AT DUGONNE AT LAST
“You see, Miss,” said one of the officers, “we got to take him to
court. It’s as much as our job’s worth to let him go.”
“We’ll all go along,” said Ned, firmly. “Maybe the judge will be kind
to him.”
“But they’ve got a bad law in this town,” said the other officer,
shaking his head.
“What kind of a law?” asked Ned, quickly.
“In regard to vagrants. It’s three months on the stone pile, or with
ball and chain. No getting out of it, unless the prisoner has money
enough to buy a ticket that will take him fifty miles away, on one road
or the other.”
“Why! that is barbarous!” exclaimed Dorothy.
“Dunno about that, Ma’am; but it’s the municipal ordinance.”
“Oh! the judge of the court must have _some_ power,” cried Dorothy. “Do
let me talk to him.”
The magistrate’s court was not far distant. Ned felt rather peculiar
as he climbed the stairs in company with the prisoner and officers,
holding Dorothy’s hand in the crook of his arm. There were some pretty
rough looking characters on the stairs and hanging about the door of
the magistrate’s court. But Ned and Dorothy pushed on in the wake of
the railroad police and their prisoner.
Dorothy sympathized so deeply with the old man who had escaped from
the discipline and routine of the Soldiers’ Home, that she paid little
attention to her surroundings.
The courtroom was long, and ugly, and bare. The man sitting at the high
desk at the end of the room, Dorothy knew, must be the magistrate. He
was a young, smoothly shaven man, dressed very fashionably, and with a
flower in his buttonhole. That flower was the single bright spot in all
the somber place.
The railroad policeman looked knowingly at Dorothy, and she went
forward with Ned. They were both allowed inside the railing. One of the
officers spoke in a low tone to the magistrate, and the latter glanced
interestedly at Dorothy.
Although Dorothy Dale had been traveling night and day for some time,
she was too attractive a girl to lose all her bonny appearance under
_any_ circumstances.
The magistrate listened to the railroad detective. Then he called the
poor old man to the bar.
“What is your name?” asked the magistrate.
“John Dempsey, your honor.”
“Without a home in this county, and no visible means of support, the
officer says--is that right?”
“I--I--Yes, your honor.”
“And found riding on the train without a ticket?”
“I was, your honor.”
“Why? Why did you do it?”
“Sure, your honor, they treat me well enough at the Home; but I want to
get out in the open. It’s stifled I am become by four walls.”
“But that does not explain away the fact that you stole a ride upon the
complainant’s train?” said the magistrate, sternly.
Dorothy looked up at him pleadingly. John Dempsey was silent; he could
not plead his own cause in speech as eloquent as Dorothy’s eyes pleaded
for him! Judge Abbott beckoned the young girl to step up beside him.
“I understand you wish to speak in the prisoner’s behalf?” said the
magistrate.
“Oh, Judge! ought he to be a prisoner with that button on his coat?”
cried Dorothy Dale, impulsively. “He is an old Veteran--a man who
fought for our country. I am sure Mr. Dempsey is a good man. _Don’t_
punish him, Judge!”
“But, my dear young lady, how can I help it? He has committed a
misdemeanor. He must either be sent to jail, or he must produce his
fare out of town--and fifty miles out of town, at that!”
“Oh, sir! can’t somebody else pay his fare?” asked Dorothy, anxiously.
“Surely, Miss. Are you prepared to do so?”
“No, sir, not now. But I will take him away on the one o’clock train--I
will indeed.”
“Very well. Sentence suspended. Paroled in _your_ care,” added the
judge to one of the railroad officers. “You have him at the station in
season for the train, and the young lady will be responsible for his
fare.”
Dorothy thanked him, but went eagerly to the prisoner.
“Where do you want to go, sir?” she asked.
“I--I--Well, Miss, it don’t so much matter as long as I git to _go_. I
want to reach the hills.”
“You shall go with us as far as Dugonne, at least,” said Dorothy,
impulsively. “I’m sure we can find something for him to do at the
Hardin place, Ned?” she added, turning to her cousin.
Ned was more than a little startled by this. Things were moving rather
too fast for him. But he managed to say:
“You--you’ll have to settle that with the mater, Dot.” But then he
whispered: “What can an old fellow like him do on a ranch?”
“That’s all right,” Dorothy returned. “We’ll make him _think_ he can do
something.”
