HAROLD AND THE DIAMONDS.
When Harold sprang upon the train as it was moving from the station and
entered the rear car, he found Billy and Peterkin near the door, the
latter button-holing Judge St. Claire, to whom he was talking loudly and
angrily of Wilson, who had brought the suit against him.
"Yes, yes, I see; I know; but all that will come out on the trial," the
judge said, trying to silence him.
But Peterkin held on, until his eye caught Harold, when he at once let
the judge go, and seating himself by the young man, began in a soft,
coaxing tone for him:
"I don't see why in thunder you are goin' agin me, who have allus been
your friend, and gin you work when you couldn't git it any wheres else;
and I can't imagine what you're goin' to say, or what you know."
Harold's face was very red, but his manner was respectful as he
replied:
"You cannot be more sorry than I am that I am subpœnaed as a witness
against you. I did not seek it. I could not help it; but, being a
witness, I must answer the questions truthfully."
"Thunder and lightning, man! Of course you must! Don't I know that?" the
irascible Peterkin growled, getting angry at once. "Of course you must
answer questions, but you needn't blab out stuff they don't ask you, so
as to lead 'em on. I know 'em, the blood-hounds; they'll squeeze you
dry, once let 'em get an inkling you know sunthin' more. Now, if this
goes agin me, I'm out at least thirty thousand dollars; and between you
and I, I don't mind givin' a cool two thousand, or three, or mebby five,
right out of pocket, cash down, to anybody whose testimony, without
bein' a lie--I don't want nobody to swear false, remember--but, heavens
and earth, can't a body forgit a little, and keep back a lot if they
want to?"
"What are you trying to say to me?" Harold asked, his face pale with
resentment, as he suspected the man's motive.
"Say to you? Nothin', only that I'll give five thousand dollars down to
the chap whose testimony gets me off and flings Wilson."
"Mr. Peterkin," Harold said, looking the old wretch fully in the face,
"if you are trying to bribe me, let me tell you at once that I am not to
be bought. I shall not volunteer information, but shall answer
truthfully whatever is asked me."
"Go to thunder, then! I always knew you were a bad aig," Peterkin
roared; and as there was nothing to be made from Harold, he changed his
seat to the one his son was occupying.
Left to himself, Harold had time to think of the diamonds, which,
indeed, had not been absent from his thoughts a moment since Jerrie gave
them to him. They were closely buttoned in his coat pocket, where they
burned like fire, as he wondered where and how Jerrie had found them.
"In the Tramp House it must have been," he said to himself; "but who put
them there, and how did she chance to find them, and why did she look so
wild and excited, so like a crazy person, when she gave them to me,
bidding me let no one see them?"
These questions he could not answer, and his brain was all in a whirl
when the train reached Springfield, and with the others, he registered
himself at the hotel. Suddenly, there came back to him, with horrible
distinctness, the words Jerrie had spoken to him years ago, when he
walked homeward with her from the Park House, where he had been
questioned so closely by Mrs. Tracy with regard to her diamonds and what
he had been doing in the house on the morning of their disappearance.
"I believe I know where the diamonds are," she had said, and in his
excitement he had scarcely noticed it; but it came back to him now with
fearful significance, as, after the gas was lighted, he sat alone in a
little reception-room opening from one of the parlors. Did Jerrie know
where they were, and had not spoken? And, if so, was she not guilty in
trying to shield another? For that she took them herself he never for a
moment dreamed. It was some one else, and she knew and did not tell. He
was certain of it now, as every incident connected with her strange
sickness came back to him, when she seemed to be doing penance for
another's fault. She had called herself an accessory, and that was what
she was, or rather what the world would call her, if it knew. To him she
was Jerrie, the girl he loved, and he would defend her to the bitter
end, no matter how culpable she had been in keeping silence so long.
But who took them? That was the question puzzling him so much as he sat
thinking, with his head bent down, and so absorbed that he did not hear
a step in the adjoining room, or know that Peterkin had seated himself
just where a large mirror showed him distinctly the young man in the
next room, whom he recognized at once, though Harold never moved for a
few moments or lifted his head.
At last, however, he unbuttoned his coat, and after glancing cautiously
around to make sure no one was near, he took the box from his pocket,
and holding the stones to the light examined them carefully, taking in
his hand first the ear-rings and then the pin, and holding them in such
a way that two or three times they flashed directly in the eyes of the
cruel man watching him.
