"So did I. It can't be the general. He wouldn't cough."
A hollow cough sounded distinctly from the bushes behind and the
Watermelon rose to investigate. It was nearly three and at three he
would have to go, or the man down yonder in the swimming hole might come
after him to reclaim his clothes and motor-car. The Watermelon
begrudged every precious moment.
"Wait, and I will see what the mutt wants," said he. "You will wait,
won't you?" he pleaded, looking down at her where she sat on the log.
"We really ought to go," said Billy.
"All right, but don't run off until I've--I've cured that cough, will
you?"
Billy nodded and the Watermelon strode to the bushes from whence had
sounded the harsh, constrained cough. He pushed the branches aside and
gazed into the small, pinched face of a thin youth of about eighteen,
dressed in the uniform of the hotel.
"Hist," cautioned the boy, before the Watermelon could speak. "I want
to tell you something important."
"All right, spit it out and be quick about it," ordered the Watermelon.
If the real William Hargrave Batchelor had managed to get word to the
hotel about the impostor, the sooner he knew it the better. The boy had
probably come to offer to help him escape in exchange for something,
money most likely. Like all tramps, the Watermelon was quick to read
faces, and in the crafty young face before him, he saw only the dollar
mark.
"It--I don't want no one to hear me," said the boy, with a motion toward
the log and Billy's slim young back.
The Watermelon hesitated, but in the shifty eyes he saw fear and
deference. If he knew the Watermelon for a tramp, there would be no
deference.
"Gwan, spit it out," ordered the Watermelon. "I ain't keen for the
pleasure of hearing any of your heart to heart secrets."
"It's very important," said the boy, "and no one must hear."
"I suppose you think every one is busting to hear your words of wisdom,"
said the Watermelon. "Probably get a dime a word, eh?"
"It's about you," said the boy, harsh with impatience and nervousness.
"It's--" He drew a piece of paper from his pocket and held it out. "He
gave me that to send."
"Who are you?"
"The telegraph clerk," whispered the boy, with a frightened glance
toward Billy on the log.
The Watermelon read the paper and smiled a slow, sweet smile of
anticipated pleasure as the full import of Bartlett's telegram became
clear. He glanced at Billy and his smile deepened. Then he turned and
drew the boy farther away.
"Bartlett sent this, eh?"
"Yes," cried the boy, eager with excitement over the service he was
rendering the great man. "And the minute I read it and knew that you
were here, I knew you ought to have it."
"Didn't you send it?"
"Yes, I had to. You see he stood right there. But just as soon as he
went, I lit out to find you."
"Where is he now?"
"I seen him on the front porch with Miss Grossman. Say, you'll want to
be going now, won't you, huh? You ken get to New York to-night if you
hurry."
The Watermelon rattled the coins in his pockets and looked down at the
thin, crafty face of the youngster. "Kid," said lie, "if you keep on as
you've begun, you'll be doing time, sure. You're a thieving little
snipe and ought to be the head of a corporation some day, or a United
States senator, 'cause you haven't as much honor as a grasshopper, see?
I don't know why you shouldn't land in Sing Sing, if you miss the
corporation job or the senate."
"Huh," said the boy, reddening with the praise of the great man.
"If you let on that you have shown this to me, you will lose your job
here, you know. So, until I can see my friend, J. Pierpont, about that
other job for you, you'd better keep your mouth shut. Understand?"
"Sure," cried the boy. "Course I understand."
The Watermelon handed him a quarter. "When I reach New York," said he
airily, "I'll send you me check for a thousand."
*CHAPTER VII*
*WATERMELON YIELDS*
Eager to accomplish the plan he had suddenly conceived, the Watermelon
turned and strolled back to Billy, while the boy gazed after such
majesty in awed admiration.
"Who was it?" asked Billy, looking up as the Watermelon approached.
"The telegraph clerk," said the Watermelon calmly. "A telegram--and he
brought it to me."
He made no motion to sit down and Billy rose.
"I suppose you have to go back," said she. She had to throw back her
head to see into his face, for the top of her beflowered hat only
reached to his shoulder.
"No," said the Watermelon, preparing the way for the future. "I could
take a few days off, if I wanted to. Come on. I might as well try and
save the remains of my car after the general has done his best to ruin
it. I heard him go into the garage as we got out of sight. The general
is more expensive than a motorcar."
"I like the general," said Billy, as they started slowly back.
"I suppose he has been like a grandfather to you," said the Watermelon,
glancing down at the top of the big hat. "Don't you want me for a
relative of some kind?"
"You said relatives were afflictions," objected Billy.
"I know; but it is only through our afflictions that we can rise to
higher things."
"What higher things?"
"Why, Heaven, as I described it last."
