narrow stairway, but it must have been a long time. I drowsed off, and
I was finally awakened by Lemuel tugging at my sleeve, and I knew that
Henry had managed to start the elevator again. Lemuel and I hastened our
steps, and just as the elevator was coming into sight below the second
floor we were seen by the two fathers. For an instant they hesitated,
and then they seized us. At the same time the elevator door opened and
Henry and Madge came out, and the two fathers hardly glanced at them as
they went out of the door into the street.
As soon as I saw that they were safe I feigned great indignation, and so
did Lemuel.
“Unhand me, sir!” I cried. “Who do you think I am? I am a respectable
married lady, leaving the building with her husband. Unhand me!”
Instead of doing so, however, the father that had me by the arm drew me
nearer to the hall light. As he did so he stared closely at my face.
“Morgan,” he said to the other father, “this is not my daughter. My
daughter did not have a moustache.”
“Indeed, I am not your daughter,” I said; “I am a respectable married
lady, and here is the proof.”
With that I reached for the package Madge had given me, but it was in my
coat-pocket, underneath the dress I had on, and it was only with great
difficulty and by raising one side of the skirt that I was able to get
it. I unwrapped it and showed it to the father that had me by the arm.
It was the patent nursing-bottle.
When Mr. Billings had finished his relation his wife sat for a moment in
silence. Then she said:
“And he let you go?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Billings; “he could not hold me after such
proof as that, and Lemuel ran me up to my office, where I changed my
hat and took off the dress. I knew it was late, and I did not know
what train I could catch, but I made haste, and, on the way down in the
elevator, I felt in my pocket to see if I had my commutation ticket,
when my hand struck the patent nursing-bottle. My first impulse was to
drop it in the car, but on second thought I decided to keep it, for
I knew that when you saw it and heard the story you would understand
perfectly why I was detained last night.”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Billings questioningly. “But, my dear, all that does
not account for these.”
As she said that she drew from her workbasket the three auburn-red
curls.
“Oh, those!” said Mr. Billings, after a momentary hesitation. “I was
about to tell you about those.”
“Do so!” said Mrs. Billings coldly. “I am listening.”
II. THE THREE AUBURN-RED CURLS
When I went down in the elevator (said Mr. Billings) with the
nursing-bottle in my pocket, I had no thought but to get to the train
as soon as possible, for I saw by the clock in my office that I had just
time to catch the eleven-nine if I should not be delayed. Therefore, as
soon as I was outside the building I started to run, but when I reached
the corner and was just about to step on a passing street-car a hand was
laid on my arm, and I turned to see who was seeking to detain me. It was
a woman in the most pitiable rags, and on her arm she carried a baby so
thin and pale that I could scarcely believe it lived.
One glance at the child showed me that it was on the verge of death
by starvation, and this was confirmed by the moans of the mother, who
begged me for humanity's sake to give her money with which to provide
food for the child, even though I let her, herself, starve. You know,
my dear, you never allow me to give money to street beggars, and
I remembered this, but at the same time I remembered the patent
nursing-bottle I still carried in my pocket.
Without hesitation I drew the patent nursing-bottle from my pocket and
told the mother to allow the infant to have a sufficient quantity of
milk it contained to sustain the child's life until she could procure
other alms or other aid. With a cry of joy the mother took the
nursing-bottle and pressed it to the poor baby's lips, and it was with
great pleasure I saw the rosy colour return to the child's cheeks. The
sadness of despair that had shadowed the mother's face also fled, and
I could see that already she was looking on life with a more optimistic
view.
I verily believe the child could have absorbed the entire contents of
the bottle, but I had impressed upon the mother that she was to give the
child only sufficient to sustain life, not to suffice it until it was
grown to manhood or womanhood, and when the bottle was half-emptied the
mother returned it to me. How much time all this occupied I do not know,
but the child took the milk with extreme slowness. I may say that it
took the milk drop by drop. A great deal of time must have elapsed.
But when the mother had returned the patent nursing-bottle to me and saw
how impatient I was to be gone, she still retained her hold upon my arm.
“Sir,” she said, “you have undoubtedly saved the life of my child, and
I only regret that I cannot repay you for all it means to me. But I
cannot. Stay!” she cried, when I was about to pull my arm away. “Has
your wife auburn-red hair?”