“You do beat all!” gasped her cousin, with astonishment.
Dorothy shook hands with the judge, and with the railroad officers, and
with John Dempsey. She scattered the sunshine of her smiles all about
the dingy court room, and things seemed to brighten up for everybody.
Then she hurried with Ned to the hotel where Aunt Winnie was waiting.
“My dear girl!” said that good lady. “How you have worried me. And
Tavia’s account of your adventures have not served to relieve our
anxiety--much. Going to court with a tramp----”
“Not a tramp, Auntie!” interposed Dorothy Dale. “He is one of father’s
old comrades. He is a Veteran.”
“I hope so. I hope you have not been imposed upon. But it will cost
money----”
“You told me,” said Dorothy, earnestly, “that when we got to the Hardin
place you’d buy a pony for my very own use. Take that money and pay
John Dempsey’s fare. I don’t need a pony.”
Aunt Winnie kissed her. “My dear girl! I am afraid your sympathy will
often lead you astray,” she said. “But you will stray in kindly paths.
I do not believe there will be much serious harm for you that way.”
“What do you think of _me_?” broke in Tavia. “I am always going astray,
too. At least, so they all tell me.”
“Your heart is all right, my dear Octavia,” said Mrs. White, smiling,
“but it is your head that leads _you_ astray,” she added, not unkindly.
They all went to the railroad station in good season, and there found
the policeman and old John Dempsey waiting for them. The good-natured
officer had improved the old man’s appearance considerably by having
his clothing brushed and finding him the means for washing. Dempsey had
likewise been fed.
He was a brown-faced, blue-eyed man of nearly seventy. The blue eyes
had, perhaps, a wandering look, and the muscles about the old man’s
mouth had weakened, but otherwise he was sturdy looking.
He saluted Dorothy when she hurried toward him, but took off his hat to
Mrs. White.
“’Tis a pity, Ma’am,” he said, to the lady, “that you do be troubled by
such as me. But I’m fair desp’rit! I’d take charity from anybody to git
back into the open once more.
“They’ve hived me up in four walls till it’s fair mad they’ve made me.
I might strike it rich yet, out in the hills, an’ pay ye for----”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” said Mrs. White, kindly. “I am sure
we can find something for you to do out of doors on our big place that
will make you self-supporting.”
“God bless ye for saying that, Ma’am,” said John Dempsey, gratefully,
and followed on behind the party to the train, where the policeman bade
them good-bye.
The boys took charge of John Dempsey and saw him comfortably seated in
the day coach. It was a long run to Dugonne, where the party arrived at
nine o’clock that evening.
Dorothy was so anxiously looking forward to the end of the train
journey that she had quite forgotten some of the circumstances
connected with this sudden trip. There, on the lighted platform, as the
train rolled in, appeared the stocky, black mustached man for whom she
and Tavia had taken such a dislike.
“Philo Marsh!” ejaculated Dorothy to her chum.
“He got here ahead of us.”
“He had no intention of letting Aunt Winnie get here first,” declared
Dorothy. “Now, Tavia, we must watch that man; he means Aunt Winnie no
good, I’m sure.”
Philo Marsh rushed forward to greet Mrs. White, with both hands
extended, when the party from the East left the train.
“I certainly made good connections,” he said, with enthusiasm,
insisting upon shaking hands with the two boys as well as the lady
herself. The girls kept away from him, and it was evident that the man
did not recognize them, but he swept off his hat and bowed deeply to
Dorothy and Tavia, when Mrs. White presented them as “my niece, and her
friend.”
“I’ve the best suite in the best hotel in Dugonne saved for you,” Philo
Marsh declared. “I’ve ordered supper for you, too. They’ll serve it
just as soon as you arrive, in your sitting room. Oh, we can do things
in good style out yere if we put our minds to it,” and the man laughed
heartily.
“And in the morning I’ll come and talk with you, Mrs. White. If you
want to see some of the other men interested in this water-right
business, I’ll bring them.”
“Oh, mercy, sir!” cried Aunt Winnie. “Let us get rested and look
about a little before we rush into business. But I will let you call
to-morrow afternoon, Mr. Marsh.”
With this, Philo Marsh had to be content. The party of tourists were
driven away in a depot wagon for the Commonwealth Hotel.