They found the general with Henrietta and Bartlett in the garage. The
general was kindly superintending the filling of the absent Batchelor's
car with gasolene, Bartlett was expounding the merits of his make of car
as superior to any other make, while Henrietta sat on the step of the
general's car and pretended to be listening.
"I took the liberty," apologized the general, as the other two appeared
in the doorway, feeling, on the contrary, that he was doing the young
man an inestimable favor.
"Go ahead," said the Watermelon.
"Draw the line somewhere," advised Henrietta. "Father is too fond of
trying to see what makes the wheels go round to give him carte blanche
with any car."
"I understand a car thoroughly, Henrietta," said the general. "I have
always been fond of mechanics."
"I know it, dear," said Henrietta with contrition. "I have always said
that if you hadn't been a general, you would have been a master
mechanic."
"Thank God, he's a general," whispered the Watermelon into the small ear
of Billy.
"To thoroughly appreciate a car, you should take a trip of a week or
two," said Bartlett, not glancing at the Watermelon, apparently talking
to the general alone. "There is nothing like it. It has revolutionized
travel. Have you ever done it, General, spent a month, a week, at
least, in your car, going where you wanted, stopping as long as you
wanted and as often?"
Assured that Alphonse was attending to the gasolene, the general
withdrew his invaluable supervision and turned to the others.
"We spent a week in the car last summer, and we intended to do it again
this year, but have somehow put it off."
"It's perfectly delightful," said Henrietta. "You wonder how you ever
tolerated a train."
"It is tramping idealized," declared Bartlett.
"It's dandy," cried Billy. "Daddy, do you remember that time we went
from Maine straight down the coast to Maryland?"
The general turned to the Watermelon. "I suppose you have grown tired
of it," said he, "A young unmarried man can go when and where he wants."
"Oh, I've been around some," admitted the Watermelon modestly. "But
never in a car."
"You should try it, my dear sir," said Bartlett. "Upon my word, you
have no idea how fascinating it is."
"I never owned a car."
"You do now," laughed Henrietta. "Now's your chance."
"I've no one to go with," replied the Watermelon innocently, smiling
down at Henrietta on the car step and not looking at Bartlett.
Henrietta laughed and threw out one of her delicate, graceful hands with
a little gesture that embraced the whole group. "You have all of us,
now," said she. "We have made you one of us."
Bartlett agreed with a chuckle. Things were coming his way with hardly
any effort on his part, as they, had had a way of doing until William
Hargrave Batchelor had made himself too annoying. He took it as a good
sign and smiled cheerfully.
"You can take us all," laughed Billy.
"A week," said Bartlett tentatively, "in the country, away from
telegrams and letters and papers, it would do me a vast amount of good.
I have been overworking lately." He nodded gravely, in confirmation of
his own remark. "I would like to drop everything, now, this minute,
crank up the car and start, no matter where, any place, any road. You
don't need clothes. The lighter you travel, the better. You can put up
anywhere you happen to be for the night, and, if you get lost it does
not matter, merely adds to the fun and affords an adventure."
"It sounds alluring," said Henrietta. "Suppose we all go, just as we
are!"
"We could," cried Billy. "Why, Dad, we could do it easily. I have that
linen dress I wore yesterday, and my brush and comb and things, and you
have yours."
"But the general and Henrietta," objected Bartlett. "They only ran up
here for the day, my dear. They may not have anything."
"Yes, we have," cried Henrietta, "We planned to stay a week or two and
sent a trunk along. We could easily pack a suit-case."
"Oh!" exclaimed Billy. "Do let's do it."
"I noticed a suit-case in your car, Batchelor," Bartlett turned to the
Watermelon, genially. "I judge you are planning to take a few days'
jaunt somewhere."
"I was thinking of it," acknowledged the Watermelon, with truth,
lounging gracefully in the doorway.
Bartlett laughed. "We are crazy, all of us," said he and waved the
suggestion aside as a whimsical fancy best forgotten.
"Oh, Daddy, please," teased Billy.
"But, Billy, child, the others don't want to do it, the general or
Batchelor."
"I want to," said Henrietta, "and so does the general. Father, wouldn't
you like to take a trip in the car somewhere for a week or two?"
The general's attention had wandered back to the car. He turned
abstractedly. "Do what, Henrietta?"
"Take a trip in the car for a week or two."
"Yes, we must plan one later, as we did last summer."
"But we mean now, father, start right now."
"Now? Henrietta, you're foolish, my dear."
"No, indeed, father. Why not now? 'Do it now' is your favorite motto,
you know."
"It is impossible," and the general, also, dismissed the subject.
Bartlett thrust his hands in his pockets and appeared absorbed in his
car. He knew Billy.
"Why impossible?" asked Billy, laying a small hand on the general's arm.
"You were going to spend a week here. Why not spend it in your car?
You have no engagement, have you?"
