AND AN OLD FRIEND HELPS
Bessie gasped in sheer terror, and for a moment she couldn't open her
mouth. Farmer Weeks, his weather-beaten face twisted into a grin of
malice and dislike, stood looking down at her, his bony hand gripping
her wrist. Even had it been in Bessie's mind to run away, she could not
have done it. And, as a matter of fact, the shock of hearing his voice,
of seeing him, and, above all, of being accused of such a thing, had
deprived her for the moment of the use of her legs as well as of the
power of speech.
Then, while Farmer Weeks lifted his voice again, calling for a
policeman, Bessie got a vivid and sharp lesson in the interest a city
crowd can be induced to take in anything out of the ordinary, no matter
how trifling. The pavement where they stood was densely crowded already.
Now more people seemed to spring up from nowhere at all, and they were
surrounded by a ring of people who pressed against one another, calling
curious questions, all trying to get into the front rank to see whatever
was to be seen.
"Gosh all hemlock!" Farmer Weeks confided to the crowd. "They told me to
look out fer them scalawags when I come to town, but I swan I didn't
expect to see a gal like that tryin' to lift my wallet. No, sir! But
they got to get up pretty early in the mornin' to fool me--they have
that!"
Even in her fright, Bessie divined at once what the old rascal was
trying to do. He was playing the part of the green and unsuspicious
countryman, the farmer on a trip, usually the easy prey of sharpers of
all sorts, and he was doing it for a purpose--to win the sympathy of the
crowd. In her new clothes Bessie looked enough like a city girl to pass
for one easily, while Farmer Weeks wore old-fashioned clothes of rusty
black, a slouch hat, and a colored handkerchief knotted about his neck
in place of a scarf. He carried an old-fashioned cotton umbrella; too,
a huge affair--a regular "bumbleshoot," and he was dressed to play the
part.
"Hey, mister, gimme a nickel an' I'll call a cop for you!" volunteered a
small, sharp-faced boy, with a bundle of papers under his arm. Somehow
he had managed to squirm through the crowd.
Weeks looked at him reproachfully.
"You call a constable--an' I'll give you the nickel when you come back
with him," he said.
In spite of her deplorable situation, Bessie wanted to laugh. It was so
like Farmer Weeks, the miser, to be unwilling to risk even five cents
without being sure that he would get value for his money! The boy darted
off, and Bessie heard half a dozen of the crowd make remarks applauding
the good sense of her supposed victim.
"Ain't it too bad?" said Weeks tolerantly to the crowd, as he waited for
a policeman, still clutching Bessie's hand tightly. "Who'd ever think a
pretty young gal like her would try to rob an old man--hey?"
"Never can tell, Pop," said a keen-eyed youth, who was standing near.
His eyes darted nervously about from one face to another. "Them as you
wouldn't suspect naturally is the worst, as a rule--it's so easy for
them to make a get-away."
Then the crowd gave way suddenly for a man in a blue uniform, but
Bessie, still unable to say anything, saw at once it was not a
policeman. But it was not until he was quite close to her that she
recognized him with a little thrill of joy. And at the same moment he
recognized her, too, as well as Farmer Weeks. It was Tom Norris, the
friendly train conductor who had helped Zara and herself to escape to
Pine Bridge, and out of the state in which Hedgeville was situated.
"Come, come; what's this?" asked the train conductor sharply. "Let go of
that girl's arm, you Weeks!"
"What business is it of your'n!" asked Weeks, angrily.
"You let her go," said Norris, with determination, "or I'll pretty soon
show you what business it is of mine--I'll knock you down, white hair
and all! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, pickin' on the girl this
way!"
He advanced, threateningly, and none of the crowd undertook to protect
Weeks from his obvious anger. Norris was a big, strong man, and, for all
his kindly ways, it was evident that he could fight well if he saw any
reason for doing it. And now, it was plain, he thought the reason was
excellent, and he was entirely ready to back up what he had to say with
his sturdy fists. Weeks saw that plainly, and he had reason to fear the
burly conductor. Quickly he released Bessie's wrist, and a moment later
Norris would have had her out of the crush had not the arrival of
another man in uniform created a diversion. This time it really was a
policeman, and he came at the heels of the newsboy who had run after
him.
"Here's yer cop, mister! Now gimme the nickel!" said the boy shrilly to
the farmer.
"Run along! I never promised you no nickel," said Farmer Weeks, looking
nervously at Norris. But at that the crowd, which had been disposed to
side with him, transferred its sympathies suddenly to the cheated
newsboy, who was pouring out a stream of angry words, the while he clung
to Weeks' arm, demanding his money.
Weeks soon saw that he had better not try to save a nickel, much as he
valued it, and, reluctantly enough, he drew a purse from his trousers
pocket and gave the boy his money, counting out five pennies.
