_The Sleepers_
It was twenty minutes of ten before a sleepy and decidedly irritable
voice responded in answer to Donaldson's cheery hello. There was
little of Christian spirit to be detected in it.
"Is this Deacon Staples?"
"Yes. But I 'd like t' know what ye mean by gettin' a man outern bed
at this time of night?"
"Why, you were n't in bed, Deacon!"
"In bed? See here, is this some confounded joke?"
"What kind of a joke, Deacon?"
"A--joke. Who are you, anyway?"
"I don't believe you remember me; I 'm Peter Donaldson."
"Don't recoleck your name. What d' ye want this time o' night?"
"Why, it's early yet, Deacon. You weren't really in bed!"
"I tell ye I was, an' that so is all decent folk. Once 'n fer
all--what d'ye want?"
"I heard you had a house to sell."
"Wall, I ain't sellin' houses on th' Lord's day."
"Won't be Sunday for two hours and twenty minutes yet, Deacon. If you
talk lively, you can do a day's work before then. What will you take
for the old Burnham place?"
The deacon hesitated. He was a bit confused by this unusual way of
doing business. It was too hurried an affair, and besides it did not
give him an opportunity to size up his man. Nor did he know how
familiar this possible purchaser was with the property.
"Where be you?" he demanded.
"In New York."
"In--see here, I rec'gnize your voice; you 're Billy Harkins down to
the corner. Ye need n't think ye can play your jokes on me."
"We 've only two hours and a quarter left," warned Donaldson.
"Well, ye need n't think I 'm goin' to stand here in the cold fer thet
long."
"It's warm 'nuff here," Donaldson answered genially.
"Maybe ye 've gut more on than I have."
"Hush, Deacon, there are ladies present."
"They ain't neither, down here. Our women are in bed, where they
oughter be."
"Not at this hour! Why, the evening is young yet. But how much will
you take?"
"Wal, th' place is wuth 'bout two thousand dollars."
Donaldson realized that it was the magic word "New York" which had so
suddenly inflated the price. The deacon was taking a chance that this
might be some wealthy New Yorker looking for a country home.
"Do you call that a fair price?" he asked.
"The house is in good condition, and thar 's over three acres of good
grass land and ten acres of pasture with pooty trees in it."
"Just so. I 'm not able to look the place over, so I 'll have to
depend upon your word for it. You consider that a fair price for the
property?"
"Well, o' course, fer cash I might knock off fifty."
"I see. Then nineteen hundred and fifty is an honest value of the
whole estate?"
"I 'low as much."
"Deacon."
"Yes" (eagerly).
"You 're a member of the church."
"Yes" (lamely).
"And you certainly would n't deal unfairly with a neighbor on Sunday?"
"What--"
"It's thirteen minutes of ten on a Saturday night. That's pretty near
Sunday, is n't it?"
"What of it?" (suspiciously).
"Remember that advertisement you inserted in the Berringdon Gazette?"
There was a silence of a minute.
"Wall," faltered the deacon rather feebly, "I thought mebbe ye wanted
the farm fer a summer place. It's wuth more fer that."
"It is n't worth a cent more. You simply tried to steal two hundred
dollars."
"Ye mean ter say--"
"Exactly that; I 've prevented you from going to bed within two hours
of the Lord's day with the theft of two hundred dollars on your soul."
"If ye think I 'm gonter stand up here in th' cold and listen to sech
talk as thet--"
"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars cash for the place,"
interrupted Donaldson. "And remember that I know you through and
through. I even know how much you stole from old man Burnham."
This was a chance shot, but it evidently went home from the sound of
uneasy coughing and spluttering that came to him over the telephone.
Donaldson found considerable amusement in grilling this country Shylock.
"Why, the house 'n' barn is wuth more 'n thet," the deacon exploded.
"I 'll give you fifteen hundred dollars, and mail the money to you
to-night."
"See here, I don't know who ye be, but ye 're darned sassy. I won't
trade with ye afore Monday an'--"
"Then you won't trade at all."
"I 'll split th'--"
"You 'll take that price or leave it."