"No," said the general, smiling into her pretty face. "But what about
clothes?"
"Clothes," laughed Billy, "why, clothes--"
"Be hanged," said the Watermelon.
Bartlett laughed. "Quite so. Wash out on the line, general. Better
come."
"Pretend the Indians have risen," said Henrietta, "and you are given an
hour to get into marching order."
"Ah, yes," cried the eager Billy, patting the arm she clung to. "You
used to do it, General, why, in half an hour, out on the plains."
"What do you know about it, puss?" asked the general.
"Didn't you?" pleaded Billy.
"Yes," said the general, who always gave in to a pretty woman. "I used
to. In those days we were always ready for a fight."
"So you will go? I knew you would."
"But Mr. Batchelor may have to return to the city," suggested Henrietta,
glancing at the Watermelon.
Bartlett shot a glance at the young man and began to whistle softly
through his teeth as he indifferently raised the bonnet of his car and
examined the clean, well-ordered machinery within. Would Billy's charms
be enough to hold the young man against his better judgment? Could he
forget what the next week meant to him, forget the lure of the Street,
the rise and fall of stocks, in the light of a woman's eyes, in the
sound of a woman's laugh? If Billy could not keep him, what could? He
must be kept. A week with him out of the way, the ring could be
renewed, strengthened, that which was lost, regained. Bartlett bent low
over his car, but he heard Billy, sweetly speaking to the Watermelon.
"You don't have to return to the city, do you? You would much rather go
with us, wouldn't you?"
The Watermelon glanced at Bartlett. If he accepted too readily,
Bartlett might wonder, yet if he hesitated, if he thought apparently of
how important his presence in the city would be in the coming week, even
if there were to be a few days of armed neutrality, it might seem even
more impossible that he would consent to go.
"Can't you join us, Batchelor?" asked the general. "You've made enough
for one while. When you run out of that three million, you can go back.
Time enough then."
"Swollen fortunes are a crime nowadays," said Henrietta, smiling her
odd, half gay, half tender smile.
"Come ahead, Batchelor," urged Bartlett with friendly good nature,
neither too eager, nor too insistent, but his eyes were half shut and
the palms of his hands wet as he rubbed them on his handkerchief.
"We will start to-night," said Billy. "It will be beautiful. In the
night, driving is perfectly lovely, you know, Mr. Batchelor."
"Better come," advised the general. "We can keep in touch with the
telegraph. It's not as if we were going into the wilds of Africa."
"No, indeed," said Bartlett. "I have interests in New York, myself,
that I want to keep an eye on."
Billy laid her hand on his arm. "Won't you come?" she teased.
The Watermelon looked down, under the brim of her hat, into the
gray-green eyes and smiled.
"Yes," he said simply. "I would like to."
*CHAPTER VIII*
*GRATITUDE IS A FLOWER*
James lay in the shade of the butternut tree and smoked gloomily. He
was well-shaved and his hair newly cut and carefully brushed, but his
clothes were still the rags that had graced his muscular form since the
dim, nearly forgotten long ago, when he had stolen them one lucky night
from some back yard passed in the course of his travels.
He squinted at the sun through the tree tops and judged it to be about
four. The Watermelon had evidently done no better or he would have
turned up before. Mike, sprawled in the grass beside him, slept with
the stentorian slumber of the corpulent. James kicked him.
"Aw, wake up," he growled. "I want your rare intelligence to unbosom me
sorrowful and heavy heart to."
Mike yawned, stretched and sat up, pushing his shapeless hat to the back
of his round hot head. He drew his sleeve across his streaming forehead
and yawned and stretched again.
"You ought to relax, James," said he, cutting a square from the plug of
tobacco that he carried carefully wrapped in a soiled piece of tinfoil.
"Youse will have noivous prostration one of these days with the
strenuous life youse leads. The modern hurry and worry is all wrong.
Now, take me--"
"No one would take you, not even a kodak," sneered James, scowling
before him moodily.
"The matter with you, James," said Mike, sticking the tobacco into his
mouth with the blade of his knife, "the matter with you is youse are
harboring and cultivating that green-eyed monster called jealousy.
Youse are, in short, jealous of me young friend, the Watermillion."
"Aw, jealous of a kid! Who? Me? Not on your tin-type."
"You say so, James. We all deny the werminous cancers that gnaw our
vitals. But look into your own heart, question yourself--"
"Aw, pound yer ear," snapped James.
Some one was heard approaching and Mike paused from cleaning the blade
of his knife in the ground before him to listen.
"The youth comes," said he, and rose clumsily to his little fat legs.
He stepped aside to see up the path, but James did not move.
"A radiant vision of manly beauty," announced Mike, one hand on his
heart, the other shading his small eyes as though dazzled by a great and
brilliant light.