"Here, here; what's all this fuss about?" asked the policeman. He was
responsible for keeping order on his post, and before Weeks could answer
his question he drove the crowd away with sharp orders to move on and be
quick about it. Then he turned back to the farmer, Bessie, and the
conductor, who had taken Bessie's hand.
"Now then, whose pocket was picked? Yours, young lady?"
"No, consarn ye, mine!" said Farmer Weeks, angrily, as he heard the
question. "And she done it, too--she's a slick one, she is! An' this
fresh railroad man here was tryin' to help her get away. Like as not
they work together, an' he was fixin' to have her give him half of what
she got."
Norris smiled at the policeman.
"You know me, Mike," he said. "Think I'm in that sort of business?"
"Begorra, an' I know ye're not!" said the policeman, indignantly. "Talk
straight, now, you old rube, an' tell me what it is you're tryin' to
say. What sort of a charge ye're after makin'?"
"She put her hand in my pocket--an' she stole my wallet," said Farmer
Weeks. "She's got it in her pocket now--her right-hand pocket!"
"How do you know that?" asked the policeman, sharply.
"How--why shouldn't I know? Look and see for yourself--"
But there was no need. Bessie herself, tears in her eyes, plunged her
hand into the pocket Weeks had named--and, to her consternation, the
wallet came out in her hand. She stared at it in stupefaction.
"I don't know how it got there! I never saw it before!" she exclaimed.
"H'm! This looks pretty bad, Tom," said the policeman. "Is this young
lady a friend of yours?"
"She is that," said Tom, stoutly. "And I'll go bail for her anywhere.
She never picked that old scalawag's pocket. I know him well, Mike, and
I've never known any good of him. He never rides on my train without
tryin' to beat the company out of the fare--uses every old trick you
ever heard of. Many's the time I've had to threaten to put him off
between stations before he'd fork over the money."
But Mike, the policeman, looked doubtful, as well he might, and there
was a gleam of evil triumph in the farmer's eyes.
"Listen here!" said Tom, suddenly. "He says that's his wallet, and he's
makin' enough fuss for it to have a thousand dollars inside. But when he
paid the boy he took a purse from his pocket to get the money."
"That's right. I seen him myself," said Mike, still scratching his head.
"I'll just have a look inside that pocket-book."
"Ye will not--that's my property!" said Farmer Weeks, reaching quickly
for the wallet.
But Mike was too quick for him, and in a moment he had opened the
wallet, and could see that it was empty, except for a few torn pieces of
paper, evidently put in it to stuff it out, and deceive people into
thinking that it contained a wad of bills.
"What sort of game are yez tryin' to put up on us here?" demanded the
policeman, angrily. "Here, take yer book--"
"She's as much guilty of theft as if there had been a hundred dollars in
it," said Farmer Weeks, recovering from his dismay at the exposure of
the trick. "You arrest her or I'll--"
"What will yez do, ye spalpeen?" said the policeman. "If ye get gay wid
me I'll run yez in--and don't be afther forgettin' that, either!"
As he spoke he turned, angrily, to observe a small boy who was tugging
at his sleeve.
"Say, mister, say," begged the boy, "listen here a minute, will yer? I
seen the old guy slip his purse into her pocket. She never took it."
Tom's eyes, as he heard, lighted up.
"By Gad, Mike, that's what he did!" he exclaimed. "Did you hear how
ready he was to tell just which pocket she had it in? How'd he have
known that--unless he put it there, eh?"
"It's a lie!" stormed Farmer Weeks. "Here, are you going to lock that
girl up as a thief or not?"
"Indade and I'm not," said the officer, warmly. "Drop her wrist--quick!"
He stepped forward as he spoke, and Weeks, seeing by the gleam in the
Irishman's eye that he had gone too far, quickly released Bessie. As she
moved away from him he stood still, red-eyed and trembling with rage.
"An' what's more, you old scalawag," said the policeman, "I'm going to
run _you_ in. Maybe you never heard tell of perjury, but it's worse
than pickin' pockets, let me tell you."
His heavy hand dropped to Weeks' shoulder, but he was too slow. With a
yell of fright the old farmer, displaying an agility with which no one
would have been ready to credit him, turned and dove headlong through
the crowd.
The policeman started to give chase, but Tom Norris restrained him. He
was laughing heartily.
"What's the use? Let him be, Mike," he said. "My, but it was as good as
a play to see you handle him. Gosh! Watch the old beggar run, will you?"
Indeed, Weeks was running as fast as he could, and, even as they watched
him, he disappeared inside the station.
"That's a good riddance. Maybe he'll go home and stay there," said the
conductor. "He won't try his dirty tricks on you again," he added,
turning to Bessie. "If he does, you'll have a friend in Mike, here."
