A GLEAM OF LIGHT
WHEN Billy rang at Tuk-wil-la the next morning Mr. Smith was waiting for
him; and safely in the den Billy told his story. At the close he was
astonished to hear Mr. Smith chuckle softly.
“Look at that curiosity.” He handed the boy a smudged and rumpled
letter.
It was a threat common enough to men of large concerns, ill-spelled,
blotted, and signed with a black hand. It demanded ten thousand dollars,
to be delivered by Mr. Smith in person and alone, the next night at a
certain designated hour and place; and failure to comply meant certain
death to one of his family.
“Sounds creepy, doesn’t it, Billy?”
“What will you do?”
“What they tell me to do,—with a difference.”
“You—surely you won’t go, Mr. Smith!”
“Surely I will. But three or four good men will be hidden out there in
the bushes.”
“Gee! I’d like to be one; I can shoot.”
Mr. Smith shook his head, and his smile died. “This is probably comic
opera, yet—you’re your mother’s only son, and there might be a bit of a
scrimmage. Besides I have other work for you.”
“All right.”
Mr. Smith smiled, for Billy’s tone was not hearty. “The Tum-wah people’s
second injunction is out; but I can take care of that well enough, if I
can beat daylight on another proposition.” He rose and took a turn or
two around the room, one hand in his pocket, the other pulling roughly
at his mustache. “Do you know what our real trouble is?”
“The city won’t let you have the right of way over the boulevard? Is
that it?”
“Yes. Do you know why?”
Billy looked up shrewdly. “You won’t pay the price?”
“Right, the first guess. Alvin Short wants to cinch us. And the worst of
it is, if he gets what he asks, he’ll bleed us every time we cross a
street or cut an alley. Now your job is this: to watch this property
while the Smith family go on an excursion.”
Billy could not help showing his surprise. Usually the force of servants
was trusted to do that.
Mr. Smith laughed and nodded through the window to where thick green
woods swept an impenetrable curtain past the singing falls, past the
private grounds, and down the hill. “The boulevard lies through there.
It won’t be built for two years, yet I may not go over it nor under nor
across it till they get their price. Billy, there’s—how many points of
law in possession?”
Billy smiled but was discreetly silent.
“I want six of the Italian bunch down there,” he nodded toward the
valley below, where men were already gathering for the day’s work. “I
want six that work, and don’t talk. Can you pick ’em out?”
Billy named six, but recommended the tramp-philosopher.
“No, not any Americans; not on this job. Now I must go down to the
grade, stop the work, and pay off the men. I guess that’s all, Billy.
Your work here begins to-morrow night. Sorry it’s not to be at our
picnic.”
When Billy left him and started down the steps, May Nell came running
out to meet him. “Billy! Wait a minute!”
The sun touched her hair to brighter gold. She was rosier, fuller of
cheek than formerly, and rounder of neck and arm, with an indescribable
dignity that was not quite a woman’s, yet more than girlish.
“I heard you and hurried out to catch you. I never see you any more.”
“I’m pretty busy these days.”
“Tell me why you called me ‘Miss Smith’ the other day.”
“I’m only your father’s hired workman down there—as I am anywhere for
that matter—and those fellows mustn’t see me presume to speak to you.”
She laughed merrily. “That seems positively funny, Billy, when I think
of the day you led me into your mother’s house with a sheet pinned round
me, a woman’s skirt torn and trailing, and my toes showing through my
shoes.”
“But now your father is worth a million and—and my face is dirty.” They
had stopped near the conservatory, and he saw himself in a window that
greenery behind had turned into a mirror, and laughed not quite
mirthfully.
She caught his hand—hard and grimy—in her soft ones. “Your heart isn’t
dirty, Billy. And I want you to remember always that I think you are the
very best boy in the world.”
They laughed lightly, and Billy ran off, and that day the shovel was
light.
May Nell and her mother went away, the servants were given a vacation,
and the house closed. It looked rather lonely when Billy came in the
early evening. He had a room in the garage, and was to be on duty
practically all of the time. This was not arduous, for the entire place
was enclosed in a high barbed-wire fence, as effective as if not hidden
by honeysuckle, wild rose, and clematis; and at night the gates were
locked and two Great Danes policed the grounds.
The first evening was a test of Billy’s courage, not because anything
happened, but because it was the first night of his life absolutely away
from human beings. And also because his mind was with Mr. Smith,
wondering what was happening, and magnifying the danger.
Morning came, and a telephone message saying, “Nothing doing; the
blackmailers caught on.” And Billy almost forgot to be glad, so
disappointed was he at the tame ending of his adventure.
As the day passed, he knew something was going on in the forest. Soft
voices came occasionally above the roar of the falls and the clink of
iron; and in the evening he detected the odor of fresh coffee and
toasting bacon. And Billy knew—Mr. Smith was crossing the boulevard!
Visitors and men on business, applying at the gate or by telephone, soon
lessened; and the rest and time for reading stimulated Billy to thought
of things unremembered during the months of hard work. Each day he
opened and aired the house, and found in the library books that made the
hours short.
