AN ADVENTURE
As they went out to board a returning bus, Christopher remarked
regretfully:
"I'd have given a cent to see the rest of those clocks."
"What clocks?" inquired McPhearson with surprise.
"Why, Mr. Hawley's."
The Scotchman halted abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk.
"My goodness!" ejaculated he. "I never thought of it! Why under the sun
didn't you speak up, laddie?"
"I didn't like to," replied the boy with diffidence. "I was afraid it
might bother somebody."
"Not an atom. On the contrary Ebenezer would have been proud as a
peacock to show them off. You could have been wandering round with him
while I was fussing over Seventeen as well as not. It's a pity."
So genuine was the regret in the clockmaker's tone that Christopher
hastened to add:
"Oh, it's all right, Mr. McPhearson. Please don't think of it again. I
oughtn't to have mentioned it. It doesn't really matter, you know."
Still his companion was not satisfied.
"We might go back," suggested he.
"No, no! It will make you late at the store. Maybe you'll be going up
there again some other day and can take me along."
"I'm afraid not," replied McPhearson, ruefully. "At least I hope not. If
Seventeen behaves herself as I expect she will, I shall not be needed.
Well! Well! I am sorry. It wasn't very thoughtful of me."
They walked on and hailing a bus climbed aboard it.
The vehicle was crowded and they made their way in with difficulty,
jostling aside its closely packed occupants as they entered.
"Lots of these people will be leaving at the next stop," McPhearson
remarked. "They always do."
The prediction was true. At the next corner the passengers poured out,
leaving the seats only thinly filled.
As Christopher sank into a seat and drew a long breath of relief his eye
wandered idly over those sitting near him, and a stranger opposite
arrested his attention.
[Illustration: What was it that rendered the figure so familiar?
_Page_ 103.]
He was a working man shabbily clothed, and wearing a dingy brown ulster
and slouch hat. Between his feet was a much worn leather bag which
obviously contained tools. His hair was gray and so was the grizzled
beard that partially concealed his features. But it was none of these
that held the boy's attention. Something in the way the fellow's collar
was pulled up and his hat pulled down; something in the gesture with
which he moved his hands to turn his paper aroused a vague memory.
Fascinated, the lad watched. What was it that rendered the figure so
familiar? He had never seen the man before in his life--he was certain
of that. And yet, had he? And if so, where? What was the haunting
association that held him spellbound and made it impossible for him to
remove his gaze from this person whose features were almost entirely
screened from view behind the outspread pages of the morning _Herald_?
Christopher looked away. Of course he didn't know the fellow. Why stare
at him? But do what he would, back came his gaze to the same
brown-ulstered traveler.
Then the bus lurched, stopped suddenly, and he knew! The man had lowered
his paper, and as he turned his head to look out, the boy saw on his
right cheek, almost concealed by hat and whiskers, a telltale scar.
The shock of the discovery was so great that it was with difficulty
Chris checked a cry of surprise. Yes, it was the hero of the ring
adventure--there could be no possible doubt of it. And yet, after all,
was it? This person's hair was white and his whiskers too; he was shabby
and wore spectacles. The lad began to doubt the conclusion to which he
had leaped.
It couldn't be Stuart! A diamond robber would not be journeying about in
an electric bus in broad daylight. Such a notion was absurd. Probably it
was merely a mannerism that had suggested him.
Nevertheless Christopher continued to regard him attentively, studying
the white hand with its long, slender fingers. It was a very clean hand
for such a poorly dressed individual to boast. It did not look at all in
keeping with the clumsy boots, the frayed trousers, the worn ulster, the
battered satchel. It did not appear ever to have done a stroke of work
in its life.
Suppose the hand was genuine, and the rest only a disguise? Suppose in
reality this was Stuart, the criminal for whom both the Chicago and New
York police were searching? Oh, it wasn't likely--it could not be
likely. Why should a boy of his age hope to track down a thief when
agencies such as these had failed? It was preposterous.
Yet, notwithstanding the argument, the doubt would persist. What if,
after all, this was Stuart? Yet if it were, what should he do?
If he began to whisper his suspicious to McPhearson, the thief might
overhear and, put on his guard, leave the vehicle; and should he call
the conductor to his aid, the man would in all probability be unwilling
to believe such a tale and refuse to act. Moreover, perhaps he had no
authority to do so anyway.
Poor Christopher! His heart beat until it seemed as if the stranger
opposite must hear its throbbing and take warning. If only it were
possible to alight from the bus without exciting attention, maybe he and
McPhearson could get an officer. He sadly wanted somebody's help and
advice. The adventure was one he felt to be too big for him to handle
alone.
Nevertheless were he even to suggest leaving the car he knew his
companion would not only be surprised but would instantly voice aloud
his consternation, and then, of course, the man behind the newspaper
would hear.
Still, something must be done. The bus was whizzing on down the avenue,
and at any moment his prey might take flight.
A mad resolve formed itself in his mind.
"I think we'll have to get out," he said suddenly. "I don't feel well."
McPhearson wheeled on him, amazed.
"What's the matter?"
"My--my--breakfast, I guess. Can you stop the car?"
"Do you mean you want to get out right here?"
"Yes. I'm dizzy. If I can get some air--"
"Not going to faint away, are you?" queried the Scotchman in
consternation.
"I--no--I--guess not."
The kind old clockmaker slipped an arm about his shoulders.
"We'll get out at the next stop, sonny. Too bad you feel mean. It's
probably the lurching and bumping of this infernal vehicle. You'll be
all right when you get outside."
Without attracting anything more than passing notice, they found
themselves in the street and saw the bus disappear down the avenue.
"Feel better?" interrogated McPhearson, anxiously.
