and did not see my way to making the usual deposit to your account," he
began, utterly indifferent, so he were not caught, that he was being
deliberately untruthful. "Hope it didn't embarrass you. Things are
easier, now, and I will attend to the matter to-morrow morning."
"Why--why, thank you, sir!" This was so unexpected that the young man
was as bewildered as if a mine had exploded at his feet. "That is very
good of you. I had no idea you were--were strapped." He flushed. "As
a matter of fact, I thought--I thought--"
"Go on. What did you think?"
"Well, sir, I thought you were just giving me a reminder of my absolute
dependence on you. I've been a pretty useless animal, I know."
"Why the past tense? Are you a useful animal now?"
"N-no, sir. I guess it would be exaggerating the facts if I claimed
that! But my intentions are good." Simon's lips lifted. "I want to
get busy at something useful right away."
"Humph. You're just out of college and the general idea has been that
you would take a post-graduate course in the Columbia Law School; that
is your mother's wish. The tannery, if I may so express it, has always
been a stench in her nostrils. She is not the first woman to quarrel
with the honest source of her bread-and-butter." He stared at his son
from beneath level brows. "Well? Have plans changed?"
"I want to make money, sir, and it would be years before I could hope
to do that at the Bar."
"I will undertake to continue your allowance until you have established
yourself."
"Thank you, father, but it's not the same thing. I want to stand on my
own feet--and as soon as possible."
"Why?"
"Because I wish--I intend--to marry Sheila Graham."
"You shan't do it!"
It was the drop of the handkerchief; steel rang upon steel, and no
buttons tipped their foils. It was careful fencing at first, thrust
and parry, parry and thrust, until Simon lost patience at length and
put all his viciousness into one deadly lunge.
"Now, see here, Copley! If you persist in disregarding my wishes let
me tell you what will happen; I will throw Billy Graham out of his job
and I'll use every scrap of influence I possess to keep him from
getting another! Put that in your pipe and smoke it!" The notebook
slapped on his knee. "Ruin your own prospects if you're fool enough to
do it; ruin Sheila's, if she's fool enough to let you; but _stop
there_! Maybe she'll help you to stop when she knows that your
stubbornness and hers will be a knife in her father's back! She _will_
know, too, for you can't go ahead in common decency without telling her
what it will mean to him!" The tanner leaned forward, an ugly light of
triumph in his eyes, raised his free hand and slowly clenched his fist.
"I've got--you--right--_there_!"
"Father!" The bitterest shame in the world, the shame of a son for his
father, was in that cry. The young man rose from his chair and stood
looking at Simon Varr almost incredulously. "You couldn't do _that_!
You couldn't do anything so contemptible! Do what you please to me,
but take back that threat before I--I despise you!"
"Despise me? _You_! Ha! I'll take back nothing, and I'll use my
advantage to its full extent. Mark that! I've said you shan't marry
Sheila Graham--and what I say _goes_!"
"Not any longer with me!" flared his son at white heat. For a full
minute they indulged in a furious exchange of half-incoherent insults
before Copley's voice rose clear above his father's. "I will marry
Sheila as soon as she'll have me, and I warn you to keep your hands off
Graham!"
It was then that the study door was flung open and a thick, heavy voice
cut through their abusive volleys.
"That will do, young man! I can fight my own battles with no help from
you!"
Graham came into the study, dragging with him the shrinking figure of
the clerk, Langhorn. His intrusion was startling enough, but there was
still a deeper significance in the slight lurch that the manager gave
as he halted, glowering, before Simon Varr. His flushed face and
blurred utterance contributed their testimony to a fact that was
ominous in itself; he had been drinking, drinking heavily, though he
was notably abstemious by habit. Varr got hastily to his feet, so
threatening was his manager's attitude.
"What do you want here?" he demanded curtly, though he knew well enough
what Langhorn's presence betokened. "What do you mean by bursting in
like that? Are you drunk?"
Possibly the crisp question went far to sober Graham, who was plainly
trying to shake off the effect of his potations as if the sense of the
undignified figure he was cutting was just beginning to filter into his
confused brain. He straightened up, steadied himself.
