PIPPIN KEEPS WATCH, WITH RESULTS
Mary was a long time going to bed that night. In the first place she
could not find her blue ribbon bow, and being as economical as she was
methodical, this distressed her. It was a new ribbon, bought at a
special sale, and marked down almost unbelievably low, because there was
a flaw in the weaving which would never be seen when made up. It was a
good bow too; it is not everyone who can make a pretty bow; and Mary was
perfectly sure that she had pinned it on her neat collar this evening.
She searched the room thoroughly--such a pretty, tidy room, all white
and blue like her kitchen--even peeping under bed and bureau, but no
blue bow was to be found.
Then there was her chapter to be read; hard reading to-night, though it
was Ruth, which she loved; hard to keep her mind on the text, her eyes
on the page. Everything was all a-flutter, somehow. Mary sighed, and put
her bookmark in soberly. She was not a very good girl, she thought, to
be thinking of--other things--when she was reading her Bible. Then--blue
kimono substituted for blue one-piece dress--out came Mary's hairpins
and down came Mary's hair. It took a good while to do Mary's hair. It
was not only the quantity of it--it flowed down and about her like a
cloak--it was the quality. It _would_ curl up round the brush, and
break into ripples in the very teeth of the comb. It was a storage
battery of electricity, and if a thunderstorm were to come on now, while
it was down, you would see long golden strands separate themselves from
the mass and fly straight up from her head. There being no thunderstorms
this night, Mary, with firm, long strokes of the brush, with searching
arguments of the comb, brought all the unruly gold into subjection, made
it lie as nearly smooth as it could over her shoulders, finally braided
it tight in two massive braids to be tossed back over her shoulders with
a little sigh.
"_That's_ done!" said Mary.
But even then, and even when her prayers were said and herself composed
in her narrow white bed, as Saint Ursula in her wide one in the
Parmegianino picture (looking rather like her, I declare!), Mary was not
ready for sleep.
But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts went to and fro,
That vain it were her eyes to close.
Most of her thoughts hovered, it must be confessed, about Pippin on his
straw mattress in the shed. Why did she think about him so much? Mary
asked herself, and found no answer, unless the blood tingling in her
cheeks were an answer.
Mary's had been a cool, detached, impersonal little life, in the years
of her girlhood. Life at the Home, pleasant, regular, unconnected with
emotions in any way, had changed the trembling, palpitating child who
started at every sudden sound into a calm, self-possessed, rather
matter-of-fact young woman. She did not often think of the old days. Why
should she? They were gone, and where was the sense in stirring herself
all up when it did no good to any one? It stood to reason!
But Pippin's story to-night brought the old time back whether she would
or no. She lay still, staring out into the starlit night. His story--how
strange that he should have had such a childhood! Was that why she
seemed to have known him all her life? The old times! Perhaps it was the
straw mattress that brought it back so clear. She could smell that musty
straw now, so unlike the clean, fresh smell of that nice new one out in
the shed.
She saw her mother, the little gray shawl drawn tightly over her
shoulders, the fair hair strained back from the face with its too early
lines of pain and grief; saw her eyes as they followed the poor bed
dragged almost from under their feet by the shambling figure. Oh! how
she had hated that sodden, stumbling figure! And the child, clinging
passionately to those poor skirts--thin, worn to shreds, but always
clean; poor mother was always clean!--clinging, crying, shaken with a
passion of anger, grief, tenderness, which swept away all power of
speech--could that child be herself? Yet he was kind, when he was sober;
yes, father was kind--indeed, he had never been hard to her. Often and
often he would call her to him, caress her, call her his little
gal--while her flesh shrank from him, loathing the smell of liquor--he
always smelled of liquor, even when sober--of rank tobacco--pah!
Mary supposed she was hard-hearted: how could she love a man like that?
She adored her mother; the tears came smarting into her eyes at the
thought of her. But for him, mother might be alive to-day; poverty,
hunger, hard work, had aged her, killed her, long before her time, poor
mother! Look at her there; see her eyes following the mattress.
Mary turned in her bed, and a sigh that was almost a sob broke from her.
She hated wicked people--yes, she hated them; and weak people, too,
people who made others suffer just because they were too feeble to deny
themselves the drink that was poison--
"I _hate_ them!" said Mary aloud. Then she thought of Pippin, and
blushed again. Pippin did not hate wicked or weak people. He seemed to
love them. How was it? Mary, cool, kind, a little aloof, did not
understand it. They had talked together a good deal during these past
two weeks, and she had wondered at the glow in his eyes, the thrill in
his voice, when he spoke of his religion. Mary was a good
Congregationalist; she went to church, and said her prayers, and read
her Bible. She supposed--why, of course she loved the Lord; she would be
a wicked girl if she didn't; but--well, she was different, that was all.