James glanced up sullenly. A youth was coming through the trees, tall
and graceful and broad-shouldered. His suit of soft brown, his gently
tipped panama, his light shoes and silk socks brought with them a breath
of motor-cars and steam yachts, of the smoker in a railway train, with a
white-clad, attentive porter, instead of the brake beam underneath and
an irate station-master and furious conductor. From the lapel of his
coat gleamed a heavy gold chain and in his stylish tie a pin of odd but
costly workmanship caught the eye of the enraptured beholder.
Mike laid his hand on his heart again, removed his hat, and standing
aside for the youth to pass, bowed low.
"Me lud," said he in humble salutation.
[Illustration: "Me lud," he said in humble salutation]
James glanced up from his seat under the butternut tree. He regarded
the vision of affluence before him a moment in growing admiration and
awe. Then he removed his pipe and spoke.
"You'll get three years for this," said he cheerfully, and put his pipe
back into his mouth.
"Three nothing," sneered the Watermelon.
"Jealousy," said Mike, putting his hat on the back of his frowsy head.
"Jealousy maketh the tongue cruel and the heart bitter. Me," he spread
forth his fat dirty hands, "me beauty is such it gives me no concern. I
realize youse can not gild the lily."
The Watermelon drew himself up to his full height, threw back his
shoulders and fastidiously adjusted his cuffs, with their heavy gold
links.
"With every passing moment, more beautiful," murmured Mike.
James snorted.
"Well," asked the Watermelon, "who gets the prize?"
"Me humble faculties," said Mike, with one wary eye on James, "me humble
faculties are incapable of rendering true and accurate judgment in the
present case where two such rare specimens of manly beauty compete in my
honored and deeply grateful presence."
The Watermelon laughed and ran his hand over his smooth chin and
hairless cheeks with a gesture of gentle pride. "James said if I could
not get a suit, I would be counted down and out. I," and he drew
himself up, "I do not have to take advantage of a mere technicality. I
scorn to win by default."
"True nobility," said Mike, "is in them words."
"Aw, cut the gas!" growled James. "Where'd you get the blooming outfit?"
"I win, do I?" persisted the Watermelon.
"Mike's the judge," returned James, losing interest in what was too
obviously a one-sided contest.
"In this competition, there are three points to decide," declared Mike,
not quite sure whom he feared the more, James or the Watermelon. "Beauty
of face, beauty of clothes and beauty of soul. The one who gets two
points out of the three wins."
The Watermelon nodded, James grunted.
Mike glanced thoughtfully from one to the other and decided that danger
lay in either choice. "Neither of you," said he slowly and wisely,
"win. For unexcelled art in raiment, me young friend here might be said
to be the only competitor. For rare physical beauty and winning charm
in looks, unaided by mere externals, me friend and fellow-citizen,
James, gets the just reward, and for pure, manly beauty of the soul,
truth, which I always follow, compels me to give the prize to me humble
self."
"Aw," growled James, "this ain't no show. We will have another."
The Watermelon hitched up his trousers and chose a clean seat on a
fallen log. When coat and trousers legs were adjusted so as best to
keep their faultless creases, he spoke with the bored accents of the
weary scion of great wealth.
"I'm starting for a motor tour with some of me friends," said he.
"I," said Mike, "have always felt for you as for a dear and only son."
"Gwan," said James imperiously. "Where did you get the glad rags?"
The Watermelon told them briefly how from a nameless hobo a few short
hours before, he had become a famous young financier, hobnobbing with
generals and millionaires. He chuckled as he told it with the
half-cynical amusement of the philosopher for the follies of the poor,
seething, hurrying, struggling crowd of humanity, too busy in their rush
for gold and social position to see their own laughable pitiful shams
and affectations. Poverty clears the eyesight as nothing else can, and
the Watermelon had been poor so long and was so indifferent to his
position that he had lost none of his clearness of vision in the
strenuous endeavor of the others, and he saw, unconsciously, but
nevertheless keenly, the dead level of human nature, with its artificial
hills of gold and social position.
"Me father, I believe, is a policeman," said he. "Me mother a
wash-woman. If I had a grandfather, no one knows. I'm fortunate to
have a father and no questions asked, yet just because I can write me
check, as they think, for a million and have it honored, I'm 'my boy' to
the elite of the land, the 'best people.' Gosh, it's enough to make an
ass bray."
"It is that," said Mike. "For me, only the intrinsic worth of the soul.
Maybe there was a bit of change in the pockets?" he added as an
afterthought.
"Yes, there was quite a bit. He's fresh at the game and carries a roll
to show off with," returned the Watermelon, pulling a roll of bills from
his pocket. Mike edged a bit nearer. "See here, I want you fellers to
do something for me."
"For you," said Mike, "I would give me immortal soul."
