XVII

Billy awoke to the light of day with the sound of a strange car going

by. The road through Sabbath Valley was not much frequented, and Billy

knew every car that usually travelled that way. They were mostly Economy

and Monopoly people, and as there happened to be a mountain trolley

between the two towns higher up making a circuit to touch at Brooktown,

people seldom came this way. Therefore at the unusual sound Billy was on

the alert at once. One movement brought him upright with his feet upon

the floor blinking toward his window, a second carried him to shelter

behind the curtain where he could see the stranger go by.

Billy had reduced the science of dressing to a fine degree. He could

climb into the limited number of summer garments in less time than any

boy in the community, and when he saw that the car had halted just above

the house and that the driver was interviewing Jim Rafferty, he reached

for a handful of garments, and began to climb, keeping one eye out the

window for developments. Was that or was it not the Chief's car out

there? If it was what did it want?

Billy was in socks, trousers and shirt by the time the car began to puff

again for starting, and he stove his feet into his old shoes and dove

down stairs three steps at a stride and out the door where he suddenly

became a casual observer of the day.

“Hullo, Billy! That you?” accosted the Chief driving slowly down the

street, “Say, Billy, you haven't seen Mark Carter, have you? They said

he had gone down to the blacksmith's to get something fixed for a car. I

thought perhaps you'd seen him go by.”

Billy shook his head lazily:

“Nope,” he said, “I've been busy this morning. He mighta gone by.”

“Well I'll just drive down and see!” The car started on and turned into

the Lane that led to the blacksmith shop.

Billy dove into the house, made short work of his ablutions, gave his

hair a brief lick with the brush, collected his cap and sweater, bolted

the plate of breakfast Aunt Saxon had left on the back of the stove when

she went away for her regular Monday's wash, and was ready behind the

lilac bush with old trusty, down on his knees oiling her a bit, when

the Chief drove back with Mark Carter in the back seat looking strangely

white and haughty, but talking affably with the Chief.

His heart sank. Somehow he knew something was wrong with Mark. Mark

was in his old clothes with several pieces of iron in his hand as if he

hadn't taken time to lay them down. Billy remained in hiding and watched

while the Chief's car stopped at Carter's and Mark got out. The car

waited several minutes, and then Mark came out with his good clothes on

and his best hat, and got into the car and they drove off, Mark looking

stern and white. Billy shot out from his hiding and mounting his steed

flew down the road, keeping well behind the maples and hedges, and when

the Chief's car stopped in front of the parsonage he dismounted and

stepped inside Joneses' drive to listen. Mark got out, sprang up the

steps, touched the bell, and said to someone who appeared at the door,

“Mr. Shafton, I'm sorry, but I'll not be able to get those bearings

fixed up to-day. The blacksmith doesn't seem to have anything that

will do. I find I have to go over to Economy on business, and I'll look

around there and see if anybody has any. I expect to be back by twelve

o'clock, and will you tell the lady that I will be ready to start at

half-past if that will suit her. I am sure we shall have plenty of time

to get her to Beechwood by five or sooner. If anything occurs to keep

me from going I'll telephone you in an hour, so that she can make other

arrangements. Thank you, Mr. Shafton. Sorry I couldn't fix you up right

away, but I'll look after the lady for you.” Mark hurried back to the

car again and they drove off.

Billy escorted the Department of Justice distantly, as far as the

Crossing at the Highway, from which eminence he watched until he saw

that they stopped at the Blue Duck Tavern for a few minutes, after which

they went on toward Economy; then he inspected the recent clearing of

his detour, obviously by the Chief, and hurried down the Highway toward

the railroad Crossing at Pleasant View. It was almost train time, and he

had a hunch that there might be something interesting around that hidden

telephone. If he only had had more time he might have arranged to tap

the wire and listen in without having to go so near, but he must do the

best he could.