"I'll take it, but--"
"Good," broke in Donaldson sharply. "The operator here is a witness.
I 'll send the money to-night, and have a tenant in the house Tuesday.
Good night, Deacon."
"If yer--"
The rest of the sentence faded into the jangle of the line, but
Donaldson broke in again.
"Say, Deacon, were you really in bed at this time of night?"
"Gol darn--"
"Careful! Careful!"
"Wall, ye need n't think cause ye 're in N' York ye can be so all-fired
smart."
A sharp click told him that the deacon had hung up the receiver in
something of a temper. Donaldson came out of the booth, hesitated, and
then put in another call. He found relaxation in the vaudeville
picture he had of the spindle-shanked hypocrite fretting in the cold so
many miles distant. He was morally certain that the old fellow had
robbed the dying Burnham of half his scant property. If he had had the
time he would have started a lawyer upon an investigation. As he did
n't, and he saw nothing more entertaining ahead of him until morning,
he took satisfaction in pestering him as much as possible in this
somewhat childish way.
"Keep at him until he answers," he ordered the girl.
It took ten minutes to rouse the deacon again.
"Is this Deacon Staples?" he inquired.
"Consarn ye--"
"I was n't sure you said good night. I should hate to think you went
to sleep in a temper."
"It's none of your business how I go to sleep. If you ring me up again
I 'll have the law on ye."
"So? I 'll return good for evil. I 'll give you a warning; look out
for the ghost of old Burnham to-night."
"For what?"
There was fear in the voice. Donaldson smiled. This suggested a new
cue.
"He's coming sure, because his daughter is a widow, and needs that
money."
"I held his notes," the deacon explained, as though really anxious to
offer an excuse. "I can prove it."
"Prove it to Burnham's ghost. He may go back."
"B--back where?"
"To his grave. He sleeps uneasy to-night."
"Be you crazy?"
"Look behind you--quick!"
The receiver dropped. Donaldson could hear it swinging against the
wall. Without giving the deacon an opportunity to express his wrath
and fears, Donaldson hung up his own receiver and cheerfully paid the
cost of his twenty-minute talk.
In spite of the fact that on Thursday night he had slept only three
hours, that on Friday night he had not even lain down, his mind was
still alert. He did not have the slightest sense of weariness. It was
rest enough for him to know that the girl was asleep, relaxation enough
to recall the maiden joy that had freshened the eyes of Mrs. Wentworth.
It was too late to get a money-order, but he secured a check from the
hotel manager for the amount, and finding in the Berringdon paper the
name of a local lawyer whom he remembered as a boy, he mailed it to him
with a letter of explanation. The deed was to be made out to Mrs.
Alice E. Wentworth, and was to be held until she called for it. In
case of any difficulty--for it occurred to him that the deacon might at
the last moment sacrifice a good trade out of spite--the lawyer was to
telegraph him at once at the Waldorf.
Then he looked up the time the Berringdon train left and wrote a note
giving Mrs. Wentworth final detailed instructions.
Then still unwilling to trust himself alone with his thoughts,
Donaldson remained about the lobby. He felt in touch here with all the
wide world which lay spread out below the night sky. He studied with
interest the weary travellers who were dropped here by steamers which
had throbbed across so many turbulent watery miles, by locomotives hot
from their steel-held course. The ever-changing figures absorbed him
until, with her big shouldered husband, a woman entered who remotely
resembled her he had been forced to leave to the protection of one old
serving maid. Then in spite of himself, his thoughts ran wild again.
He hungered to get back to his old office, where, if he could find
nothing else to do for her, he could at least bury himself in his law
books. This unknown man strode across the lobby so confidently--every
sturdy line of him suggesting blowsy strength. The unknown woman
tripped along at his heels in absolute trust of it. And he, Donaldson,
sat here, a helpless spectator, with a worthier woman trusting him as
though he were such a man.
In rebellion he argued that it was absurd that such a passion as his
towards a woman of whom he had seen so little should be genuine. His
condition had made him mawkishly sentimental. He had been fascinated
like a callow youngster by her delicate, pretty features; by her deep
gray eyes, her budding lips, her gentle voice. He would be writing
verse next. He was free--free, and in one stroke he had placed the
world at his feet. He was above it--beyond it, and every living human
soul in it. He rose as though to challenge the hotel itself, which
represented the crude active part of this world.