Vague ideas he had hardly glimpsed for the flag design now took shape.
The banner of the city! It must be a noble idea, yet simple, one that
all would love; and it must be like the city,—the City of Green Hills.
It was also a city of blue waters and bluer skies.
Each day he dreamed over it till at last the idea bodied itself in a
spire-crowned, forest-enfolded hill, with a sea at its base and the
declining sun on the far horizon. A shallop in full sail was setting
forth toward the sun.
There it was, the green hill, the city, the sea and its commerce. But
this was present and future; something must show what had been
vanquished. Rather sadly Billy put in an Indian and a bear at the edge
of the forest, both looking backward.
A sudden reminder came to him,—he was no longer a school-boy. With the
resignation of his office of treasurer of the Good Citizens’ Club of the
Fifth Avenue High he had severed every link between him and school. Yet
he was still a club member,—that admitted him to the competition. He
felt out of it all, old,—was he old before his time? He thought of his
mother’s words, and then of Erminie, and—of May Nell.
After about twelve days Mr. Smith appeared suddenly. His shoes were
dusty and his hands and cuffs soiled; but he was oddly jaunty, as if
some great load had been lifted.
“Didn’t expect to see me, did you, Billy?”
Billy returned the greeting, and waited, wondering where his employer
could have been.
“Great job, Billy! All done. As good a viaduct over that boulevard site
as there is in the city. I’ve just been looking it over. Did you know it
was building?”
Billy smiled. “I only suspected.”
“Good boy! You may see it now, any time you wish; but the men who built
it won’t be there.”
Billy looked inquiringly but did not speak.
“It’s all right, boy; everything’s right. We’ll be riding on our own
railroad in a week.”
“Knock on wood.” Billy laughed.
“That’s right. There’s many a slip betwixt rail and tie. Run into town
for a couple of days, boy, and see your mother. I’ll look after the
house now.”
“Thank you. I—”
“Oh, and you needn’t say I am here.”
Billy was glad of the two days’ visit at home. It had never seemed so
pleasantly dainty and quiet; and it was good to spend some time with his
family when he was neither sleepy nor in a hurry. He called up some of
“the kids” over the wire and began to feel young again. Sydney answered
excitedly, and what he said took Billy flying across the town to see
him, when he caught a glimmer of a clue to the mystery that had
enveloped him all Summer.
“A Postal Telegraph kid I know saw Jim Barney go by one day,” Mumps
began, “and that set the boy talking. ‘That’s a crooked one,’ he said,
and then he told this story. He said that he took a letter for Kid
Barney once late at night to a girl,—a mighty good-looker, he called
her,—and the next morning he went to the same place to get another
letter; and in both was something hard, a key he thought it was. This
made me sit up, and I asked him where the girl lived, and he said East
Street, somewhere in the seven hundred block.”
“That’s Erminie!” Billy burst out.
“Sure. And that letter had—”
“That letter was a forged one from me, and it ordered her to take the
money and run away, and not let any one know where she was.”
“Jiminy! How do you know that much?”
Billy told briefly of receiving the two letters. “Where can I find that
telegraph boy?”
“He’s gone to the country for a few days, but he’ll be back.”
“Then we can clean it all up, and—” Suddenly all the hope died out of
his face, and he turned away dejectedly. “No use, Mumps; there’s nothing
doing.”
“You bet there is! Now that I know so much, I’ll have it out myself
with—”
“Mumps, it’s just where it was before. Nothing can be done in the matter
without bringing in the girl, and that we can’t do.”
“Then it’s straight, what all the fellers are saying, that you two
stayed out all night at the picnic?”
“I’m not acknowledging that,” Billy said sternly; and then wheeled
quickly. “Nothing happened that night that the whole world might not
have seen.”
Sydney looked his sympathy and his entire understanding. “I see.”
“My watch was set back that night.”
Sydney jumped to his feet. “Gee whack! Did your coat hang on a tree back
of the dancing place?”
“Yes, for a time.”
“I saw the Kid fooling with something there, saw him hurry away just as
I turned the corner. And that minute you passed me; but it wasn’t very
light, and you didn’t notice me.”
Billy was silent for a time. “Mumps, all this may help me some day, but
not now. Will you keep track of that messenger?”
Mumps promised, and after some further discussion that was barren, they
separated.
The second day Billy spent with the Scouts, visiting each troop, hearing
of their scouting trips, watching the practice work, and with Mr.
Streeter going over the plans for the great civic review of the Scouts,
the Good Citizens’ Clubs, and the ceremony of accepting the successful
flag design and awarding the prize.
The evening of the second day Billy went back to Tum-wah. He was not due
till morning, but he had become already a part of the great activities
incipient there, which his imagination could see perfected and powerful.
He felt by proxy the responsibility and the joy of it.
Mr. Smith in his machine overtook Billy trudging up the hill, and took
him in.