“No,” I said, “she has not, her hair is a most beautiful black.”
“No matter,” said the poor woman, putting her hand to her head. “Some
day she may wish to change the colour of her hair to auburn-red, which
is easily done with a little bleach and a little dye, and should she do
so these may come handy;” and with that she slipped something soft and
fluffy into my hand and fled into the night. When I looked, I saw in my
hand the very curls you hold there. My first impulse was to drop them in
the street, but I remembered that the poor woman had not given them to
me, but to you, and that it was my duty to bring them home to you, so I
slipped them into my pocket.
When Mr. Billings had ended this recital of what had happened to him his
wife said:
“Huh!”
At the same time she tossed the curls into the grate, where they
shrivelled up, burst into blue smoke, and shortly disappeared in ashes.
“That is a very likely story,” she said, “but it does not explain how
this came to be in your pocket.”
Saying this she drew from her basket the handkerchief and handed it to
Mr. Billings.
“Hah!” he exclaimed. For a moment he turned the rolled-up handkerchief
over and over, and then he cautiously opened it. At the sight of the
twelve acorns he seemed somewhat surprised, and when the initials “T. M.
C.” on the corner of the handkerchief caught his eye he blushed.
“You are blushing--you are disturbed,” said Mrs. Billings severely.
“I am,” said Mr. Billings, suddenly recovering himself; “and no wonder.”
“And no wonder, indeed!” said Mrs Billings. “Perhaps, then, you can tell
me how those acorns and that handkerchief came to be in your pocket.”
“I can,” said Mr. Billings, “and I will.”
“You had better,” said Mrs. Billings.
III. THE TWELVE ACORNS AND THE LADY'S HANDKERCHIEF
You may have noticed, my dear (said Mr. Billings), that the initials on
that handkerchief are “T. M. C.,” and I wish you to keep that in mind,
for it has a great deal to do with this story. Had they been anything
else that handkerchief would not have found its way into my pocket; and
when you see how those acorns and that handkerchief, and the half-filled
nursing-bottle and the auburn-red curls all combined to keep me out of
my home until the unearthly hour of three A. M., you will forget the
unjust suspicions which I too sadly fear you now hold against me, and
you will admit that a half-filled patent nursing-bottle, a trio of
curls, a lady's handkerchief and twelve acorns were the most natural
things in the world to find in my pockets.
When I had left the poor woman with her no-longer-starving baby I
hurriedly glanced into a store window, and by the clock there saw it
was twenty minutes of one and that I had exactly time to catch the one
o'clock train, which is the last train that runs to Westcote. I glanced
up and down the street, but not a car was in sight, and I knew I could
not afford to wait long if I wished to catch that train. There was but
one thing to do, and that was to take a cab, and, as luck would have
it, at that moment an automobile cab came rapidly around the corner. I
raised my voice and my arm, and the driver saw or heard me, for he made
a quick turn in the street and drew up at the curb beside me. I hastily
gave him the directions, jumped in and slammed the door shut, and the
auto-cab immediately started forward at what seemed to me unsafe speed.
We had not gone far when something in the fore part of the automobile
began to thump in a most alarming manner, and the driver slackened his
speed, drew up to the curb and stopped. He opened the door and put his
head in.
“Something's gone wrong,” he said, “but don't you worry. I'll have it
fixed in no time, and then I can put on more speed and I'll get you
there in just the same time as if nothing had happened.”
When he said this I was perfectly satisfied, for he was a nice-looking
man, and I lay back, for I was quite tired out, it was so long past my
usual bedtime; and the driver went to work, doing things I could not
understand to the fore part of the automobile, where the machinery is.
I remember thinking that the cushions of this automobile were unusually
soft, and then I must have dozed off, and when I opened my eyes I did
not know how much time had elapsed, but the driver was still at work
and I could hear him swearing. He seemed to be having a great deal of
trouble, so I got out of the automobile, intending to tell him that
perhaps I had better try to get a car, after all. But his actions when
he saw me were most unexpected. He waved the wrench he held in his hand,
and ordered me to get back into the automobile, and I did. I supposed
he was afraid he would lose his fare and tip, but in a few minutes he
opened the door again and spoke to me.