"I want something more than that, Mike," said the Watermelon.
"Me plug of baccy?" asked Mike with feeling.
The Watermelon shook his head as he slowly pulled a greenback from the
bunch he held. "I want you two to go to that lake, get my clothes out
of the log and give 'em to the poor devil."
"Don't be a fool," advised James. "He's all right. Nothing will happen
to him."
"I know, but I keep thinking of him. He can afford to lose what he is
going to lose, but all the same, he's cold and tired."
"Aw, don't go and do that," pleaded Mike. "He'll have youse arrested--"
"I ain't going to be around here; besides, no one would think of looking
for me with the swell bunch I'm going with."
"Maybe not," admitted James gravely, "but there's always the danger that
some cop will have brains. And he's bound to get away to-night, all
right, and have the bulls on you the minute he does. You had better
take all the time you can to get away and don't try to shorten it none."
The Watermelon slowly unwound another bill and nodded. "I know, but I'm
sorry for him. A few hours won't make much difference. He hasn't the
slightest idea who swiped his clothes. He'll think some tramp did and
that the feller is getting out of the country by cross-cuts and as fast
as he can. Don't you see? No one will look for me with the general and
Bartlett. I'm going to have a week of fun--"
"Maybe," said James gloomily. "Hardly, if you give that bloke his
clothes before you need to."
The Watermelon waved the statement aside. "We are going to leave about
five," said he. "They are waiting for me, now. It will take you a bit
of a walk to find the place. I put the clothes in an empty log near a
pile of rocks at the foot of three tall pines, standing together about
ten yards from the lake. You can't help but find it. Give him the
clothes and this check-book and fountain pen. I can't use them and you
two won't get gay with them 'cause Mike's a coward, and James has too
much sense."
"You're a damn fool," said James shortly.
"He's all right," argued Mike, meaning the man in the forest shades.
"What can hurt him?"
"I know, but he's mighty uncomfortable. Can't sit down, maybe, and there
may be flies and mosquitoes--"
"Naw," protested Mike. "He's just comfortable. If it was the style, I
would like to have gone naked to-day."
"He'll have the police after youse," warned James, "as soon as he can
reach the village."
"Sure he will. Gratitude is a flower," said Mike grandiloquently, "that
I have never picked."
"And never will," added James with grim pessimism.
"That's all right," returned the Watermelon. "I ain't gathering any
flowers this trip. Here's a ten-spot for each of you, and mind you do
what I say."
"For you," said Mike, "I'd give me heart's blood."
"Where do we find this pond?" asked James.
"Come with me and I'll take you to the road that leads by it. You give
me time to get to the hotel, though, before you give him his clothes."
"Trust me," said Mike, lovingly concealing the greenback in the dark
dirty recesses of his rags.
They parted in the road where the Watermelon had come upon the big red
touring car. Mike and James watched him until he disappeared over the
top of the hill, then climbed the wall and made their way through the
woods to the little mountain lake.
"We won't get the clothes," said James, "until we have had a talk with
the guy and tried to get him into a reasonable frame of mind. It's just
likely that he may be somewhat put out."
There was no one in sight as they made their way cautiously to the edge
of the lake. The trees grew nearly down to the narrow, pebbly beach and
were reflected in the quiet depths of the water. The little brook,
tumbling over its miniature waterfall, with a ripple and splash, was the
only sound that broke the all-pervading silence. Nothing stirred in the
underbrush, neither man nor beast, and James and Mike were about to slip
away as quietly as they came when a stick snapped behind them sharply
and Mike wheeled.
A man was peering at them eagerly over the tops of a few bushes. His
face was white and his teeth chattering. His arms, dimly discerned
through the branches, were wrapped around his shivering form with fervor
and he was standing gingerly on first one foot and then the other.
"Hello," said Mike facetiously. "Going in?" and he nodded casually
backward to the lake.
"Been in," chattered the miserable wretch, trying to control his teeth
so that he could say more.
"Oughtn't to stay in too long," advised James solicitously. "Your lips
look blue."
"Bad for the heart," said Mike.
"We ain't ladies," added James with delicacy. "You might come out from
them bushes."
"Some--some one stole my--my--my clothes," stammered the young man,
stepping carefully forth. "Been here--here since this--this morning."
He looked sharply at the shabby pair before him, with quick distrust in
his bloodshot eyes and added coldly, "Some--some tramp."
"Did you see him?" asked James.
"No--no--no. But who else could have stolen them?"
"I," said Mike, drawing himself up to his five feet five and throwing
back his pudgy shoulders, "I am a tramp. I trust, sir, you meant no
insult to me profession?"
The stranger waved the question aside. "Get me some clothes and I'll
give you some money."
"What money?" asked James.