"Yes, they are Mrs. Tracy's diamonds: there can be no mistake," he
whispered, just as he became conscious that there was some one in the
door looking at him.
Quick as thought he put the box out of sight while Peterkin's voice,
exultant and hateful called out:
"Hallo, Mr. Prayer-book, your piety won't let you keep back a darned
thing you know agin me, but it lets you have in your possession diamonds
which I'd eenamost swear was them stones Miss Tracy lost years ago and
suspected you of takin'. I know the box any way, I heard it described so
often, and I b'lieve I know them diamonds. I seen 'em in the
looking-glass settin' in t'other room, and seen you look all round like
a thief afore you opened 'em. So fork over, and mebby you can give me
back May Jane's pin you stole at the party the night Mr. Arthur came
home. Fork over I say!"
Too much astonished at first to speak, Harold looked at the man who had
attacked him so brutally, while his hand closed tightly over the
diamonds in his pocket, as if fearing they might be wrenched from him by
force.
"Will you fork over, or shall I call the perlice?" Peterkin asked.
"Call the police as soon as you like," Harold replied, "but I shall not
give you the diamonds."
"Then you own that you've got 'em! That's half the battle!" Peterkin
said, coming close up to him, and looking at him with a meaning smile
more detestable than any menace could have been. "I know you have got
'em, and I can ruin you if I try, and then what'll your doxie think of
you! Will she refuse my Bill for a thief, and treat me as if I was
dirt?"
"What do you mean, sir?" Harold demanded, feeling intuitively that by
his _doxie_ Jerrie was meant, and feeling a great horror, too, lest by
some means her name should be mixed up with the affair before she had a
chance to explain.
The reference to Billy was a puzzle, but Peterkin did not long leave him
in doubt.
"I mean that you think yourself very fine, and always have, and that are
gal of the carpet-bag thinks herself fine, too, and refused my Bill for
you, who hain't a cent in the world. I seen it in her face when I
twitted her on it, and she riz up agin' me like a catamount. But I'll be
even with you both yit. I've got you in my power, young man, but----"
and here he came a step or two nearer to Harold and dropping his voice
to a whisper, said: "I shan'n't do nothin', nor say nothin' till you've
gin your evidence, and if you can hold your tongue I will. You tickle
me, and I'll tickle you! See?"
Harold was too indignant to reply, and feeling that he was degrading
himself every moment he spent in the presence of such a man, he left the
room without a word, and went to his own apartment, but not to sleep,
for never had he spent so wretched a night as that which followed his
interview with Peterkin. Of what the man could do to him, he had no
fear. His anxiety was all for Jerrie. Where did she find the diamonds,
and for whom had she kept silence so long? and what would be said of the
act when it was known, as it might be, though not from him?
Two or three times he arose and lighting the gas, examined the diamonds
carefully to see if there were not some mistake. But there could be
none. He had seen them on the lady's person and had heard them described
so accurately that he could not be mistaken; and then the box was the
same he had once seen when Jack took him to his mother's room to show
him what Uncle Arthur had brought. That was a tortoise shell of an oval
shape, and lined with blue satin, and this was a tortoise shell,
oval-shaped, and lined with blue satin. Harold felt, when at last the
daylight shone into his room, that if it had tarried a moment longer he
must have gone mad. He was very white and haggard, and there were dark
rings under his eyes when he went down to the office, where the first
person he met was Billy, who also looked pale and worn, with a different
expression upon his face from anything Harold had ever seen before. It
was as if all life and hope had gone, leaving him nothing now to care
for. In his anxiety and worry about the diamonds Harold had scarcely
given a thought to what Peterkin had said of Jerrie's refusal of Billy,
for it seemed so improbable that the latter would presume to offer
himself to her; but at sight of Billy's face it came back to him with a
throb of pity for the man, and a thrill of joy for himself for whom
Peterkin had said his son was rejected.
"Does Billy know of the diamonds, I wonder?" he thought.
As if to answer the question in the negative, Billy came quickly
forward, and, offering his hand, bade Harold good-morning, and then
motioning him to a seat, took one beside him, and began:
"I'm awful sorry, Hal, th-that you are mix-mixed up in th-this, but I
sup-suppose you m-must t-tell the truth."
"Yes, I must tell the truth," Harold said.