“Now, sport,” he said, “there ain't no use thinkin' about gettin' that
train, because it's gone, and I may as well say now that you've got to
come with me, unless you want me to smash your head in. The fact is,
this ain't no public automobile, and I hadn't no right to take you for
a passenger. This automobile belongs to a lady and I'm her hired
chauffeur, and she's at a bridge-whist party in a house on Fifth Avenue,
and I'm supposed to be waiting outside that house. One-fifteen o'clock
was the time she said she would be out. But I thought maybe I might make
a dollar or two for myself instead of waiting there all that time, and
she would never know it. And now it is nearly two o'clock, and if I
go back alone she will be raving mad, and I'll get my discharge and no
references, and my poor wife and six children will have to starve. So
you will have to go with me and explain how it was that I wasn't there
at one-fifteen o'clock.”
“My friend,” I said, “I am sorry for you, but I do not see how it would
help you, should I refuse to go and you should, as you say, smash my
head in.”
“Don't you worry none about that,” he said. “If I smashed your head in,
as I could do easy enough with this wrench, I'd take what was left of
you up some dark street, and lay you on the pavement and run the machine
across you once or twice, and then take you to a hospital, and that
would be excuse enough. You'd be another 'Killed by an Automobile,' and
I'd be the hero that picked you up and took you to the hospital.”
“Well,” I said, “under the circumstances I shall go with you, not
because you threaten me, but because your poor wife and six children are
threatened with starvation.”
“Good!” he said. “And now all you have to do is to think of what the
excuse you will give my lady boss will be.”
With that he lay back against the cushions and waited. He seemed to feel
that the matter did not concern him any more, and that the rest of it
lay with me.
“Go ahead!” I said to him. “I have no idea what I shall tell your
mistress, but since I have lost the last train I must try to catch the
two o'clock trolley car to Westeote, and I do not wish to spend any more
time than necessary on this business. Make all the haste possible, and
as we go I shall think what I will say when we get there.”
The driver got out and took his seat and started the car. I was worried,
indeed, my dear. I tried to think of something plausible to tell the
young man's employer; something that would have an air of self-proof,
when suddenly I remembered the half-filled nursing-bottle and the three
auburn-red curls. Why should I not tell the lady that a poor mother,
while proceeding down Fifth Avenue from her scrub-woman job, had been
taken suddenly ill, and that I, being near, had insisted that this
automobile help me convey the woman to her home, which we found, alas!
to be in the farthest districts of Brooklyn? Then I would produce the
three auburn-red curls and the half-filled nursing-bottle as having been
left in the automobile by the woman, and this proof would suffice.
I had fully decided on this when the automobile stopped in front of a
large house in Fifth Avenue, and I had time to tell the driver that
I had thought of the proper thing to say, but that was all, for the
waiting lady came down the steps in great anger, and was about to begin
a good scolding, when she noticed me sitting in her automobile.
If she had been angry before she was now furious, and she was the kind
of young woman who can be extremely furious when she tries. I think
nothing in the world could have calmed her had she not caught sight of
my face by the light of two strong lamps on a passing automobile. She
saw in my face what you see there now, my dear--the benevolent, fatherly
face of a settled-down, trustworthy, married man of past middle age--and
as if by magic her anger fled and she burst into tears.
“Oh, sir!” she cried, “I do not know who you are, nor how you happen
to be in my car, but at this moment I am homeless and friendless. I am
alone in the world, and I need advice. Let me get into the car beside
you--”
“Miss,” I said, “I do not like to disoblige you, but I can never allow
myself to be in an automobile at this time of night with a strange
woman, unchaperoned.”
These words seemed almost more than she could bear, and my heart was
full of pity, but, just as I was about to spring from the automobile and
rush away, I saw on the walk the poor woman to whose baby I had given
the half of the contents of the patent nursing-bottle. I called her and
made her get into the automobile, and then I let the young woman enter.
“Now,” I said, “where to?”
“That,” she said, “is what I do not know. When I left my home this
evening I left it forever, and I left a note of farewell to my father,
which he must have received and read by this time, and if I went back he
would turn me from the door in anger, for he is a gentleman of the old
school.”
When I heard these words I was startled. “Can it be,” I asked, “that you
have a brother henry?”
“I have,” she admitted; “Henry Corwin is his name.” This was the name of
the young man I had helped that very evening to marry Madge. I told her
to proceed.
