THE shed that held the machine shop and garage fronted upon an informal
lane skirting the verdurous border of the town. Beyond the fence
opposite a broad pasturage dipped and rose to the blackened ruins of
a considerable brick mansion, now tenanted by a provident colony of
Italians; further hill topped green hill, the orchards drawn like
silvery scarves about their shoulders, undulating to the sky. Back of
the shed ranged the red roofs and tree-tops of the town.
When Anthony arrived at the seat of his industry the grass was flashing
with dew and the air a thrill with the buoyant piping of robins. He
found the door open, and Alfred Craik awaiting him.
“She's gone,” Alfred informed him.
“Sam told me last night; it was your infernal tinkering... you can't let
a machine alone,” Anthony dropped beside the other on the door sill.
“Could we get another car, do you think?” Alfred demanded; “I had almost
finished a humming experiment on Sam's.”
“This garage is closed,” Anthony pronounced; “it's out of existence. The
family are yelping for the screwdrivers. What do we owe?”
“Three ninety to Feedler for 'gas,' and a month's rent.”
“We're bankrupt,” the other immediately declared. He rose, and proceeded
to collect the tools that littered the floor; then he removed the sign,
“Ball and Craik. Machine Shop and Garage.”, from the door, and the shed
relapsed into its nondescript, somnolent decay.
“There's a game with Honeydale to-day,” Anthony resumed his seat; “I'm
to pitch that, and another Saturday; and, hear me, boy, I need the
money.”
Alfred gazed over the orchards, beyond the hills, into the sky, and made
no answer. It was evident that he was lost in a vision of gloriously
disrupted machinery. His silence spread to Anthony, who settled back
with a cigarette into the drowsy stillness. The minutes passed, hovering
like bees, and merged into an hour. They could hear a horse champing in
the pasture; the wail of an Italian infant came to them thinly across
the green; behind them sounded mellow the tin horn of the shad vendor.
Anthony roused himself reluctantly, recalling the debt he had to
discharge at the drugstore. Elbe's crisp five dollar bill lay in his
pocket. “Later,” he nodded, and made his way over the shady brick
pavements, through the cool perspective of maple-lined streets, where
summer dresses fluttered in spots of subdued, bright color, to Doctor
Allhop's. The Doctor was absent, and Anthony tendered the money, with a
short explanation, to the clerk. The latter smartly rang the amount on
the cash register, and placed thirty cents on the counter.
“Two packs of Dulcinas,” Anthony required, and dropped the cigarettes
into his pocket. He made his way in a leisurely fashion toward home and
the midday meal. At the table his mother's keen grey eyes regarded him
with affectionate concern. “How do you feel, Tony?” she asked. “You were
coughing last night... take such wretched care of yourself--” His father
glanced up from the half-masted sheet of the Ellerton _Bugle_. He was a
spare man, of few words, with a square-cut beard about the lower part
of an austere countenance. “What's the matter with him?” he demanded
crisply.
“Nothing,” Anthony hastily protested; “you ought to know mother.”
After lunch he extended himself smoking on the horsehair sofa in the
front room. It was a spacious chamber, with a polished floor, and
well-worn, comfortable chairs; in a corner a lacquered table bore old
blue Canton china; by the door a jar of roses dropped their pink petals;
over the fireplace a tall mirror held all in silvery replica.
“Thirty cents, please,” Ellie demanded; “I must get some stamps.”
A wave of conscious guilt, angry self condemnation, swept over him. “I'm
sorry, Ellie,” he admitted; “I haven't got it.”
She stood regarding him for a moment with cold disapproval. She was a
slender woman, past thirty, with dark, regular features and tranquil
eyes; carelessly dressed, her hair slipped over her shoulder in a cool
plait.
“I am sorry,” he repeated, “I didn't think.”
“But it wasn't yours.”
“You'll get every pretty penny of it.” He rose and in orderly discretion
sought his room, where he changed into his worn, grey playing flannels.