When he reached a point on the Highway where Pleasant View station

was easily discernible he dismounted, parked his wheel among the

huckleberries, and slid into the green of the Valley. Stealing

cautiously to the scene of the Saturday night hold-up he finally

succeeded in locating the hidden telephone, and creeping into a well

screened spot not far away arranged himself comfortably to wait till the

trains came. He argued that Pat would likely come down to report or get

orders about the same time as before, and so in the stillness of the

morning he lay on the ground and waited. He could hear a song sparrow

high up on the telegraph wire, sing out its wild sweet lonely strain:

Sweet--sweetsweetsweet--sweetsweet--sweetsweet--! and a hum of bees

in the wild grape that trailed over the sassafras trees. Beside him a

little wood spider stole noiselessly on her busy way. But his heart was

heavy with new burdens and he could not take his usual rhapsodic joy in

the things of Nature. What was happening to Mark and what could he do

about it? Perhaps Mark would have been better off if he had left him

in the old house on Stark's mountain. The chief couldn't have found him

then and the kidnappers would have kept him safe for a good many days

till they got some money. But there wouldn't have _been_ any money! For

Mark wasn't the right man! And the kidnappers would have found it out

pretty soon and _what_ would they have done to Mark? Killed him perhaps

so they wouldn't get into any more trouble! There was no telling! And

time would have gone on and nobody would have known what had become of

Mark. And the murder trial--if it was really a murder--would come off

and they couldn't find Mark, and of course they would think Mark had

killed the man and then run away. And Mark would never be able to come

home again! No, he was glad Mark was out and safe and free from dope.

At least Mark would know what to do to save himself. Or would he? Billy

suddenly had his doubts. Would Mark take care of himself, just himself,

or not? Mark was always looking after other people, but he had somehow

always let people say and do what they would with him. Aw gee! Now Mark

wouldn't let them locate a thing like a murder on him, would he? And

there was Miss Lynn! And Mark's mother! Mark oughtta think of them.

Well, maybe he wouldn't realize how much they did care. Billy had a

sudden revelation that maybe that was half the matter, Mark didn't know

how much any of them cared. Back in his mind there was an uncomfortable

memory of Aunt Saxon's pink damp features and anxious eyes and a

possible application of the same principle to his own life, as in the

case of Judas. But he wasn't considering himself now. There might come a

time when he would have to change his tactics with regard to Aunt Saxon

somewhat. She certainly had been a good sport last night. But this

wasn't the time to consider that. He had a great deal more important

matters to think of now. He had to find out how he could make it

perfectly plain to the world that Mark Carter had not shot a man after

twelve o'clock Saturday night at the Blue Duck Tavern. And as yet he

didn't see any way without incriminating himself as a kidnapper. This

cut deep because in the strict sense of the word he was not a kidnapper,

because he hadn't meant to be a kidnapper. He had only meant to play a

joke on the kidnappers, and at worst his only really intended fault

had been the putting up of that detour on the Highway. But he had an

uncomfortable conviction that he wouldn't be able to make the Chief and

the Constable, and some of those people over at Economy Court House see

it that way. As matters stood he was safe if he kept his mouth shut.

Nobody knew but Mark, and he didn't know the details. Besides, Mark

would never tell. Mark would even go to trial for murder before he would

let himself out by telling on Billy, Billy knew that as well as he knew

that the old mountain on whose feet he lay stretched now would stand up

there for ages and always keep his secret for him. Mark was that

way. That was why it made it worse for Billy. Judas again! Billy was

surprised to find how much Judas-blood there seemed to be in him. He

lay there and despised himself without being able to help himself out or

think of anything he could do. And then quite suddenly as he was going

over the whole circumstance from the time he first listened to Pat's

message into the moss of the mountain, until now, the name Shafton

came to him. Laurence Shafton. Shafton, son of William J., of Gates

and Shafton. Those were the words the telephone had squeaked out quite

plainly. And Shafton. Mr. Shafton. That was the name Mark had called the

guy with the car at the parsonage. Mr. Shafton. The same guy, of course.