"Fa-father will be so m-mad," Billy continued. "I wi-wish I could
t-t-testify f-for you, bu-but I can't. You were th-there, I wa-wan't,
and all I know fa-father told me; bu-but d-dont volunteer information."
"No," Harold said, slowly, wishing that the ocean were rolling between
him and this detestable suit.
Once he resolved to go to Judge St. Claire, deliver up the diamonds, and
tell him all he knew about them, but this would be bringing Jerrie into
the matter, and so he changed his mind and wandered aimlessly about the
town until it was time for him to appear at the court-house, where a
crowd was gathering. It was late before the suit known as _Wilson vs.
Peterkin_ was called, and later still when Harold took the stand.
White and trembling, so that both his hands and his knees were shaking
visibly, he looked more like a criminal than a witness, and he was so
agitated and pre-occupied, too, that at first his answers were given at
random, as if he hardly knew what he was saying; nor did he, for over
and beyond the sea of faces confronting him, Judge St. Claire's
wondering and curious--Billy's wondering, too--Wilson's disappointed and
surprised, and Peterkin's threatening and exultant by turns--he saw only
Jerrie coming to him in the lane and asking him to keep the diamonds for
her--saw her, too, away back years ago in the little room, with her
fever-stained cheeks and shorn head, talking the strangest things of
prisons, and substitutes, and accessories, and assuring some one that
she would never tell, and was going for him, if necessary.
Who was that man? Where was he now? and why had he imposed this terrible
secret upon Jerrie?
These were the thoughts crowding through his brain while he was being
questioned as to what he knew of the agreement between the plaintiff and
defendant while in the office of the latter. Once a thought of Maude
crossed his mind with a keen pang of regret, as he remembered the
lovely face which had smiled so fondly upon him, mistaking his meaning
utterly, and appropriating to herself the love he was trying to tell her
was another's. And with thoughts of Maude there came a thought of
Arthur, the very first which Harold had given him. Arthur, the crazy
man, who himself had hidden the diamonds, and for whom Jerrie was ready
to sacrifice so much. It was clear as daylight to him now, the anxiety
and strain were over, and those who were watching him so intently as he
gave his answers at random, with the sweat pouring down his face, were
electrified at the start he gave as he came to himself and realized for
the first time where he was, and why he was there. Arthur would never
see Jerrie wronged. _She_ was safe, and with this load lifted from him,
he gave his whole attention to the business on hand, answering the
questions now clearly and distinctly.
When at last the lawyer said to him, "Repeat what you can remember of
the conversation which took place between the plaintiff and defendant on
the morning of ----, 18--," he gave one sorry look at poor Billy, who
was the picture of shame and confusion, and then, in a clear, distinct
voice, which filled every corner of the room, told what he had heard
said in his presence, and what he knew of the transaction, proving
conclusively that the plaintiff was right and Peterkin a rascal, and
this in the face of the man who had ask him not to _blab_, and who shook
his fist at him threateningly as the narrative went on.
"Would you believe the defendant under oath?" was asked at the close,
and Harold answered, promptly:
"Under oath--yes."
"Would you, if not under oath?"
"If an untruth would be to his advantage, no," and then Harold was
through.
As he stepped down from the witness stand old Peterkin arose, so angry,
that at first he could scarcely articulate his words.
"You dog! you liar! you thief!" he screamed; "to stand there and lie so
about me! I'll teach you--I'll show 'em what you are. If there's a
perlice, I call on 'em to arrest this feller for them diamonds of Miss
Tracy's! They are in his pocket--or was last night. I seen 'em myself,
and he dassent deny it."
By this time the court-house was in wild confusion, as the spectators
arose from their seats and pressed forward to where Peterkin stood
denouncing Harold, who looked as if he were going to faint, as Billy
hastened to his side, whispering:
"Le-lean on me, and I will get you out of this. Fa-father is mad."
But order was soon restored, though not until Peterkin had yelled again,
as Harold was leaving the room:
"Search him, I tell you! Don't let him escape! He's got 'em in his
pocket--Miss Tracy's diamonds! Lord of heavens! don't you remember the
row there was about 'em years ago?"
Of what followed during the next hour Harold knew very little. There was
a crowd around him, and cries of "He is going to faint!" while Billy's
stammering voice called, pleadingly, "St-stand back, ca-can't you, and
gi-give him air."
