the minister.
"How did you come to lose your Self?" the latter asked.
"Married a bad woman and took to drink. A man's Self can stand cold an'
hunger an' shipwreck an' loss o' friends an' money an' any quantity o'
bad luck, take it as it comes, but a bad woman breaks the works in him
an' stops his clock dead. Leastways, it done that to me!"
"She is like an arrow in his liver," the minister quoted. "Mr.
Blenkinsop, where do you stay nights?"
"I've a shake-down in the little loft over the ol' blacksmith shop on
Water Street. There are cracks in the gable, an' the snow an' the wind
blows in, an' the place is dark an' smells o' coal gas an' horses' feet,
but Christmas an' I snug up together an' manage to live through the
winter. In hot weather, we sleep under a tree in the ol' graveyard an'
study astronomy. Sometimes, I wish I was there for good."
"Wouldn't you like a bed in a comfortable house?"
"No. I couldn't take the dog there an' I'd have to git up like other
folks."
"Would you think that a hardship?"
"Well, ye see, sir, if ye're layin' down ye ain't hungry. Then, too, I
likes to dilly-dally in bed."
"What may that mean?" the minister asked.
"I likes to lay an' think an' build air castles."
"What kind of castles?"
"Well, sir, I'm thinkin' often o' a time when I'll have a grand suit o'
clothes, an' a shiny silk tile on my head, an' a roll o' bills in my
pocket, big enough to choke a dog, an' I'll be goin' back to the town
where I was brought up an' I'll hire a fine team an' take my ol' mother
out for a ride. An' when we pass by, people will be sayin': 'That's
Hiram Blenkinsop! Don't you remember him? Born on the top floor o' the
ol' sash mill on the island. He's a multi-millionaire an' a great man.
He gives a thousand to the poor every day. Sure, he does!'"
"Blenkinsop, I'd like to help you to recover your lost Self and be a
useful and respected citizen of this town," said Mr. Singleton. "You can
do it if you will and I can tell you how."
Tears began to stream down the cheeks of the unfortunate man, who now
covered his eyes with a big, rough hand.
"If you will make an honest effort, I'll stand by you. I'll be your
friend through thick and thin," the minister added. "There's something
good in you or you wouldn't be having a dream like that."
"Nobody has ever talked to me this way," poor Blenkinsop sobbed. "Nobody
but you has ever treated me as if I was human."
"I know--I know. It's a hard old world, but at last you've found a man
who is willing to be a brother to you if you really want one."
The poor man rose from the table and went to the minister's side and
held out his hand.
"I do want a brother, sir, an' I'll do anything at all," he said in a
broken voice.
"Then come with me," the minister commanded. "First, I'm going to
improve the outside of you."
When they were ready to leave the house, Blenkinsop and his dog had had
a bath and the former was shaved and in clean and respectable garments
from top to toe.
"You look like a new man," said Mr. Singleton.
"Seems like, I felt more like a proper human bein'," Blenkinsop
answered.
Christmas was scampering up and down the hall as if he felt like a new
dog. Suddenly he discovered the stag's head again and slunk into a dark
corner growling.
"A bath is a good sort of baptism," the minister remarked. "Here's an
overcoat that I haven't worn for a year. It's fairly warm, too. Now if
your Old Self should happen to come in sight of you, maybe he'd move
back into his home. I remember once that we had a canary bird that got
away. We hung his cage in one of the trees out in the yard with some
food in it. By and by, we found him singing on the perch in his little
home. Now, if we put some good food in the cage, maybe your bird will
come back. Our work has only just begun."
They went out of the door and crossed the street and entered the big
stone Congregational Church and sat down together in a pew. A soft light
came through the great jeweled windows above the altar, and in the
clearstory, and over the organ loft. They were the gift of Mr. Bing. It
was a quiet, restful, beautiful place.
"I used to stand in the pulpit there and look down upon a crowd of
handsomely dressed people," said Mr. Singleton in a low voice. "'There
is something wrong about this,' I thought. 'There's too much
respectability here. There are no flannel shirts and gingham dresses in
the place. I can not see half a dozen poor people. I wish there was some
ragged clothing down there in the pews. There isn't an out-and-out
sinner in the crowd. Have we set up a little private god of our own that
cares only for the rich and respectable?' I asked myself. 'This is the
place for Hiram Blenkinsop and old Bill Lang and poor Lizzie Quesnelle,
if they only knew it. Those are the kind of people that Jesus cared most
about.' They're beginning to come to us now and we are glad of it. I
want to see you here every Sunday after this. I want you to think of
this place as your home. If you really wish to be my brother, come with
me."
Blenkinsop trembled with strange excitement as he went with Mr.
Singleton down the broad aisle, the dog Christmas following meekly. Man
and minister knelt before the altar. Christmas sat down by his master's
side, in a prayerful attitude, as if he, too, were seeking help and
forgiveness.