Bah! What a mess he had made of it all. Got Mark kidnapped, landed that

sissy-guy on the Severns for no knowing how long, and perhaps helped to

tangle Mark up in a murder case. Aw Gee! There's the train! What could

he do? That rich guy! Well, there wasn't anything to that. He would

get out as soon as Mark got his car fixed up and never know he had

been kidnapped. And what was he, Billy, waiting here for anyway? Just

a chance! Just to see whether Pat and Sam had found out yet that their

quarry had vanished. Just to wonder what had become of Link and Shorty.

The trains came and went, and the hush settled down once more at the

station. From where he lay, hidden under a ledge, with a thick growth

of laurel and sumac between him and the world, Billy could not see the

station platform, and had no means of telling whether Pat was about or

not.

He had lain still a long time and was beginning to think that his trip

had been in vain, when he heard a soft crackling of the twigs above him,

a heavy tread crashing through the bushes, a puffing snorting breath

from the porpoise-like Pat, and he held his own breath and lay very

still. Suppose Pat should take a new trail and discover his hiding

place? His heart pounded with great dull thuds. But Pat slid heavily

down to the little clearing below him, fumbled a moment with his key,

and then in a gruff guarded voice called:

“Hullo! Hullo! Sam? That you? Yes, aw'right! Yes, aw'right! How's

things? What? Hell's to pay? Whaddaya mean hell? Ain't you gonta put

it over? After all my trouble you ain't a gonta let that million slip

through? What? Oh! Who? The Valet? He's beat it, has he? Whaddaya mean?

_He_ took 'em? _He_ took the pearls an' diamonds? Well, Em'ruls then!

What's tha diffrunce? _We_ ain't gottum have we? Oh, bonds too! Well,

whattya gonta do about it? Move him? What, the rich guy? Move him where?

_Why?_ We ain'ta gonta run no more risks. Link an' Shorty are sore 'za

pup when they come. I don't think they'll stan' for it. Well, where'll

ya move him? Who? Shorty? Oh, Link? Both? Well, I ain't seen 'em. I tol'

'em to keep good an' far away from me. I don't build on loosin' this job

just now, See? What? It's in the papers a'ready? You don't say! Well,

who you figger done that? That Valet? Well, where's the harm? Can't

you work it all the better? We got the guy, ain't we? _He_ ain't gottim

that's certain. We c'n deliver the goods, so we get the reward. How much

reward they offerin? You don't say! Well, I should say, get in yer work

soon 'fore we get caught. Aw'right! I'm with ya. Well, s'long! I'll be

down here at nine sharp. Take a trip to China with ya next week ef ya

pull it off. Aw'right! Goobby!” and Pat hung up and puffed his way up

the hill again, leaving Billy drenched with perspiration and filled with

vague plans, and deep anxiety. He had got a clue but what good was it?

How could he work it to the salvation of Mark? He could easily put the

sissy over at the parsonage wise, do him a good turn, save his dad some

money, but what good would that do Mark? Mark needed to establish an

alibi, he could see that with half an eye, but how would anything Billy

knew help that along unless--unless he told on himself? For a moment a

long trail of circumstances that would surely follow such a sacrificial

ordinance appeared before him and burned into his soul, most prominent

among them being Aunt Saxon, hard worked and damp-pink-eyed, crying her

heart out for the boy she had tried faithfully to bring up. And Miss

Lynn. How sad her eyes would grow if Billy had to be tried and sentenced

to prison. Not that Billy was afraid to go to prison, in fact the

thought of it as an experience was rather exhilirating than not, but

he was afraid to have those two know he had gone, afraid of their

eyes, their sad eyes! Yes, and he was afraid of the thought of his own

ingratitude, for down deep in his heart he could see a long line of

things Aunt Saxon had done for him that she hadn't been obliged to do.

Going without a new winter coat to get him an overcoat. His old one

was warm, but his arms were out of it too far and he wouldn't wear it.

Sitting up nights the time he drank swamp water and had the fever! That

was fierce! How he did rag her! And how patiently she bore it! The scare

she had when the dog bit him! As if a little dog bite was anything!