"True for you, Tom Norris!" said the policeman. "I'm glad ye turned up,
boy. Ye saved me from makin' a fool of meself, I'm thinkin'. The old
omadhoun! To think he'd put up a job like that on a slip of a girl, and
him ould enough to be her father--or her grandfather!"
"Well, I've helped you out again, haven't I?" said Tom Norris. "Are you
living here in the city now? Suppose you tell me why old Weeks is so
mean to you, now that we've the time."
"I will, and gladly," said Bessie. "But I haven't so very much time. Can
you walk with me as I go home?"
So, with Tom Norris to look after her, Bessie began her trip back to the
Mercer house, and, on the way, she told him the story of her flight from
Hedgeville, and the adventures that had happened since its beginning.
"I suppose I was foolish to go after Jake Hoover that way," she
concluded, "but I thought I might be able to help. I didn't like to see
him following Mr. Jamieson that way, when he was trying to be so nice
to us."
"Maybe you were foolish," said Tom. "But don't let it worry you too
much. You meant well, and I guess there's lots of us are foolish without
having as good an excuse as that."
"Oh, there's Mr. Jamieson now!" cried Bessie, suddenly spying the young
lawyer on the other side of the street. "I think I'd better tell him
what's happened, don't you, Mr. Norris?"
"I do indeed. Stay here, I'll run over. The young fellow with the brown
suit, is it?"
Bessie nodded, and Tom Norris ran across the street and was back in a
moment with Jamieson, who was mightily surprised to see Bessie, whom he
had left only a short time before at the Mercer house. He frowned very
thoughtfully as he heard her story.
"I'm not going to scold you for taking such a risk," he said. "I really
didn't think, either, that it was you they would try to harm. I thought
your friend Zara was the only one who was in danger."
"I suppose they'd try to get hold of Miss Bessie here, though," said the
conductor, "because they'd think she'd be a good witness, perhaps, if
there was any business in court. I don't know much about the law, except
I think it's a good thing to keep clear of."
"You bet it is," said Jamieson, with a laugh.
"That's fine talk, from a lawyer!" smiled Tom Norris. "Ain't it your
business to get people into lawsuits?"
"Not a bit of it!" said Jamieson. "A good lawyer keeps his clients out
of court. He saves money for them that way, and they run less risk of
being beaten. The biggest cases I have never get into court at all.
It's only the shyster lawyers, like Isaac Brack, who are always going
to court, whether there's any real reason for it or not."
"Brack!" said Tom. "Why, say, I know him! And, what's more, this man
Weeks does, too. Brack's his lawyer. I heard that a long time ago. Brack
gets about half the cases against the railroad, too. Whenever there's a
little accident, Brack hunts up the people who might have been hurt, and
tries to get damages for them. Only, if he wins a case for them, he
keeps most of the money--and if they lose he charges them enough so that
he comes out ahead, anyhow."
"That's the fellow," Jamieson said. "We'll get him disbarred sooner or
later, too. He's a bad egg. I'm glad to know I've got to fight him in
this case. If this young Hoover was following me, I'll bet Brack had
something to do with it."
"He was certainly following you," said Bessie. "Whenever you turned
around he got behind a tree or something, so that you wouldn't see him."
"He needn't have been so careful. He might have walked right next to me
all the way into town, and I'd never have suspected him. As it happened,
I wasn't going anywhere this morning--anywhere in particular, I mean.
It wouldn't have made any difference if Brack had known just what I was
doing. But I'm mighty glad to know that he is trying to spy on me,
Bessie. In the next few days I'm apt to do some things I wouldn't want
him to know about at all, and now that I'm warned I'll be able to keep
my eyes and my ears open, and I guess Brack and his spies will have some
trouble in getting on to anything I choose to keep hidden from them."
"That's the stuff!" approved Tom. "I told Miss Bessie here she'd done
all right. She meant well, even if she did run a foolish risk. And
there's no harm done."
"Well, we'd better hurry home," said Jamieson. "I don't want them to be
worried about you, Bessie, so I'll take you home in a taxicab."
The cab took them swiftly toward the Mercer house. When they were still
two or three blocks away Jamieson started and pointed out a man on the
sidewalk to Bessie.
"There's Brack now!" he exclaimed. "See, Bessie? That little man, with
the eyeglasses. He's up to some mischief. I wonder what he's doing out
this way?"
When they arrived, Eleanor Mercer, her eyes showing that she was
worried, was waiting for them on the porch.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're here!" she exclaimed.
"I'm so sorry if you were worried about me, Miss Eleanor," said Bessie,
remorsefully.
"I wasn't, though," said Eleanor. "It's Zara! She's upstairs, crying her
eyes out and she won't answer me when I try to get her to tell me what's
wrong. You'd better see her, Bessie."