"I want a talk with you, Mr. Varr. It's overdue, I think. I've been
waiting for you to make a move in a certain direction, and it seems
I've been fooling myself nicely." He spoke slowly. "More than a score
of years I've worked for you, Mr. Varr, and not you nor any man can say
I haven't done well by you and the business. I'm entitled to something
more than the salary of a hired hand--Mr. Bolt agrees with me
there--and I've been hoping that you would give me some chance to
invest my savings in a business I've grown up with. I've earned the
right--"
"Stop pinning medals on yourself and come to the point!"
"I've been wondering if maybe you didn't understand how I felt and if I
oughtn't to speak straight out, but yesterday afternoon this man,
Langhorn, told me he had heard you and Mr. Bolt discussing me. He told
me you said you would never give me a partnership, that--that you were
going to throw me out so I would go to Rochester, taking Sheila with
me! It--it nearly knocked me off my feet, Mr. Varr; it's no wonder I
took a drink or so too much this evening. Now I've brought this man
here so you can say if he told me the truth--or so you can call him a
liar to his face."
"You needn't have gone to that trouble!" snarled Simon, purple with
rage. "He's a sneaking hound, but he told you the truth this time, and
I'd have told you all you wanted to know without your bringing him
along!"
"Then--it's true? You're going to let me out after all these years?"
"Yes!" The word was fairly shouted. From temper and sheer
exasperation, Simon was in a towering passion. He flung the notebook
he was holding onto his desk, raised both hands above his head and
shook them in a frenzy at the two men. "_Yes_! And you can start
going by getting out of here, now, and taking your eavesdropping pal
with you! Get out--and don't either of you ever come back!"
Langhorn wriggled free and stepped out into the hall. Graham did not
leave without a parting shot--directed via Copley, who had been a
silent witness of the scene.
"This is your fault more than any one else's," he said, "but I know you
didn't mean it." He glanced expressively at Varr and back again. "I
hope you're proud of your father!" he added dryly, and followed the
departing clerk from the house.
There was a brief silence in the study for a moment or two after the
thud of the closing front door came to their ears. Then Copley made to
leave the room, unchecked by his father, who stood watching him in
sullen mood. The young man paused on the threshold and turned to face
his father.
"So," he said evenly, "you were threatening me with a course of action
that you had already determined on! Isn't that so?"
A wave of color suffused Varr's face and answered him.
"Come back here!" snapped Simon. "I've not finished with you!"
"Yes, you have, father," said Copley. "Just that!"
White to his lips, he turned and left the room. Varr listened to his
retreating steps and to a second closing of the front door as he went
out of the house into the dark night.
Alone, Varr sank into the chair before his desk and tried to take stock
of his position. For once, it seemed, he had not only failed to have
his own way but had definitely come out at the short end of the horn.
It would be difficult to replace Graham--he could admit that to
himself. It would be impossible to replace Copley--! He did not try
to deceive himself with false hopes in that connection; there had been
a finality in his son's last utterance that rang true.
What curse had come upon him? What malign fate had led Graham there
that evening at the very moment when he could least afford to have his
trickery revealed to his son? Why was everything going wrong?
The solace of tobacco was denied him, since he did not smoke. His
shaken nerves cried for some attention, and the faint odor of whisky
that still lingered in the room recalled him to Graham's resource. He
stepped to the door and called Bates, who came from the rear of the
house.
"Fetch me a glass, and that decanter of Bourbon."
The butler returned in a minute with a tray. He placed it on a small
table near the desk and looked inquiringly at Simon.
"Will you wish anything else, sir?"
"No. Go to bed."
"Thank you, sir. Everything is closed but the front door. Mr. Copley
is still out. Good night, sir."
Varr poured himself a stiff three fingers and tossed it off at a gulp,
making a wry face as the fiery liquor stung his unaccustomed throat.
Otherwise the effect was excellent. He decanted another large drink
and was about to take a sip of it when his eyes, above the glass,
chanced to rest on a piece of brown paper in a pigeonhole of his desk.
Abruptly, he put down his drink, drew the paper out, and read the last
lines of the message so curiously received.
"_Take heed to thy ways and mend them, lest thou be destroyed by the
thunderbolts of wrath!_"
Bah! He flung the paper back into its hole, yet continued to eye it
with a feeling of uneasiness that required another swallow of whisky to
allay. Ah--that was better! He took a second, and new life and
courage flowed into him with the liquor.