“My father,” she said, “has been insisting that I marry a man I do not
love, and things have come to such a point that I must either accede or
take things into my own hands. I agreed to elope this evening with the
man I love, for he had long wished me to elope with him. I was to meet
him outside his house at exactly one-fifteen o'clock, and I told him
that if I was not there promptly he might know I had changed my mind.
When the time came for me to hasten to him in my automobile, which was
then to hurry us to a waiting minister, my automobile was not here.
Unfortunately I did not know my lover's address, for I had left it in
the card pocket in this automobile. I knew not what to do. As the time
passed and my automobile did not appear I knew that my lover had decided
that I was not coming, and had gone away into his house. Now I cannot go
home, for I have no home. I cannot so lower my pride as to ring the bell
of his house and say I wish to be forgiven and married even yet. What
shall I do?”
For answer I felt in the card pocket of the automobile and drew out the
address of her lover, and without hesitation I gave the address to the
chauffeur. In a few minutes we were there. Leaving the young woman in
the car with the poor woman, I got out and surveyed the house. It was
unpromising. Evidently all the family but the young man were away for
the summer, and the doors and windows were all boarded up. There was not
a bell to ring. I pounded on the boards that covered the door, but it
was unavailing. The young woman called to me that the young man lived
in the front room of the topmost floor, and could not hear me, and I
glanced up and saw that one window alone of all those in the house was
not boarded up. Instantly I hopped upon the seat beside the driver and
said, “Central Park.”
We dashed up Fifth Avenue and into the Park at full speed, and when we
were what I considered far enough in I ordered him to stop, and hurrying
up a low bank I began to grope among the leaves of last year under
the trees. I was right. In a few minutes I had filled my pockets with
acorns, was back in the car, and we were hurrying toward the house
of the lover, when I saw standing on a corner a figure I instantly
recognized as Lemuel, the elevator boy, and at the same time I
remembered that Lemuel spent his holidays pitching for a ball nine, He
was just the man I needed, and I stopped and made him get into the car.
In a minute more we were before the house again, and I handed Lemuel
a fistful of acorns. He drew back and threw them with all his strength
toward the upper window.
My dear, will you believe it? Those acorns were wormy! They were light.
They would not carry to the window, but scattered like bits of chips
when they had travelled but half-way. I was upset, but Lemuel was not.
He ordered the chauffeur to drive to lower Sixth Avenue with all speed,
in order that he might get a baseball. With this he said he could
hit any mark, and we had started in that direction when, passing a
restaurant on Broadway, I saw emerge Henry and Madge.
“Better far,” I said to myself, “put this young woman in charge of her
brother and his new wife than leave her to elope alone,” and I made the
chauffeur draw up beside them. Hastily I explained the situation, and
where we were going at that moment, and Henry and Madge laughed in
unison.
“Madge,” said Henry, “we had no trouble making wormy acorns travel
through the air, had we?” And both laughed again. At this I made them
get into the automobile, and while we returned to the lover's house
I made them explain. It was very simple, and I had just tied a dozen
acorns tightly in my handkerchief, making a ball to throw at the window,
when the poor woman with the baby noticed that the window was partly
open. I asked Lemuel if he could throw straight enough to throw the
handkerchief-ball into the window, and he said he could, and took
the handkerchief, but a brighter idea came to me, and I turned to the
eloping young lady.
“Let me have your handkerchief, if it has your initials on it,” I said;
“for when he sees that fall into his room he will know you are here. He
will not think you are forward, coming to him alone, for he will know
you could never have thrown the handkerchief, even if loaded with
acorns, to such a height. It will be your message to him.”
At this, which I do pride myself was a suggestion worthy of myself,
all were delighted, and while I modestly tied twelve acorns in the
handkerchief on which were the initials “T. M. C.,” all the others
cheered. Even the woman from whom I had received the three auburn-red
curls cheered, and the baby that was half-filled out of the patent
nursing-bottle crowed with joy. But the chauffeur honked his honker.
Lemuel took the handkerchief full of acorns in his hand and drew back
his famous left arm, when suddenly Theodora Mitchell Corwin--for that
was the eloping young lady's name--shrieked, and looking up we saw her
lover at the window. He gave an answering yell and disappeared, and
Lemuel let his left arm fall and handed me the handkerchief-ball.