“Ought I to ride—be seen riding with—”
“Jump in! You should not have come back before time, but I’m glad you
did. After to-night your job is over, and you’ll have a better one.”
“Why, what—what’s doing?” Billy began, too astonished even to realize
the import of Mr. Smith’s remark.
“Yes; find things changed, don’t you? We’ve been busy.”
When Billy left, the grade had stretched bare and brown for miles
without tie or rail. Now, except a short gap at the station and the
half-mile of contested right of way the track was completed up the hill
and into the forest.
“The girls took a notion to come home ahead of time—surprise.” Mr. Smith
looked toward the villa. “I hate surprises! Bad enough in business; but
this—Well, now they’re here, we’ll have to take care of ’em, Billy.”
The boy thrilled at being included as a defender of the two in the house
they were approaching.
“Get down in the tonneau,” Mr. Smith commanded. “They must not know
you’re here—and to watch; they’ll be uneasy.”
Billy obeyed.
“Stay here—out of sight—till I come again; I won’t be gone long.” Mr.
Smith drove to the garage, but not in, and Billy got out and went to an
inner room, his sleeping apartment.
As he had feared he heard May Nell’s voice when her father returned to
the machine. But he got rid of her.
“Run back, kiddie. I have some figuring to do, and then I must see a man
at Tum-wah, and some other things—it may be very late before I get
back.”
“It’s your birthday, papa. We came home to celebrate—”
“To-morrow night will do as well; make the old house hum if you like
to-morrow.”
“I suppose I’ll have to be satisfied,” May Nell said, and Billy heard
the crunch of her slippers in the gravel.
“Come out, Billy. I have time to burn,” Mr. Smith called; and as Billy
entered he saw the anxiety the man could not conceal. “If anything
suspicious occurs don’t wait to investigate but call up South 265, and
tell ’em to come at once; then me at Tum-wah.”
“Why don’t you have—the police, is it?—on hand before—”
“I didn’t expect to have women in on this deal. And—there are times when
one must have the trouble _before_ he calls for the cure. Sometimes that
makes a point in law.”
He was silent a long time. And the night, too, seemed stiller to Billy
than usual. Not a breath of wind was stirring, and nothing was moving
out on the road, though the hum of the distant electric car was making
itself heard.
“By George, Billy! I don’t want trouble,” the man broke out suddenly.
“If those Tum-wah fellows had let me alone I’d have been willing to
divvy even, and they’d have had twice as much as they have now. But
they’ve hogged the game. They’ve pushed their injunction suits, and
fixed these Dago gardeners. Last night they tried to blow up my grade.”
“They did?” Billy began to realize that there might be a shadow of the
Black Hand after all.
“But I’ve got the jump on ’em, Billy; got ’em in the neck, by George!
They’ve violated their franchise,—I have the evidence in black and
white; and if this night’s work meets any interference I’ll put their
old once-a-some-time-in-the-day cattle cars out of business.”
He lit a cigar and puffed at it nervously. Billy had never seen him in
this mood before.
“They think I want to get the land round here for nothing. Boy, when a
_real_ man wants to make money, he takes something out of Nature that’s
worthless, or worth little—or perhaps it’s man’s waste—and makes that
thing, after a dose of brains and a civilized dress, worth good money.
But a lazy man jumps a lot of land and sits down to listen to his
neighbors holler for it. In your time, my son, the people will have
their eyes open, and there’ll be no land going that way. Then you’ll
have to use your brains to think up new things.”
“Sometimes it seems as if all the new things had been thought up.”
“New things! Why, Billy, if every man should invent a new job there’d
still be as many coming. Look about you and see how many little things
need fixing. And who has made use of sawdust? We burn millions of
dollars’ worth every day. They’ll be making hot cross buns out of it
some day. Look at the thistles, nettles, base ores, the millions burned
up in sewage. Think of the untended, burned, and rotting
forests,—billions go that way. Think of the deserts even along foggy sea
coasts,—why, when we really use our brains we’ll condense that fog,
irrigate with it, and raise pineapples where the horned toad now
preëmpts all the real estate.”
He stopped a moment, rolled his cigar in his fingers, and looked out of
the open door; while Billy, breathless, waited for him to go on.
“Think of the tide. Billy, men of the twenty-first century will run
nearly everything in the world that calls for power by the force of the
tide. They’ll turn it into acres of light, and heat, and force their
garden truck with it. They’ll cook with it, grind with it, carry it up
mountains and down into mines; drive with it, fly with it, and laugh at
us for troglodytes.”
Both laughed softly, and Mr. Smith presently rose. “I guess I’ll go down
to the grade and kill time there. May Nell might come again; she doesn’t
have as much respect for business as you do, Billy.”
“Perhaps it would be the same with me if you were my father, though I
don’t see—how—” He hesitated, wondering what life would mean with such a
man for father.
“Perhaps so. Well, lie low. And don’t let the girls know you’re here.”
With that Mr. Smith got into the machine and chugged off down the hill.
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