A SUGGESTION
Many tomorrows had come and gone before Skippy saw his father again and
then it was under circumstances that the lonely boy had not
contemplated. The shadow of prison walls already threatened Toby Dare
for the rest of his natural life; conviction was certain.
Skippy returned to the _Minnie M. Baxter_ toward noon. It threatened to
be a sultry day; the air was heavy and still, and a sickening blue haze
hung over the inlet. Brown’s Basin, always more or less apathetic under
the glare of noonday, was unusually silent and Skippy listened in vain
for the cheering sound of a human voice.
He set about preparing lunch, but it was a half-hearted, pathetic
attempt, for the Dare larder was getting dangerously bare. He had been
living on an almost exclusive diet of pancakes for more than a week past
and Nature was beginning to retaliate for Skippy was far from being a
robust boy.
He pushed back his plate after a time, hurried out of the cabin and got
into his motor boat. It was his only consolation during the interminable
days and nights of his father’s continued absence and on this particular
day his heart warmed toward it with a new, affectionate thought.
His fishing tackle was assembled at his feet and he set the nose of the
little boat downstream as soon as he reached the river. Fog horns
pierced the still, hazy air with their dismal warnings and the screams
of steam winches and tooting whistles echoed and reechoed about the
boy’s tousled head.
He watched the passing river traffic abstractedly, particularly the
lumbering and heavily-laden barges moving along in the wake of chortling
tugs. The sight of them always made him think of his father and of what
might have been, and the more he saw of them the more did the feeling
grow within him that it was a strange and unjust law that could take his
father away from him. Moreover, he could not understand why a jury would
not believe his father’s straightforward story, which proved so clearly
to him that another hand had taken Josiah Flint’s life.
Hadn’t the police found that the rich man had been robbed of a
considerable sum of money and hadn’t they admitted that it was neither
on Toby’s person nor on the barge? Skippy remembered only too well the
day when the police ransacked the _Minnie M. Baxter_ fore and aft for
Josiah Flint’s money. But their search was futile, as he knew it would
be, and although they now had ample proof that poverty threatened him,
they still insisted that the stolen money had been hidden by his unhappy
father.
But Skippy did not consider the testimony of Marty Skinner that he, on
returning to his employer’s stateroom, saw Toby Dare with his arm out
the porthole (from which a clever and venomous prosecuting attorney drew
the inference for the jury that Toby was disposing of the pistol from
which the fatal shot was fired). Skinner did not swear he saw any
weapon, but his testimony, linked with the other evidence, made for a
strong circumstantial case.
Skinner also testified that he had rushed to his employer’s side as Toby
raced from the room; that upon discovering that Josiah Flint had been
shot he chased after the squatter and shouted to him, as he made off in
his kicker, to no avail. The second mate corroborated the testimony that
Toby failed to heed the cries for him to halt.
While the pistol had not been found, Inspector Jones and his men
testified that Toby had threatened to fix Josiah Flint because he felt
he had been cheated of his life savings of $300 in buying a rotten barge
from Flint. That, the prosecutor insisted to the jury, furnished the
motive for the crime. Altogether he made a case which convinced the
twelve men, but it did not convince Skippy for he could not be convinced
that his father was guilty.
Skippy was deep in his bitter reflections and did not see the familiar
launch of the harbor inspectors until it was almost upon him. Inspector
Jones’ bright and smiling face came alongside of him with startling
suddenness.
“Well, Skippy!” he said pleasantly. “How’s the boy?”
Skippy winced and a frown darkened his face. He could not forget that
Inspector Jones’ testimony had helped to take his father from him.
“I feel sick on accounta my Pop, that’s what,” said he bitterly. “You
helped make things worse for him too, Mr. Jones, on account of the
things you told about what he said that day after you inspected the
_Minnie M. Baxter_.”
Inspector Jones’ bland countenance looked immediately troubled.
“I told the truth, Skippy,” he said kindly. “I told only what your
father had said and my men were there to prove it.”
“You needn’t have said that Pop said he was gonna _fix_ Mr. Flint ’cause
you mighta known he really didn’t mean it. Pop was mad then, but he
promised me before we left for the _Apollyon_ that night that he
wouldn’t lose his head. Gee, he’s even sworn since he didn’t take Mr.
Flint’s life an’ don’t you suppose I know when my Pop’s tellin’ the
truth?”
“I guess so,” Inspector Jones answered with real feeling in his voice;
“I guess you know your Pop better than anybody, Skippy. I’m sorry, the
law required me to testify against him. But it was my duty—can’t you
see?”
“Then you believe they’ll be keepin’ my Pop in jail when he’s innocent,
too, huh?” Skippy asked excitedly.
“I’m rather inclined to believe that your father didn’t shoot Flint,”
answered the inspector. “But I can’t do anything about it, Skippy, and I
doubt if my testimony alone would convict him. It’s that
District-Attorney and Marty Skinner that’s made it so tough for your
father. You know Skinner swore he saw Toby at the porthole and the D. A.
put it over to the jury that he was dropping the gun which did the job.”
“Yeah, but that diver didn’t find no gun,” Skippy replied, “an’ my Pop
swore he wasn’t near no porthole an’ besides nobody tried findin’ out
about that kicker that was around when we come up. I’ll betcha the
feller what did the killin’ got away in it.”
“You’re right about not finding the gun, Skippy,” Inspector Jones nodded
thoughtfully. “I’ll look into the kicker angle some more.”
“Say, thanks, Mr. Jones, me’n Pop we’d be so thankful, we would. Maybe
if I went to see Mr. Skinner he’d help us ’cause I guess hard as he is
he’ll see I don’t tell lies even to get my Pop free. Maybe I oughta go
right away to see him, huh?”
Inspector Jones nodded thinking how futile the boy’s errand would be.
But he had boys of his own and he did not want to jolt the lad out of
his pleasant dream. So all he said was: “The sooner the better, because
I hear he’s going on the _Apollyon_ for a week’s cruise. You know Buck
Flint has gone to Europe and now Skinner, who was only Josiah Flint’s
yes-man for years, is ruling the roost and living high on a
millionaire’s yacht. Buck says he won’t ever board her so it’s pretty
soft for Skinner. He’s got the boat anchored just outside in the bay,
ready to nose her out to sea after nightfall. If you get right on down
there, you’ll catch him aboard, sure.”
Skippy smiled his thanks and turned his little motor over. The inspector
waved his hand.
“From the sound of that kicker,” he shouted, “I take it you’ve lost
Toby’s muffler?”
“Sure,” Skippy answered laughing, “what do I need with a muffler, huh?
’Cepting it might be better for fishin’ with. But gee, I should worry
about livin’ on fish if I can see Mr. Skinner, huh? Pop ought to be out
by—by....”
“Tomorrow, eh?” Inspector Jones interposed turning his head aside and
blowing his nose hard.
“Nope,” Skippy answered wistfully, “I won’t say tomorrow ’cause then—oh
well, it’s too quick. But anyway, if I see Mr. Skinner it won’t be long
after tomorrow, I bet.”
He had yet to learn from his bitter experience that tomorrow never
comes.