He threw back his head and squared his shoulders defiantly. Blast
them--blast them one and all, root and branch! Graham--Copley--this
lunatic Monk--! Threaten _him_, would they? Let 'em look out for
themselves--_he'd_ show 'em!
He raised his clenched fist preparatory to bringing it down with a
crash upon the desk. It did not fall; it stayed aloft while a sudden
fear leaped into his eyes. He bent forward, his head turned sideways,
his ears straining to catch a sound that had come to them from a
distance.
A siren was blowing--the siren whose raucous wail gave warning to the
people of Hambleton when fire threatened their homes. Tensely, Simon
counted the long blasts. One--two--three! A short pause.
One--two--three!
Thirty-three! _The tannery_!
He sprang erect. Instinct born of habit impelled him to slam down the
roll-top cover of his desk before he rushed from the room and down the
hall. He snatched his soft hat from a rack as he reached with his
other hand for the heavy latch of the front door.
Two minutes later he was guiding his light car down the curving
hillside road, driving fast but carefully. He made such good time that
he arrived at the scene of the fire several minutes before the local
Fire Department had assembled its hats, its equipment and itself, and
had gotten its apparatus to the field of action.
A small mob of men, women and delighted children was gathered in the
open space before the office building and the gate. They were milling
about in excited groups, eager enough to lend a hand but hopelessly
confused without the guidance of a leader. Varr thrust through them
impatiently, opened the door--that the watchman had thoughtfully left
unbarred--and hurried through the building to the rear premises.
A column of black smoke shot with leaping crimson flames told him where
to direct his swift steps. The fire, evidently, was confined for the
moment to one, or possibly two, of the small outbuildings. These were
used largely for storage purposes; they were crammed full of packing
cases, extra carboys of acids and loose heaps of bark--a raft of stuff
that was highly combustible. A glance told Simon that they were doomed.
Through a haze of greasy smoke he glimpsed an active figure--the only
human being in sight except himself--and he hastened to its side. It
was Fay, the night-watchman, a powerful, stocky man who clearly did not
share the tanner's pessimistic conviction. He had ransacked the
premises for every hand fire-extinguisher he could find, had brought
them to the burning buildings and, with fine optimism, was now spraying
their contents on the edges of the blaze.
"Stop wasting that stuff!" commanded Varr. "Nothing to be done here!
All we can do is try to save the rest of the outfit."
The watchman withdrew, reluctantly at first but then with a succession
of leaps and bounds as a muffled explosion from the interior of the
building marked the passing of some overheated container. He halted at
a safe distance, wiping his smoke-grimed face, until Varr rejoined him.
A faint cheer from beyond the boundary fence carried to them over the
roar of the blaze.
"Guess that's the Fire Department," grunted Fay. "About time they
turned up!"
"There's oil in that fire!" snapped the tanner, gazing at the black
smoke. "Where'd it come from?"
"Two five-gallon tins of it, brought from D building, spilled on the
floor and a match chucked into it. I seen them lying on their side in
there at the start of it."
"Humph. Brought from D building, eh? Then there's no doubt of _this_
being the work of an incendiary!"
"Doubt? Huh! I'll tell the world there ain't no doubt! I seen the
feller that did it!"
"Ah! Could you recognize him? Who was it? Why in thunder didn't you
grab him? Where'd he get to?"
Before Fay could even begin to sort out these questions and try to
answer the easier ones, their quick conversation was interrupted by the
appearance of a resplendent figure at their elbows. A short, stout man
was Gus Wimpelheimer, grocer and butcher by profession and in his
lighter moments Chief of the Hambleton Fire Department. His round
little body was now quivering with pleased excitement.
"Evening, gentlemen!" he greeted them politely. He glanced at the fire
and wrinkled an expert nose. "Kerosene!" he pronounced.
"The thought had occurred to us," retorted Simon. Marshal Wimpelheimer
trotted briskly toward the fire for a better view, and trotted briskly
back again as another carboy let go.
"Bad business," he reported cheerfully. "Nasty wind springing up," he
added happily. "Blowing straight for the other buildings, too!" He put
a little whistle to his lips and its squeaky notes brought two
satellites of the main luminary. "Hustle out those chemicals and get
'em to work on the blaze. Rout out all the buckets you can find, and
send for more. Call on that crowd out there for volunteers and get a
chain started from the stream to these other buildings. Douse
'em--douse 'em _good_! Don't stop till I tell you to. Fay! You'll
know where there are any ladders; fetch them out!"