Then a deluge of water in his face; then a great darkness, and the
voices sounded a long way off, and he felt so tired and sleepy, and
thought of Jerrie, and Maude, and lived over again the scene in the
Tramp House, when he found the former in the bag, and felt her arms
around his neck as he staggered with her through the snow, wondering why
she was so heavy, and why her feet were dragging on the ground. When he
came more fully to himself, he was in a little room in the court-house,
and Billy's arm was lying protectingly across his shoulder, while
Billy's father was bellowing like a bull:
"Be you goin' to let him go? Ain't you goin' to git a writ and arrest
him? Why don't you handcuff him, somebody? And you, Bill, be you a fool
to stan' there huggin' him as if he was a gal! What do you mean?"
"Ha-Hal is my fr-friend, father. He never to-took the diamonds," Billy
answered, sadly, while Judge St. Claire, who had the box of jewels in
his hand and was looking very anxious, turned to the angry man,
clamoring so loudly for a _writ_, and said, sternly:
"Even if Harold took the diamonds--which he did not, I am certain of
that--there is some mistake which he will explain; but if he took them,
it is too late to arrest him. A theft committed ten years ago cannot be
punished now."
"May the Lord give you sense," Peterkin rejoined, with a derisive laugh.
"Don't tell me that a body can't be punished for stealin' diamonds ef
'twas done a hundred years ago."
"But it is true, nevertheless," the judge replied.
Turning to another lawyer, who was standing near, Peterkin asked:
"Is that so, square? Is it so writ? Is that the law?"
"That is the law," was the response.
"Wall, I'll be condumbed, if that don't beat all!" Peterkin exclaimed.
"Can't be sent to prison! I swow! There ain't no law nor justice for
nobody but _me_, and I must be kicked to the wall! I'll give up and
won't try to be nobody. I vum!" And as he talked he walked away to
ruminate upon the injustice of the law which could not touch Harold
Hastings, but could throw its broad arms tightly around himself.
Meanwhile the judge had ordered a carriage and taken Harold with him to
his private room in the hotel, where the hardest part for Hal was yet to
come.
"Now, my boy," the judge said, after he had made Harold lie down upon
the couch and had locked the door, "now tell me all about it. How came
you by the diamonds?"
It was such a pitiful, pleading, agonized face which lifted itself from
the cushion and looked at Judge St. Clair, as Harold began:
"I cannot tell you now--I must not; but by and by perhaps I can. They
were handed to me to keep by some one, just for a little while. I cannot
tell you who it was. I think I would die sooner than do it. Certainly I
would rather go to prison, as Peterkin wishes me to."
There was a thoughtful, perplexed look in the judge's face as he said:
"This is very strange, Harold, that you cannot tell who gave them to
you, and with some people will be construed against you."
"I know it; but I would rather bear it than have that person's name
brought in question," was Harold's reply.
"Do you think that person took them?" the judge asked.
"No, a thousand times, no!" and Harold leaped to his feet and began to
pace the floor hurriedly. "They never took them, never; I'd swear to
that with my life. Don't talk any more about it, please; I can't bear
it. I have gone through so much to-day, and last night I never slept a
wink. Oh, I am so tired!" and with a groan he threw himself again upon
the couch, and, closing his eyes, dropped almost instantly into a heavy
slumber, from which the judge did not rouse him until after dinner, when
he ordered some refreshments sent to his room, and himself awoke the
young man, who could only swallow a cup of coffee and a part of a
biscuit.
"I am so tired," he kept repeating; "but I shall be better in the
morning;" and long before the night train had come he was in bed
sleeping off the effects of the day's excitement.
The next morning when he went down to the office he was surprised and
bewildered at the crowd which gathered around him--the friends who had
come on the train to stand by and defend him, if necessary; and as the
home faces he had known all his life looked kindly into his, and the
familiar voices of his boyhood told him of sympathy for and faith in
him, while hand after hand took his in a friendly clasp, that of Dick
St. Claire clinging to his with a grasp which said plainer than words
could have done, "I believe in you, Hal, and am so sorry for you," the
tension of his nerves gave way entirely, and, sinking down in their
midst, he cried like a child when freed from some terrible danger.
He had not thought before that he cared for himself what people said,
but he knew now that he did, and this assurance of confidence from his
friends unnerved him for a time; then, dashing away his tears and
lifting up his face, on which his old winning smile was breaking, he
said:
"Excuse me for this weakness; only girls should cry, but I have borne so
much, and your coming was such a surprise. Thank you all. I cannot say
what I feel. I should cry again if I did."