"I will send you some. I am rich. My car is in the road. Maybe you
saw it. I was coming through the woods to the hotel to get a tow up,
for I was out of gasolene, when I saw the lake. It was early and I
thought I would take a swim. Maybe you saw my car by the side of the
road?"
"I didn't see no car," said Mike.
"Did you come by the road?"
"Yes, a narrow wood road."
"Yes, yes; that's where I left it. The damned thief has probably gone
off with my car, too."
"Then he couldn't be a tramp," said James judiciously. "Tramps don't
know nothing about motor-cars."
"Maybe he took it up to the hotel," said Mike, cheerfully helpful.
The stranger shook his head. "No, he wouldn't do that. He would get
out of the country as fast as he could."
"If there wasn't no gasolene," suggested James tentatively.
"He could easily get some from the hotel. It was early when he stole my
clothes." And James realized with relief that the youth before him was,
in his own eyes, always right, and advice wholly superfluous.
"I saw a big red car," said Mike, "down the road a bit, over the other
side of the village, going south. But maybe your car wasn't red."
"Yes, yes, it was," cried the stranger. "What was the make? Could you
tell?"
"A Thomas car--"
"Ah, my car. Get me something to put on and I'll make it worth your
while. I'm William Hargrave Batchelor. Maybe you have read about me in
yesterday's papers?" And the poor, shivering, naked wretch drew himself
up proudly and smiled with much complacency.
"I," said Mike, tapping himself on his breast, "am George V., of
England."
"No, no," protested the stranger. "I'm not fooling. Get me, some
clothes and come with me to the nearest telegraph office and I'll show
you."
"How much," asked Mike, "will you give me?"
"Us," corrected James.
"How much do you want?"
"How much will you give?"
"Ten dollars."
"For a suit of clothes?" Mike's fat red face depicted his horror.
"Twenty," cried the stranger.
"Apiece?" asked James.
"Apiece," declared the unhappy youth.
"Apiece, James," said Mike, turning inquiringly to his companion.
"Make it thirty," said James, "and we may be able to help you."
"All right, thirty apiece. Get me the clothes."
"You might write us each a check," suggested James, and drew forth the
pen and check-book.
"For innocence," groaned Mike, "commend me to me loving comrade, James."
The stranger's eyes glittered as he recognized his book and pen. He
glanced from one ragged specimen before him to the other, from James'
crafty face to Mike's sly visage, but he said nothing, merely took the
pen and book.
"Your names?" he asked, opening the book and resting it against a tree
for support.
"Better put 'to bearer,'" said James. "Simplicity is always the best."
The stranger wrote the checks, signed them and turned to the two
watching him. "Bring me the suit," he said quietly, "and these are
yours."
Mike shuffled off into the trees and James and the stranger waited in
silence for his return. He came back presently and threw the suit at
the stranger's feet.
"You'll notice," said he, "that this nobby spring suit in our latest
style is cheap at the price. Fancy, a thing like that for only sixty
dollars!"
"I see," said the stranger.
"Payable in advance," said James.
The stranger handed them each a check and thoughtfully drew on the
shabby clothes of the Watermelon. It had not been long since he had
worn rags of a necessity, and he hitched them up with the skill bred of
familiarity. He thrust the pen and book into a pocket he had first made
sure was holeless. Then he turned to the two and his eyes gleamed.
"How much for the car?" he asked.
Mike raised his hands to Heaven. "The car? James, does he think we
stole his car?"
"A stock-broker," said James, "would suspect his own mother."
"If you want youse car," said Mike, "go to the hotel."
"Bah," snapped the stranger. "Do you think I was weaned yesterday? Be
quick and tell me your price."
"I have no price," said Mike proudly, not sure where the car was.
They started through the woods to the village, the stranger leading and
Mike and James following. At the edge of the village, they paused
instinctively and without a word.
"Tell me where the car is and who your accomplice is," said the stranger
in the short sharp tones of one born to command, "and you two can go
free. If you don't tell, I'll do my best to have you arrested and sent
up for grand larceny. Understand?"
"Oh, yes," said Mike, "I understand. When I was young I learned
English, foolishly, as I haven't used it since."
"We don't know where your damn car is," declared James. "And we didn't
steal your blooming outfit. What do you take us for, anyway?"
"Very well, then," snapped the stranger. "I see that you won't tell.
Remember, I gave you your chance."
He turned and hurried down the village street. The two watched him as
he stopped a pedestrian and apparently asked to be directed to the
justice of the peace, then they slipped away in the woods and quietly,
simultaneously, turned north, falling into a gentle lope that took them
far with the minimum of effort.
"I hope the kid ain't pinched," said James, after a while.
Mike sighed and shook his head. "Grand larceny," he murmured. "That's
gratitude for you."