Of course, with all he had gone through--how bright his eyes were! How
strong his faith must be! She supposed she was cold-hearted; yet when
Pippin sang a hymn, she felt as if Heaven was close by. It surely was a
privilege to know a person like that. And to think that he had once
been--how to believe it? How not to believe anything he said, with those
bright eyes looking straight into her? Perhaps the Lord would soften her
heart-- Pippin was right down there in the shed--think of it! She hoped
he wouldn't lie cold; it felt so safe, having him there! She put an
extra comforter--she did hope he would sleep well--
At this point Mary went to sleep herself.
* * * * *
She slept peacefully for some hours, lying still and straight as Saint
Ursula herself; then she began to dream. Pippin was not sleeping well,
out there in the shed; likely it had come up cold in the night. He had
got up and come into the house, for warmth, of course. She heard him
stumbling about among the chairs and tables; if she had only shown him
the switch! Hark! He was whistling, calling out--_hark!_
Mary sprang up, broad awake. Something was going on downstairs. Voices,
low and angry, hasty steps--the house on fire? She was up in an instant,
slipped on the blue kimono and over it a heavy cloak, ran down the back
stairs just as John Aymer ran down the front. Opening opposite doors
quietly, they came upon a strange sight.
In the middle of the kitchen was Pippin, at grips with another man of
slighter build than himself; at one side stood a third man, older and
heavier than either, watching the two.
They struggled silently for a moment; then Pippin's greater strength
prevailing, he forced the other back toward the wall. Suddenly the
latter wrenched his right hand free; wrenched himself round; there was a
flash of bright metal--Pippin ducked, and the brass knuckles crashed
into the smooth plaster, cracking and starring it. Pippin had been
struggling cheerfully and composedly up to now, but when his eye caught
the brazen flash, he went dead white under his tan. With a sharp blow he
beat down the murderous hand, caught the ruffian by the throat, ran him
back across the room and dashed him against the opposite wall with a
violence that shook the house. The man dropped like lead, and Pippin,
towering over him like Michael over the dragon, turned to face the
other. At this moment, before any one could move, the outer door was
opened and a giant form appeared in the doorway, lantern in one hand,
truncheon in the other.
"What's going on here?" asked Dennis Cassidy, the night watchman.
The elder man stepped quickly between him and the others.
"Officer, I give this man in charge!" his voice was quiet, but venomous.
"Assault and battery, mebbe manslaughter, too. He's half killed my son,
a respectable tradesman."
The policeman looked from one to the other; then, as Bashford stretched
his hand toward Pippin's collar, he motioned him back.
"Hold still!" he commanded. "Everybody stand where they be!" Turning for
a moment in the doorway, he drew forth his whistle and sounded a long,
piercing note. "Now then, you!" he nodded to Bashford. "What are you and
your respectable tradesman son doing here this time o' night? Hallo,
young chap!" as he recognized Pippin. "_You_ in this game?"
Mr. Aymer stepped forward.
"Good evening, Cassidy. This is the young man I told you about, who was
going to watch the house for me. These are the men he found--I
suppose--breaking and entering. I think--I am _sure_ of his honesty!"
The last phrase was uttered somewhat explosively. Mrs. Aymer had crept
downstairs after him, and pinched his arm violently.
"That's as may be, sir! Don't you say anything yet, my bo!" to Pippin.
"I asked _you_," he spoke to Bashford, "what you and your son were doing
here this time o' night."
"Watchin' him!" the reply came coolly. "I give him in charge, officer,
and it's your dooty to arrest him. If you don't know him, ask the Third
District force! Ask 'em what they know about Pippin the Kid, alias
Moonlighter, alias Jack-o'-lantern--he's well known to every cop in that
district. Me and my son have seen him wormin' his way in here, deceivin'
this good gentleman and his family; me and my son have knowed him from
a--" Mr. Bashford paused a moment--"knowed him for a crook from way
back."
"I don't believe a word of it!" said John Aymer.
Pippin looked up, white to the lips, but his chin held high.
"It's true!" he said.
There was a moment of dead silence, broken only by a tiny squeak from
the stairs where Mrs. Aymer crouched invisible. All eyes were fixed on
Pippin, and he held them all, glancing from one to the other.
"Up to three years ago," he said slowly, "I was all that. I'm straight
now. I'm an honest man. Mr. Aymer, sir, I'd ought to have told you
before; I ask your pardon! But I'm an honest man, and I come here
to-night to protect your property."
"You _ought_ to have told me, Lippitt!" Mr. Aymer spoke in a troubled
voice. "I ought to have known if there was anything like this behind
you."
A little blue figure came forward, a little warm hand was slipped into
Pippin's.
"I knew!" said Mary-in-the-kitchen. "He told me!"