Doggone it, why were women such fools!

And now this! Billy sat up with a jerk and shook himself free from the

dead moss and leaves, wending his way sulkily across to where he had

left his wheel, and pondering--pondering. “Shafton!” There ought to be

something there to work on, but there wasn't!

Meantime Marilyn rode hard down the way to Economy, not slowing her

pony till they reached the outskirts of Economy. Her mind was in such a

tumult that she felt as if she were being whirled on with circumstances

without having a will to choose one thing from another. Mark! The

unwelcome guests! Mark and Opal! Mark and Cherry! _Cherry!_ The Chief of

Police! Mark! And yes, Cherry! She was on her way to see _Cherry!_ But

what was she going to do when she got there, and how was she to excuse

her strange visit after almost five years since she had seen the child?

If there was truth in the rumor that she was connected with a shooting

affair at the Blue Duck, and especially if there was truth in the charge

that Mark had been going with her, would it not seem strange--perhaps

be misconstrued by Cherry? By her family? They had all known of her own

intimacy with Mark in the past. She shrank from the idea. Yet Marilyn

Severn had not been brought up to regard public opinion when it was a

question of doing something that ought to be done. The only question

was, was it really something that ought to be done or was she letting

Billy influence her unduly? Billy was shrewd. He knew Mark. He knew a

lot more than he ever told. What did Billy know? How she wished she had

asked her father's advise before coming, and yet, if she had, he might

have been unduly influenced by dreading to have her put herself in the

position of prying into the matter.

As she rode and pondered she came near to the little house on the

village street where Cherry lived, a house set out plumb with the

sidewalk, and a little gate at the side to go round to the back door

where the family lived, the front room being the tailor shop. As she

drew near she looked up and was sure she saw Cherry in a short narrow

skirt and an old middy blouse scurrying through the gate to the back

door, and her heart thumped so hard she was almost tempted to ride on to

the store first before making her call. But something in her that always

held her to a task until it was completed forced her to dismount and

knock at the door.

It seemed long to wait with her heart thumping so, and why did it thump?

She found herself praying, “O God, show me what to say!” and then

the door was open a crack and a sharp wizened face with a striking

resemblance to Cherry's bold little beauty, was thrust at her. It must

be Cherry's mother. Of course it was!

“Mr. Fenner ain't in the shop!” said the woman, “He can't do nothin

to-day. He's sick!”

Marilyn smiled: “But I wanted to see Cherry,” she said, “Aren't you

her mother? Don't you remember me? I'm Marilyn Severn, her old music

teacher. Is Cherry in?”

A frightened look passed over the woman's face as she scanned the sweet

face before her, and then a wily expression darted into her eyes:

“Oh,” she said with a forced smirk, “Yes, Miss Marilyn. Excuse me fer

not recognizing you. You've grown a lot. Why no, Cherry ain't at home

this morning. She'll be awful sorry not to see you. She thought a lot

of you, she did. She got on so well with you in her music too. I says

to her the other day, I says Cherry, I hear Miss Marilyn is home again,

you'll have to take up yer music again, and she says yes, she guessed

she would. She'll be round some day to see you. Sorry I can't ask you

in, but Mr. Fenner's pretty sick. Oh, just the grip I guess. He'll soon

be all right.”

She began to realize that the woman was in a hurry to get rid of her and

she hastened away, relieved yet puzzled at the whole affair. She rode

down into the village mechanically and bought a spool of silk and the

coffee strainer which had been her legitimate errand to the village,

and turning back had scarcely passed the last house before she saw the

Chief's car coming toward her, and Mark, his face white and haggard,

looking out from the back seat. He drew back as he recognized her,

and tried to hide, and she rode on with only a passing bow which

comprehended the whole car; but she was aware of Mark's eyes upon her,

steadily, watching her. She would have known he was watching her from

the darkness of the back seat if her own eyes had been shut. What was it

all about and what were they doing to Mark?