*CHAPTER IX*
*ON THE ROAD*
The general never went anywhere without a well-stocked library,
guide-books, instruction books, maps. All were consulted long and
often, and with a childlike faith that Henrietta's sarcasm and the
sign-posts had not been able to shake.
If the guide-book read, "White rock on left," the general stopped the
car if the rock were not immediately seen where it should be according
to the book and refused to go farther until it had been discovered. If
the rock could not be located, the general ran back a little way or
ahead a little way and if the white rock still refused to be seen on the
left, the general did not see what right any one had to remove valuable
landmarks. Henrietta's tentative endeavor to point out the possibility
that the book was mistaken, doubtless unintentionally, but still
mistaken, was simply waved aside as one more indication of woman's
inferiority to man. If the book said that there was a hill at such and
such a place and there was in fact no hill there, the book was still
correct. There was something the matter with the landscape.
Bartlett knew of this unfortunate tendency of the general's and resolved
to get rid of those books and maps and papers. With every mile
indicated and nicely tabulated, every turn and landmark mentioned, it
would be almost impossible to get off the beaten route, and they must
avoid telegraph stations and post-offices as much as possible. The
success of the scheme lay in keeping Batchelor away from all touch and
communication with the city. They must, if possible, get lost, and with
the multitudinous books and maps they would not be able to. Therefore,
they must get rid of the books and maps.
When they had separated to prepare for the trip, Bartlett returned
hastily to the garage. No one was in sight except a strange chauffeur
lounging in the doorway. Bartlett collected all the literature from the
general's car and hastened back to the hotel. Surreptitiously, he
entered an empty room near the one assigned to him and when he emerged
again, his arms were burdenless and he was smiling gently.
They waited for the Watermelon on the porch, intending to have an early
supper and start while it was still light. Bartlett greeted the
returning youth with relief and lead the way to the dining-room. He
mentioned a small village some thirty miles to the north, where they
could find accommodations for the night in an old farm-house.
"Friends of mine," said he. "I go there every fall."
The general rose to get his blue book. "We will look it up," said he.
Bartlett stopped him. The town was not in the book. He knew, for he
had tried to find it.
"The maps will do," said the general, who liked to locate every town
visually on the maps or in the books before he undertook to motor there.
Desperate, Bartlett declared that it was not on the maps. But the
general would not be daunted. They could put it on the maps themselves
if they knew in which county it was, near what post-office--
"We don't want to locate it," said Bartlett, growing stern and cross of
a necessity.
They found the cars waiting at the steps and a small crowd to see them
off and wile away the time before supper.
Bartlett said, as he knew the way, he would lead. "We need only two
cars. Mr. Batchelor's car can be left until we return."
"Three cars might come in handy," protested the general, who objected to
every suggestion not his own, on principle.
"Why?" asked Bartlett coldly.
"Mr. Batchelor might become offended at us and want to ride by himself,"
suggested Henrietta, laughing.
"Yes," agreed Billy, who, though young and charming, was sometimes
lacking in that reserve that should have stamped her father's daughter.
"He and dad are fighting each other now on 'Change."
Henrietta flushed, the Watermelon laughed and the general looked pained
at the thought of any possible lack of congeniality.
"My dear Billy," said Bartlett, "the third auto would be extremely handy
for you and your tongue, at least."
Billy glanced miserably from one to the other. "Why, Daddy, you told
me, yesterday--"
"I have told you many things," said Bartlett, "both yesterday and the
day before."
He took the general by the arm and gently but firmly thrust him into his
car, getting in himself and taking the wheel. The young folk could ride
in the tonneau and Alphonse follow in the general's car with the
luggage.
The cars started down the hill in the first sweet flush of evening.
Birds were going to bed with noisy upbraidings. A few cows at the
pasture bars watched them pass with great, stupid, placid eyes, jaws
going slowly, rhythmically, as they waited for the milking time. Now
they flashed from the shadows of the woods to the open country, pastures
and rolling grain fields on each hand. Now they plunged among the trees
again with the drowsy twitter of birds and the clear babbling of a brook
somewhere off among the ferns and brambles.
The Watermelon leaned back in the deep soft cushions of the big car and
smiled a smile of calm and peace and comfort. The car ran smoothly,
noiselessly, little breezes laden with the sweetness of the approaching
night wandered by, on each side of him was a pretty girl. Tramping
idealized! It was living idealized. And that morning, hungry, shabby,
unshaved, he had been content to lie in the sweet lush grasses of a
chance meadow, under a butternut tree, with the convivial James and the
corpulent Mike! He crossed one well-pressed, silken leg over the other
and saw by the wayside, lounging in the shadows, waiting for the car to
pass, the two, James and Mike--Mike, fat, red-faced, dirty, his frowsy
hat pulled aslant over his small, bleary eyes, shoulders humped from
long habit in cold weather, toes coming out of his boot ends; James,
clean shaven, but otherwise no better dressed, no cleaner, both chewing
tobacco with the thoughtful rumination of the cows watching over the
pasture bars at the end of the wooded lane.