"Yes, Chief!" came the admiring chorus, and the men sprang off to
execute his orders. He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and
turned brightly to the tanner.
"Don't you worry, Mr. Varr," he said indulgently. "We'll handle this
little affair for you!"
Worry was not exactly Varr's predominant emotion. There was small
reason to fear that the remainder of the buildings would not be kept
intact, and there was ample insurance on the property, including
contents. The blaze could cause him inconvenience when business was
resumed, that was all.
The real significance of the affair lay in the fact that the fire had
been of incendiary origin. His face was stormy as he contemplated that
angle of the situation. Who was his enemy? Who had made this second
determined effort to burn the tannery? Second, for he could no longer
consider the first an accident in the light of this new attempt. In
his mind he had always held the thought that Charlie Maxon might have
been the perpetrator of the earlier outrage, but Maxon was now in jail
and could not be guilty of this. Had he a confederate? Was this fire
a token of resentment on the part of his friends for the way he had
been treated?
He fumed with angry impotence. How would he fight this unseen, unknown
foe? He could take his suspicions to Steiner--but what could that
futile fellow do? He would fiddle around and scratch his head and
mumble inanities! Varr gritted his teeth in helpless rage as he
watched the men fighting their slow but certain battle to victory over
the flames.
The crowd outside the premises speedily discovered that this drama was
hidden from them by the high fence, and they were forbidden to pass the
guard stationed at the office door by the ubiquitous Wimpelheimer. The
nimbler-witted among them reflected that they might obtain a good view
of the proceedings from the rising ground to the left of the tannery,
and they drifted there by twos and threes until quite a respectable
number of people were sprinkled over the field through which the
shortcut ran to Simon's house. From this vantage point they could look
down into the tannery and watch the performance to their hearts'
content.
A little to one side of the crowd stood a woman alone, her gaze turned
steadily on the burning buildings. Several passers-by spoke to her by
name, and she answered them mechanically without turning her head.
Finally, one of these greetings was overheard by a man who was standing
a few yards distant; he turned sharply to look at the woman addressed,
then approached her rather hesitatingly. He took off his hat and bowed.
"I beg pardon," he said pleasantly. "Is this Miss Copley?"
"Yes." Miss Ocky peered at him through the dark, then gave a little
exclamation. "Leslie Sherwood!"
"Correct. How are you, Ocky? It seems like a lifetime since I last
saw you."
"Twenty-odd years. I heard you were back for the first time since
you--since you left the parent nest!"
"Yes," answered Sherwood quietly. Then he added casually--too casually
to be convincing to her sharp intuitions--"How is Lucy?"
"She is--oh, pretty well."
"Er--happy, and all that sort of thing?"
"As happy as she could expect to be. She married Simon Varr, you know."
"Yes--I know." He disregarded her sarcastic implication. "I hear
you've been back only a short time yourself. Staying at Lucy's?"
"Staying at Simon's!" corrected Miss Ocky grimly. "I suppose you know
that's his beloved tannery a-fire down there?"
"So they tell me. I saw the flames from my house and thought I'd
stroll down for the show."
"I was just turning in myself when I heard the siren," said Miss Ocky.
"Rather pretty effect, don't you think?"
"Beautiful," agreed Sherwood. He surveyed the scene of the fire
critically. "Beautiful--only I'm afraid they are going to save most of
the buildings."
"Eh? What's that?" cried Miss Ocky sharply. Then she gave a chuckle.
"Did you say 'afraid'?"
"Are you a friend of Simon's?"
"I detest the creature," she answered promptly. "And you?"
"It would afford me great pleasure," stated Sherwood calmly, "if that
were Simon's funeral pyre."
Miss Ocky pursed her lips in a soft, almost inaudible whistle. She was
thinking back to the expression on her brother-in-law's face when this
man's name was mentioned. Simon had been afraid! And here was Leslie
Sherwood expressing, not fear, but--but what?
"Any one would think you hated the poor man," she suggested at length.
"That," said Mr. Sherwood, "exactly expresses my feeling toward him."
"But--but, Leslie--" Miss Ocky was groping for the truth back of all
this--"I don't understand! Why do you hate a man you haven't even seen
for over twenty years?"