"God bless you!" Pippin grasped the little hand and squeezed it till
Mary had to bite her lips to keep back a scream.
But now the younger Bashford, regaining the senses which had been
knocked out of him, struggled up on his elbow and pointed a shaking
finger at Pippin.
"Yes, he's straight!" he cried in a voice broken with passion. "Yes,
he's an honest man all right, all right! Get his wheel, his innercent
little scissor-grinder's wheel! Bring it in from the shed where he's
kep' it handy. Nipper Crewe's wheel, well known to every burglar in the
state, with the finest kit of breakin' tools made by man hid away in it!
Fetch the wheel, somebody! The ---- skunk has broke my leg or I'd go."
What is this? From dead white Pippin has gone vivid scarlet from brow to
neck. He steps forward hastily.
"I'll bring the wheel!" he says.
"No you don't!" the giant policeman fills the doorway, seeming to expand
till it is a close fit on either side. "No, nor you either!" as the
elder Bashford made a motion. "You three stay where you be! Yes, sir, if
you'll be so kind!" This to John Aymer, who has silently indicated his
readiness to go.
No one speaks while the householder slips out. Pippin, still holding the
little hand, has dropped his brave crest and stands with hanging head
and downcast looks. What can it mean? Mary casts little anxious glances
at him. Mrs. Aymer weeps audibly on the stairs; the Bashfords, father
and son, seem to swell with anticipatory triumph; Dennis Cassidy,
thoroughly puzzled, glowers at the three from under his shaggy eyebrows.
As the light rattle of the wheel was heard, Pippin started, and darted a
strange look at Mary.
"I ask your pardon, Miss Mary!" he muttered. "I hadn't ought--"
Mr. Aymer entered with the wheel, and Nosey Bashford struggled to his
knees, still pointing his shaking finger.
"Fetch it here!" he shrieked. "I know the trick of it. Here!" In his
eagerness he scrambled up and hopped on one foot (his leg was not
broken, by the way, only twisted in falling) to where John Aymer stood.
His fingers hovered over the wheel, clutching and clawing with
eagerness; his breath whistled through his teeth. John Aymer looked at
him and turned away with a shudder of disgust. "Here! Here it is! See,
copper? See, Governor? You shove back this plate--look! look, now, and
see how straight he is! He, he! What--damn!--what's this?"
He broke short off, and stood glaring. All the others pressed eagerly
forward, save Pippin, who stood like a statue, looking at the floor.
Dennis Cassidy, with a massive shove, sent Nosey staggering back, then
thrust his finger into the narrow cavity and drew out, and held up--a
little bow of blue ribbon.
It was at this instant, before any one had time to speak, that a firm,
quick foot crunched on the gravel outside. Some one came up the step,
and looking over the policeman's shoulder, stood in silent amazement.
Pippin looked up, uttered a great cry, and sprang forward.
"Elder!" he cried. "Elder Hadley, sir! I'm straight! As God is above us
in Heaven, sir! I'm straight."
The air turned black about him, and for a moment he saw nothing but
whirling sparks of fire. When his vision cleared, he found himself
leaning on Lawrence Hadley's shoulder. A sob broke from him.
"I'm straight, Elder!" he repeated.
"Of course you are straight, Pippin! Easy, old chap. Take it easy! Look
out, officer!"
Mr. Dod Bashford, after one glance at the contents of the secret
compartment, had been edging unostentatiously toward the door. As
Cassidy stepped aside to let the chaplain enter, he made a sudden dash,
amazingly swift for so heavy a man, and diving between the colossal
legs, got halfway out of the door; but calculating his chance a little
too closely, he upset the equilibrium of Mr. Cassidy, who sat down
suddenly and heavily, blocking the doorway more completely than before.
"Hold on, Dod!" he said, seizing Mr. Bashford's legs in a grip of iron.
"Hold on! I ain't sure about young Pippin, or whatever his name is, but
I've no doubts about you, my man. You're wanted on several counts, and I
don't doubt but your respectable son is too. _Hold still!_ You don't
want I should have to knock you out before the ladies, do you? I'm
ashamed of you!"
Bashford struggled savagely, desperately, muttering curses under his
breath. His son moved quietly to the window and investigated the
firmness of the fly screen.
But now more footsteps were heard. Two men came running along the lane,
into the yard, up the steps; stars shone, truncheons waved, handcuffs
clinked. In two minutes all was over, and the Bashfords, relapsing
instantly into the hunch, skulk, cringe of the habitual criminal, stood
in apparent humility before the Force.
One of the newcomers, surveying the group, broke into a jovial laugh.
"Well done, Dennis Cassidy!" he cried. "Bully for you! Let's hear anyone
say again that you go to sleep on your beat!"