In the excitement I dropped it into my pocket, and it was not until I
was on the car for Westcote that I discovered it, and then, not wishing
to be any later in getting home, I did not go back to give it to
Theodora Mitchell Corwin; in fact, I did not know where she had eloped
to. Nor could I give it to Madge or Henry, for they had gone on their
wedding journey as soon as they saw Theodora and her lover safely
eloped.
I had no right to give it to the poor woman with the baby, even if
she had not immediately disappeared into her world of poverty, and it
certainly did not belong to Lemuel, nor could I have given it to him,
for he took the ten dollars the lover gave him and stayed out so late
that he was late to work this morning and was discharged. He said he was
going back to Texas. So I brought the handkerchief and the twelve acorns
home, knowing you would be interested in hearing their story.
When Mr. Billings had thus finished his relation of the happenings of
his long evening, Mrs. Billings was thoughtful for a minute. Then she
said:
“But Rollin, when I spoke to you of the handkerchief and the twelve
acorns you blushed, and said you had reason to blush. I see nothing in
this kind action you did to cause a blush.”
“I blushed,” said Mr. Billings, “to think of the lie I was going to tell
Theodora Merrill Corwin--”
“I thought you said her name was Theodora Mitchell Corwin,” said Mrs.
Billings.
“Mitchell or Merill,” said Mr. Billings. “I cannot remember exactly
which.”
For several minutes Mrs. Billings was silent. Occasionally she would
open her mouth as if to ask a question, but each time she closed it
again without speaking. Mr. Billings sat regarding his wife with what,
in a man of less clear conscience, might be called anxiety. At length
Mrs. Billings put her sewing into her sewing-basket and arose.
“Rollin,” she said, “I have enjoyed hearing you tell your experiences
greatly. I can say but one thing: Never in your life have you deceived
me. And you have not deceived me now.”
For half an hour after this Mr. Billings sat alone, thinking.
III. OUR FIRST BURGLAR
When our new suburban house was completed I took Sarah out to see it,
and she liked it all but the stairs.
“Edgar,” she said, when she had ascended to the second floor, “I don't
know whether it is imagination or not, but it seems to me that these
stairs are funny, some way. I can't understand it. They are not a long
flight, and they are not unusually steep, but they seem to be unusually
wearying. I never knew a short flight to tire me so, and I have climbed
many flights in the six years we have lived in flats.”
“Perhaps, Sarah,” I said, with mild dissimulation, “you are unusually
tired to-day.”
The fact was that I had planned those stairs myself, and for a
particular reason I had made the rise of each step three inches more
than the customary height, and in this way I had saved two steps. I had
also made the tread of the steps unusually narrow; and the reason was
that I had found, from long experience, that stair carpet wears first on
the tread of the steps, where the foot falls. By making the steps tall
enough to save two, and by making the tread narrow, I reduced the wear
on the carpet to a minimum. I believe in economy where it is possible.
For the same reason I had the stair banisters made wide, with a
saddle-like top to the newel post, to tempt my son and daughter to slide
downstairs. The less they used the stairs the longer the carpet would
last.
I need hardly say that Sarah has a fear of burglars; most women have. As
for myself, I prefer not to meet a burglar. It is all very well to get
up in the night and prowl about with a pistol in one hand, seeking to
eliminate the life of a burglar, and some men may like it; but I am of
a very excitable nature, and I am sure that if I did find a burglar and
succeeded in shooting him, I should be in such an excited state that
I could not sleep again that night--and no man can afford to lose his
night's rest.
There are other objections to shooting a burglar in the house, and these
objections apply with double force when the house and its furnishings
are entirely new. Although some of the rugs in our house were red, not
all of them were; and I had no guarantee that if I shot a burglar
he would lie down on a red rug to bleed to death. A burglar does not
consider one's feelings, and would be quite as apt to bleed on a green
rug, and spoil it, as not. Until burglarizing is properly regulated and
burglars are educated, as they should be, in technical burglary schools,
we cannot hope that a shot burglar will staunch his wound until he can
find a red rug to lie down on.
And there are still other objections to shooting a burglar. If all
burglars were fat, one of these would be removed; but perhaps a thin
burglar might get in front of my revolver, and in that case the bullet
would be likely to go right through him and continue on its way, and
perhaps break a mirror or a cut-glass dish. I am a thin man myself, and
if a burglar shot at me he might damage things in the same way.