I
One day there arrived at Brine’s Rip Mills, driving in a smart trap
which looked peculiarly unsuited to the rough backwoods roads, an
imposing gentleman who wore a dark green Homburg hat, heavy, tan,
gauntleted gloves, immaculate linen, shining boots, and a well-fitting
morning suit of dark pepper-and-salt, protected from the contaminations
of travel by a long, fawn-coloured dust-coat. He also wore a monocle so
securely screwed into his left eye that it looked as if it had been born
there.
His red and black wheels labouring noiselessly through the sawdust of
the village road, he drove up to the front door of the barn-like wooden
structure, which staggered under the name, in huge letters, of the
CONTINENTAL HOTEL. There was no one in sight to hold the horse, so he
sat in the trap and waited, with severe impatience, for some one to come
out to him.
In a few moments the landlord strolled forth in his shirt-sleeves,
chewing tobacco, and inquired casually what he could do for his visitor.
“I’m looking for Mr. Blackstock—Mr. J. T. Blackstock,” said the stranger
with lofty politeness. “Will you be so good as to direct me to him?”
The landlord spat thoughtfully into the sawdust, to show that he was not
unduly impressed by the stranger’s appearance.
“You’ll find him down to the furder end of the cross street yonder,” he
answered, pointing with his thumb. “Last house towards the river. Lives
with old Mrs. Amos—him an’ Woolly Billy.”
The stranger found it without difficulty, and halted his trap in front
of the door. Before he could alight, a tall, rather gaunt woodsman, with
kind but piercing eyes and brows knitted in an habitual concentration,
appeared in the doorway and gave him courteous greeting.
“Mr. Blackstock, I presume? The Deputy Sheriff, I should say,” returned
the stranger with extreme affability, descending from the trap.
“The same,” assented Blackstock, stepping forward to hitch the horse to
a fence post. A big black dog came from the house and, ignoring the
resplendent stranger, went up to Blackstock’s side to superintend the
hitching. A slender little boy, with big china-blue eyes and a shock of
pale, flaxen curls, followed the dog from the house and stopped to stare
at the visitor.
The latter swept the child with a glance of scrutiny, swift and intent,
then turned to his host.
“I am extraordinarily glad to meet you, Mr. Blackstock,” he said,
holding out his hand. “If, as I surmise, the name of this little boy
here is Master George Harold Manners Watson, then I owe you a debt of
gratitude which nothing can repay. I hear that you not only saved his
life, but have been as a father to him, ever since the death of his own
unhappy father.”
Blackstock’s heart contracted. He accepted the stranger’s hand cordially
enough, but was in no hurry to reply. At last he said slowly:
“Yes, Stranger, you’ve got Woolly Billy’s reel name all O. K. But why
should _you_ thank me? Whatever I’ve done, it’s been for Woolly Billy’s
own sake—ain’t it, Billy?”
For answer, Woolly Billy snuggled up against his side and clutched his
great brown hand adoringly, while still keeping dubious eyes upon the
stranger.
The latter took off his gloves, laughing amiably.
“Well, you see, Mr. Blackstock, I’m only his uncle, and his only uncle
at that. So I have a right to thank you, and I see by the way the child
clings to you how good you’ve been to him. My name is J. Heathington
Johnson, of Heathington Hall, Cramley, Blankshire. I’m his mother’s
brother. And I fear I shall have to tear him away from you in a great
hurry, too.”
“Come inside, Mr. Johnson,” said Blackstock, “an’ sit down. We must talk
this over a bit. It is kind o’ sudden, you see.”
“I don’t want to seem unsympathetic,” said the visitor kindly, “and I
know my little nephew is going to resent my carrying him off.” (At these
words Woolly Billy began to realize what was in the air, and clung to
Blackstock with a storm of frightened tears.) “But you will understand
that I have to catch the next boat from New York—and I have a
thirty-mile drive before me now to the nearest railway station. _You_
know what the roads are! So I’m sure you won’t think me unreasonable if
I ask you to get my nephew ready as soon as possible.”
Blackstock devoted a few precious moments to quieting the child’s sobs
before replying. He remembered having found out in some way, from some
papers in the drowned Englishman’s pockets or somewhere, that the name
of Woolly Billy’s mother, before her marriage, was not Johnson, but
O’Neil. Of course that discrepancy, he realized, might be easily
explained, but his quick suspicions, sharpened by his devotion to the
child, were aroused.
“We are not a rich family, by any means, Mr. Blackstock,” continued the
stranger, after a pause. “But we have enough to be able to reward
handsomely those who have befriended us. All _possible_ expense that my
nephew may have been to you, I want to reimburse you for at once. And I
wish also to make you a present as an expression of my gratitude—not, I
assure you, as a payment,” he added, noticing that Blackstock’s face had
hardened ominously. He took out a thick bill-book, well stuffed with
bank-notes.
“Put away your money, Mr. Johnson,” said Blackstock coldly. “I ain’t
taking any, thank you, for what I may have done for Woolly Billy. But
what I want to know is, what authority have you to demand the child?”
“I’m his uncle, his mother’s brother,” answered the stranger sharply,
drawing himself up.
“That may be, an’ then again, it mayn’t,” said Blackstock. “Do you think
I’m goin’ to hand over the child to a perfect stranger, just because he
comes and says he’s the child’s uncle? What proofs have you?”
The visitor glared angrily, but restrained himself and handed Blackstock
his card.
Blackstock read it carefully.
“What does that prove?” he demanded sarcastically. “It might not be your
card! An’ even if you are ‘Mr. Johnson’ all right, that’s not proving
that Mr. Johnson is the little feller’s uncle! I want legal proof, that
would hold in a court of law.”
“You insolent blockhead!” exclaimed the visitor. “How dare you interfere
between my nephew and me? If you don’t hand him over at once, I will
make you smart for it. Come, child, get your cap and coat, and come with
me immediately. I have no more time to waste with this foolery, my man.”
And he stepped forward as if to lay hands on Woolly Billy.
Blackstock interposed an inexorable shoulder. The big dog growled, and
stiffened up the hair on his neck ominously.
“Look here,” said Blackstock crisply, “you’re goin’ to git yourself into
trouble before you go much further, my lad. You jest mind your manners.
When you bring me them proofs, I’ll talk to you, see!”
He took Woolly Billy’s hand, and turned towards the door.
The stranger’s righteous indignation, strangely enough, seemed to have
been allayed by this speech. He followed eagerly.
“_Don’t_ be unreasonable, Mr. Blackstock,” he coaxed. “I’ll send you the
documents, from my solicitors, at once. I’m sure you don’t want to stand
in the dear child’s light this way, and prevent him getting back to his
own people, and the life that is his right, a day longer than is
necessary. Do listen to reason, now.” And he patted his wad of
bank-notes suggestively.
But at this stage, Woolly Billy and the big dog having already entered
the cottage, Blackstock followed, and calmly shut the door. “You’ll
smart for this, you ignorant clod-hopper!” shouted Mr. Heathington
Johnson. He clutched the door-knob. But for all his rage, prudence came
to his rescue. He did not turn the knob. After a moment’s hesitation he
ground his heel upon the doorstep, stalked back to his gig, and drove
off furiously. The three at the window watched his going.
“We won’t see _him_ back here again,” remarked the Deputy. “_He_ wasn’t
no uncle o’ yours, Woolly Billy.”
That same evening he wrote to a reliable firm of lawyers at Exville,
telling them all he knew about Woolly Billy and Woolly Billy’s father,
and also all he suspected, and instructed them to look into the matter
fully.