"Never mind, old boy," Dick's cheery voice called out. "We know what you
would say. We came to help you, just a few of us; but if anything had
really happened to you, why, all Shannondale would have turned out to
the rescue."
"Thank you, Dick," Harold said, then, as his eye fell for the first time
upon Tom, he exclaimed with a glad ring in his voice, "and you, too,
Tom!"
"Yes, I thought I'd come with the crowd and see the fun," Tom answered,
indifferently, as he walked away by himself.
Tom had said very little on the train, or after he reached the hotel,
but no one had listened with more eagerness to every detail of the
matter than he had done, and all that morning he was busy gathering up
every item of information, and listening to the guesses as to who the
person could be who gave the diamonds to Harold.
The jewels had been identified by his father and by himself, although an
identification was scarcely necessary as Harold had distinctly said:
"They are the Tracy diamonds; the person who gave them to me said so."
But who was the person? That was the question puzzling the heads of all
the Shannondale people as the morning wore on, and each went where he
liked. At last, toward noon, Tom found himself near Harold in front of
the court-house, and going up to him, said:
"Hal, I want to talk to you a little while."
"Yes," Hal said, and selecting a retired corner, Tom began:
"Hal, I've never shown any great liking for you, and I don't s'pose I
have any, but I don't like to see a man kicked for nothing, and so I
came over with the rest."
"Thank you, Tom," Harold replied, "I don't think you ever did like me,
and I don't think I cared if you didn't, but I'm glad you came. Is that
all you wished to say to me?"
"No," Tom answered. "Jerrie is very sick--"
"Jerrie! Jerrie sick! Oh, Tom!"
It was a cry of almost despair as Harold thought, "What if she should
die and the people never know."
"She had an awful headache when you left her in the lane, and the next
morning she was raving mad--kind of a brain fever, I guess."
Harold was stupefied, but he managed to ask:
"Does she talk much? What does she say?"
There was alarm in his voice, which the sagacious Tom detected, and,
strengthened in his suspicion, he replied:
"Nothing about the diamonds, and the Lord knows I hope she won't."
"What do you mean?" Harold asked, in a frightened tone.
"Don't you worry," Tom replied. "I wouldn't harm Jerrie any more than
you would, but--Well, Hal, you are a trump! Yes, you are, to hold your
tongue and let some think you are the culprit. Hal, Jerrie gave you the
diamonds. I saw her do it in the lane as I came up to you. I did not
think of it at the time, but afterward it came to me that you took
something from her and slipped it into your pocket, and that you both
looked scared when you saw me. Jerrie was abstracted and queer all the
way to the house, and had a bruise on her head, and she keeps talking of
the Tramp House and Peterkin, who, she says, dealt the blow. I went to
the Tramp House, and found the old table on the floor, with three of the
legs on it; the fourth I couldn't find. I thought at first that the old
wretch had quarreled with her about you on account of the suit, and she
had squared up to him, and he had struck her; but now I believe he had
the diamonds, and she got them from him in some way, and he struck her
with the missing table leg. If you say so, I'll have him arrested."
Tom had told his story rapidly, while Harold listened, until he
suggested the arrest of Peterkin, when he exclaimed:
"No, no, Tom. No; don't you see that would mix Jerrie's name up with the
diamonds, and that must not be. She must not be mentioned in connection
with them until she speaks for herself; and, besides, I do not believe
it was Peterkin who took them. It might have been your uncle Arthur."
"Uncle Arthur?" Tom said, indignantly. "Why, he gave them to mother."
"I know he did," Harold continued; "but in a crazy fit he might have
taken them away and secreted them and then forgotten it, and Jerrie
might have known it, and not been able to find them till now. Many
things go to prove that;" and very briefly Harold repeated some
incidents connected with Jerrie's illness when she was a child.
"That looks like it, certainly," Tom said; "but I am awfully loth to
give up arresting the brute, and believe I shall do it yet for assault
and battery. He certainly struck her. You will see for yourself the lump
on her head."
So saying Tom arose to go away, but before he went he made a remark
quite characteristic of him and his feeling for Harold, to whom he said,
with a laugh:
"Don't, for thunder's sake, think us a kind of Damon and Pythias twins,
because I've joined hands with you against Peterkin and for Jerrie.
Herod and Pilate, you know, became friends, but I guess at heart they
were Pilate and Herod still."