Over the trees, the sun was dropping from sight. Clearly and sweetly on
the quiet air of the eventide, the church bells began to toll from the
village below them in the valley.
Billy nudged the Watermelon to call his attention to the two weary
figures by the wayside.
"Poor fellows," said Henrietta softly, lest they hear her.
The Watermelon glanced at them in lofty disgust and catching James' eye,
his own flickered the fraction of an inch and he raised his hands
languidly to adjust the brown silk tie at his throat. When they had
passed, he turned and waved a graceful farewell. He explained to Billy
as they swept on into the deepening dusk.
"You might as well encourage the poor fellows. They probably want to
ride as well as I." And Henrietta fancied that possibly his father had
looked thus on a Sunday, in the pulpit of a country church.
"Yes," agreed Billy. "They may be perfectly dandy fellows."
"Assuredly," laughed Henrietta. "The stout one fairly radiated truth
and nobility, a manly, upright youth."
"I don't care," declared Billy warmly. "You can't always tell from
appearances. You ought to know that, Henrietta. Clothes don't make the
man."
"Nor his manners," laughingly retorted Henrietta.
"Sure," said the Watermelon. "Father used to say that manners didn't
count any more than the good apples on the top of the box to hide the
rotten ones beneath."
"I think your father was a cynic," said Henrietta sharply, into whose
ears Billy had been recounting the sayings of the absent divine.
"Yes," admitted the Watermelon, "he was."
"Cynicism is a sign of failure," quoted Henrietta. "Surely your father
wasn't a cynic."
"Yes, he was," declared the Watermelon, "and you didn't make that up
yourself. You heard some failure say it. Father used to say, and he's
right, that if a man reached forty without becoming a cynic, he was a
fool and might better never have reached forty. A success can be a
cynic, for cynicism is simply a pretty good idea of the meanness of
human nature and no unfounded expectation of anything especially decent
coming from it, isn't that so? Father used to say that love was divine,
hate devilish and meanness just cussed human nature, and a mixture of
the three in more or less degree made man."
"Your father was a philosopher," laughed Henrietta. "I would like to
have met him."
"I thought the papers said--" began Billy, in her slow, anxious way to
get things right.
"Yes, they did," interrupted the Watermelon, "and they were right."
It was quite dark now. Bartlett stopped a moment while Alphonse lit the
lamps, and then they went on and on, faster and faster, into the summer
night. Once in a while they passed a lighted farm-house and a dog
rushed out and barked at them. Twice they whirled through small
villages and the villagers, going home from church, paused to watch them
pass and be swallowed up in the dark ahead. The air was full of
fireflies. A whippoorwill called plaintively from the bushes, and low
in the west were flashes of heat lightning, with now and then an ominous
rumble of distant thunder. Silence had settled on all, even Billy mused
in her corner, half asleep.
The general had been worried for some time. They were apparently getting
nowhere. He felt that he should have consulted the blue book. He was
about to suggest that they stop and get the book from the rear car, when
Bartlett waved toward the dark bulk of a house looming out of the night,
some little way ahead.
"That's the place," said he. "We can spend the night there and get one
of the best chicken breakfasts I ever ate."
The general looked at the place and rallied his sinking spirits. It
appeared dark and he should say it was deserted, but Bartlett doubtless
knew what he was talking about. The people probably lived in the
kitchen. He was hungry and tired and the thought of hot sausages, bread
and jam and milk and then a soft cool bed was nearly as good as the
reality. He turned gaily to the quiet three in the tonneau.
"Wake up and hear the birds sing."
Bartlett glanced back and laughed. "Asleep, eh? We're there," he
added, turning the car neatly into the open driveway. "Guess you won't
refuse a good supper very strenuously."
The drive was rough and they rolled slowly tip to a great dark house,
standing on a slight rise of ground, a typical New England farmhouse,
square and gaunt and unadorned, with a small front stoop and a long side
porch. From the trees behind the house, came the dismal cry of a hoot
owl, as the cars came to a rest, and an answering cry from the grove
across the road.
"Ghosts," whispered the general.
"Oh, hush," pleaded Billy. "There is no need of fooling with things
like that."
"This house ain't lived in," said the Watermelon, as he slipped from the
car to straighten his cramped legs.
"Folks gone to bed," explained Bartlett cheerfully, since he was not the
one who had gone to bed. "We will just have to rout them out."
He shut off the power and alighted from the car, pulling off his gloves.
Alphonse came up in the other car and peered out at the dark, quiet,
lonely house and shook his head with forebodings.
"There isn't any one here," insisted the Watermelon, "asleep or awake."