But with the memory of his afternoon, his declaration of independence
lasted but a moment. He was back in the green fields with her--back in
the blazing sunshine with her, and the knowledge that from there, not
here, the road began along which lay everything his eager nature craved.
Well, even so, was he going to cower back into a corner? There still
remained to him five days. To use them decently he must keep to the
present. The big future--the true future was dead. Admit it. There
still remained a little future. Let him see what he could do with that.
A porter came in with a mop and swabbed up the deserted floors.
Donaldson watched every movement of his strong arms and felt sorry,
when, his part played, he retired to the wings. Then he went to his
room. He partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed. It was then
ten minutes of four on Sunday morning, May twenty-sixth.
In spite of his apparent wakefulness he napped, for when he came to
himself again it was broad daylight. An anxious looking hotel clerk
stood at the foot of his bed, while a pop-eyed bell-boy pressed close
behind him. Donaldson rose to his elbow.
"What the devil are you doing in here?" he demanded.
The clerk appeared relieved by the sound of his voice.
"Why, sir, we got a bit worried about you. We weren't able to raise
you all day yesterday."
"Could n't what? I sat up until two o'clock this morning in the lobby.
I was awake in my room here two hours after that!"
"You must be mistaken, sir. We rang your room telephone several times
yesterday, and pounded at your door without getting an answer."
"I was away during the day, but I was here all last night. I asked you
particularly if any call had been received for me."
The clerk smiled tentatively.
"The chamber-maid found you in bed at eleven o'clock in the morning,
sir."
"The chamber-maid must have come into the wrong room," answered
Donaldson, beginning to suspect that he had caught the two men in the
act of thieving. "I was n't in bed at all yesterday, and left the city
at nine o'clock."
The clerk hitched uneasily. It was evident to him that Donaldson had
been drinking, and had the usual morning-after reluctance about
admitting it. The night telephone operator had said that he had acted
queer. However, as long as the man was n't dead this did n't concern
him.
"Sorry the mistake was made, sir," he replied, anxious now to
conciliate the guest. "I would n't have bothered you only the lady
said the call was urgent."
"Good lord, man, what call?"
"It is to ring up Miss Arsdale's house at once, sir."
"When did you get that?" demanded Donaldson, as he sprang from his bed.
"This morning, sir, at one o'clock."
In three strides Donaldson was across the room. The hotel attendants
crowded one another in their efforts to get out.
Donaldson gave the number and waited, every pulse beat of time
throbbing hot through his temples. She had called and been unable to
rouse him, while he lay there like a yokel and dreamed of her! He
conjured up visions of all sorts of disaster. The boy might have
returned and--he shuddered and drew back from the suggestion. He
refused to imagine. He beat a tattoo with the inane hook which summons
Central.
"Number does n't answer, sir," came the reply.
"They _must_ answer! You must _make_ them answer."
Again the interminable wait; again the dead reply. He hung up the
receiver. The hallucinations which swarmed through his brain taken in
connection with the meaningless talk of the hotel employees made him
fear an instant for his sanity.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and devoted five minutes to the
concentration of his mind upon the fact that he must be cool, must be
steady. Else he would be of no use to any one. He must be deliberate.
Then he dressed himself with complete self-possession.
When he came down into the lobby he noticed with some astonishment the
business-like appearance of the place for Sunday morning. The clerk
glanced at him curiously as he approached. Donaldson spoke with
exaggerated slowness and precision.
"I wish," he said, "that you would kindly make a careful note of any
messages which may come to me to-day. Your error of this morning--"
He stopped as his eye caught the calendar, and its big black numeral.
It read Monday, May 27. He looked from the calendar to the clerk.
"Have n't you made a mistake?" Donaldson asked.
"No, sir. Shall I send a boy with you to the Turkish baths, sir?"
Then the truth dawned upon him; he had lost in sleep one whole precious
day!
And the girl--