"No danger of my presuming at all upon your friendship for myself,
though I thank you for your interest in Jerrie," Harold replied.
Then the two separated, Tom going his way and Harold his, until it was
time for the afternoon train which was to take them home.
The suit had gone against Peterkin, and it was in a towering rage that
he stood in the depot, denouncing everybody, and swearing he would sell
out Lubertoo and every dumbed thing he owned in Shannondale and take his
money away, "and then see how they'd git along without his capital to
boost 'em." At Harold he would not even look, for his testimony had been
the most damaging of all, and he frowned savagely when on entering the
car he saw his son in the same seat with him, talking in low, earnest
tones, while Harold was evidently listening to him with interest. The
suit had been a pain and trouble to Billy, from beginning to end, for he
knew his father was in the wrong, and he bore no malice toward Harold
for his part in it, and when the diamonds came up, and his father was
clamoring for a writ, he was the first to declare Harold's innocence and
to say he would go his bail. Now, there was in his mind another plan by
which to benefit his friend, and rival, too--for Billy knew he was that;
and the heart of the little man ached with a bitter pain and sense of
loss whenever he thought of Jerrie, and lived over again the scene under
the butternut tree by the river, when her blue eyes had smiled so kindly
upon him and her hands had touched his, even while she was breaking his
heart. When Billy reached his majority his father had given him
$100,000, and thus he had business of his own to transact, and a part of
this was just now centered in Washington Territory, where, in Tacoma, on
Puget Sound, he owned real estate and had dealings with several parties.
To attend to this an agent was needed for a while, and he said to
himself:
"I'll offer it to Hal, with such a salary that he cannot refuse it; that
will get him out of the way until this thing blows over."
Billy knew perfectly well that although everybody said Harold was
innocent and that nine-tenths believed it, there would still be a few in
Shannondale--whose opinions his father's money controlled--who, without
exactly saying they doubted him, would make it unpleasant for him in
many ways; and from this he would save him by sending him to Tacoma at
once, and thus getting him out of the way of any unpleasantness which
might arise from his father's persecutions or those of his clan. It was
this which he was proposing to Harold, who at once thought favorably of
it--not because he wished to escape from the public, he said, but
because of the pay offered, and which seemed to him far more than his
services would be worth.
"You are a noble fellow, Billy," he said. "I'll think of the plan, and
let you know after I've seen Jerrie and Judge St. Claire."
"A-all ri-right; he'll a-advise you to go," Billy said, as they arose to
leave the car, followed by Peterkin, who had been engaged in a fierce
altercation with Tom, that young man having accused him of striking
Jerrie, and threatening to have him arrested for assault and battery the
moment they reached Shannondale.
"Thunder, and lightning, and guns!" old Peterkin exclaimed, while the
spittle flew from his mouth like the spray from Niagara. "I assault and
batter Jerrie Crawford!--a gal! What do you take me for, young man? I'm
a gentleman, I be, if I ain't a Tracy; and I never salted nor battered
nobody, and she'll tell you so herself. Heavens and earth! this is the
way 'twas," and Peterkin shook from his head to his feet--for, like most
men who clamor so loudly for the law, he had a mortal terror of it for
himself, and Tom's threatening looks and words made him afraid. "This is
how 'twas; I found her in the Tramp House, and I was allfired mad at
her about somethin'--I shan't tell what, for Bill would kill me; but I
pitched in to her right and left; and, by gum, she pitched into me, so
that for a spell it was nip-and-tuck betwixt us; and, by George, if she
did'nt order me out of the Tramp House, and said it was her'n; and I'll
be dumbed if I don't believe she'd of put me out, too, body and bones,
if I hadn't gone. She was just like a tiger; and, I swan, I was feared
on her, and backed out with a kind of flourish of my fist on that darned
old rotten table, which went all to smash; and that's all I know. You
don't call that 'sault and batter, do you?"
Tom could not say that he did, but he replied:
"That's your version of it. Jerrie may have another, and her friends
ain't going to have her abused by a chap like you; and my advice is that
you hold your tongue, both, about her and Harold. It will be better for
you. Do you understand?"
"You bet!" Peterkin said, with a meaning nod, breathing a little more
freely as he caught sight of the highest tower of _Lubbertoo_, and more
freely still when he arrived at the station, where he was met by his
coat-of-arms carriage, instead of a writ, and was suffered to go
peaceably home, a disappointed, if not a better man.