"Some hates have very lasting qualities, Ocky. They endure for ever
and a day."
"Then--whatever it was--happened before you left here?"
"Yes. Simon came between me and something that I wanted--and did it in
a way that made a mortal enemy of me. Sounds theatrical, doesn't it?
But it's true. He contrived at the same time to cause the trouble
between me and my father that has kept me from returning to Hambleton
until now, when the old gentleman has ended with worldly cares."
"I wish you'd tell me the whole story in words of one syllable," begged
Miss Ocky. "It's not that I'm just curious. I'm trying to learn all
that I can about Simon. He interests me as a--as a specimen."
"I would hardly have told you as much if I weren't willing to tell you
all. I'm puzzling over a problem that might be simplified by a woman's
wit. We can't talk here, though. Too public."
"Suppose you escort me home. I've a torch, and I'm going up this
short-cut. We can chat on the way." She glanced downhill. "This
excitement is about over; shall we start?"
"Whenever you please."
They were turning away side-by-side when a fitful gust of wind swept up
to them from the direction of the sinking flames. There is only one
thing more malodorous than a tannery, and that is a burning tannery.
Miss Ocky choked.
"Pwhew!" she gasped. "It smells like--like--"
"Like the soul of Simon Varr," supplied Sherwood promptly.
_VIII: Two Victims of Theft_
Varr remained at the tannery until the last dying ember had been
extinguished. Not till then did Marshal August Wimpelheimer come gayly
up to him, his regalia a trifle the worse for wear and his breath
coming a little short from his exertions but his expression that of one
who has been hugely enjoying himself. He saluted with a flourish.
"All over, Mr. Varr! I told you we'd handle it. I'm sorry we couldn't
save those first two buildings, but they had too much of a start. Full
of that inflammable stuff and with a breeze like this blowing sparks as
big as my helmet"--the article of attire referred to was nearly as
large as himself--"We were lucky to get control--"
"Have you seen anything of Fay about?"
"Your watchman? Yes, sir, he was in the thick of everything! I'd like
to add him to my Department. But the boys all did
splendidly--smoke-eaters, Mr. Varr, every mother's son of 'em! I hope
you noticed, sir, that when it came to volunteers for the bucket-gang a
lot of your workmen stepped up. They forgot about the strike and
pitched in with both hands! It shows there's a heap of good in human
nature."
"It shows they know which side their bread is buttered!" grunted the
tanner. "How would they get their jobs back if they let the whole
outfit burn? Eh?"
The Fire Marshal flushed, but the grocer bit back the words that
trembled on his lips. Little Wimpy had gallantry to spare when it came
to facing fire, which is a clean foe and a clean fighter, but his
courage stopped there. Varr owned his store, Varr held a chattel
mortgage on his fixtures--and there were the little Wimpies to be
thought of!
"Good night, sir!" he said, and went sadly home.
Simon Varr joined the stragglers who were leaving by way of the hall
through the office building, but he did not go with them as far as the
exit. He ascended the creaky stairs, went into his office and snapped
on the electric light. He had seen nothing of Fay, but he confidently
expected the watchman to seek him out as soon as possible.
In this he was not disappointed. The man had only paused to remove
some of the traces of his activities before presenting himself for
Simon's inquisition.
"Well, Fay, what can you tell me about this? Where were you when you
discovered the fire?"
"I was making my second round at twenty-five minutes to eleven. You'll
remember, sir, you left orders that I should make another trip about
the premises five minutes after my regular round, which was ten-thirty
in this case. That was a good idea, sir, if you'll let me say so; it
certainly led to my seeing the fire right after it started."
"That scoundrelly fire bug was watching you, depend on that!"
"Yes, sir; there's dozens of places he could keep a look-out from, once
he got inside. Soon as he saw me finish one round and go out front, he
commenced his dirty work."
"You say you caught a glimpse of him?"
"A poor one, sir. I was just quietly passing one of those storage
buildings when I saw a flicker of light beneath the doorsill. It was
too soon to hear the crackle of burning wood or smell any smoke, but I
knew what was up. I pushed open the door. That was when I saw the two
oil-tins lying on their sides and the whole floor flooded with the
stuff. There was smoke enough, then, sir! That's why I could only get
a poor look through it at the feller."
"He was in the building when you saw him?"