"I'm all right. There's not a thing the matter with me. The trouble is
that the man opposite us was the chap who pinched that ring from
Hollings."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure. At any rate, it's worth tipping off headquarters. Where's
there a telephone?"
"There's a drug store just across the street, Christopher. But hold on!
What do you mean to do?"
The Scotchman's mind was at best a slow-moving machine, and now it
appeared to be too stunned to move at all. Sensing that explanation and
argument would delay him, Christopher dashed ahead, the clockmaker
panting at his heels.
Fortunately he knew the number, for he had talked with the inspector
before. Fortunately, too, he had a nickel in his pocket. Therefore he
called headquarters, admonishing the operator to make haste.
A second later a reply came singing over the wire.
"Is Mr. Corrigan, the inspector, there?"
"Just gone out."
"Is Davis, his assistant, in?"
"Yes, sir."
"Rush him here. I want to speak to him."
"Who shall I--"
"No matter who. Get him here quick."
There must have been something in the tone that carried a command, for
almost immediately a weak, panting voice answered:
"This--is--Davis, sir."
"I'm Christopher Burton, the son of--"
"Yes, sir, I get it."
"I've left at the corner of Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-seventh Street a
bus numbered 1079 that's on its way down town; in it was a man that
looked like Stuart. Know who I mean?"
"Jove! You bet I do! Well?"
"He was togged out in an old brown ulster, worn trousers, and boots that
were all splashed with plaster or paint, and he had white hair, a white
beard, a slouch hat, and a bag. It may not be he at all, you know; but
his hands--say--hello--hello--Davis--hello--the darn operator's cut me
off."
"Maybe not. More likely Davis hung up the 'phone."
"But I wasn't through," declared the boy indignantly.
"He'd got all he wanted, I imagine, and had to get to work."
"Perhaps so." Christopher, however, was not satisfied.
Moreover, now that the excitement of the incident was over and he began
to look back on what he had done, it seemed madness. What right had he
to turn the whole police force of the city of New York loose on a poor
old working man, solely because his hands happened to be white! It was
audacious. A pretty kind of a fool he'd feel if he had started them off
on a false scent! They would not thank him. He had fumbled the affair
from the beginning, and doubtless was continuing to fumble it.
All the elation died in his face, and noticing this, McPhearson, who
loitered in the meantime at the door of the telephone booth, remarked:
"What's the trouble, son?"
"If I was only _sure_ it was Stuart."
"That's what I was trying to tell you, laddie, when you ran pell-mell in
here to call the police. You ought to have made sure before you gave the
information."
"But how could I?" retorted Christopher irritably. "I couldn't go up to
the man and ask him politely whether he was the burglar who took a
diamond ring from my father's shop, could I?"
The absurdity of the question brought back his good humor.
"No. I grant that," McPhearson agreed. "Still you might have proceeded
with a grain less speed. I always think an action can bear considering."
"But all actions can't be considered," was the crisp reply. Again an
edge of sharpness had crept into the lad's voice.
"Well, well. Maybe no harm's done," the clockmaker hastened to say
soothingly. "No doubt the police chase about on a hundred false clews a
day. Their information can't always be right."
"You feel like a fool, though, if you give them the wrong clew."
"Yes, you do."
The promptness of the concession was anything but comforting. Obviously
McPhearson felt that in the present instance, at least, the tip offered
had been both valueless and absurd. A strained silence fell between
them.
"I suppose we may as well hail another bus and get back to the store,"
the clock repairer at length suggested. "There's no good hanging round
here."
Although he did not actually say in so many words that they had already
wasted two fares, Christopher, well aware of his Scotch thrift, felt his
manner implied it.
They did not say much during the ride down town. McPhearson was a bit
ruffled and annoyed, and Christopher crestfallen and mortified. He was
thinking, too, that he would have to confess to his father what he had
so impulsively done, and receive from him more jeers and ridicule linked
with probable admonitions to greater deliberation and caution in future.
He hated to be preached at. Therefore he was entirely unprepared for the
ovation that greeted his return to the shop.
Hollings was near the door when he went in and had evidently been
waiting for him.
"Birdie is securely in his cage!" announced he, dropping his voice so
that the thrilling tidings might not be overheard by customers close at
hand.
"What?" gasped Christopher.
"Yes, he's bagged for fair! Your father is delighted. They're all
upstairs waiting for you--Corrigan, Davis, and all. We're to go down to
headquarters and identify the chap."
"Then it really _was_ Stuart!"
"Sure thing!" Hollings was actually trembling with joy. "Oh, I hope
they'll find those diamonds on him! At least, they'll probably be able
to make him tell where they are. If we can only get that ring back, I
shall die happy."
"So you were right after all, Christopher," McPhearson put in.
"Apparently!"
The cry, _"I told you so!"_ rose like a wave to the lad's lips and then
as speedily receded. Why should he feel triumphant? Mistakes are always
possible, and he might have been mistaken. Fortunately this time he had
not been, that was all.
"I'm glad!" the clockmaker declared.
"So am I!" replied the boy modestly.
No further comment was made except as they went up in the elevator, the
old man added:
"It's never amiss to have your eyes about you, son. The majority of
folks might as well have two glass beads in their heads, so little do
they really observe of what they see. To have your eyes open and your
mouth shut isn't a bad notion."
It was like McPhearson to turn his praise into good council. He never
flattered. Perhaps, too, it was just as well, for Christopher received
that noon all the adulation that was good for him.
Corrigan, the big inspector, clapped him on the shoulders, calling him a
little general; and Davis almost wrung his hand off. Even the silent Mr.
Norcross announced he was a son to be proud of. As for Mr. Burton,
Senior--well, he merely settled back into his office chair and beamed
about him.
"I made no mistake when I christened that boy Christopher Mark Antony
Burton, fourth," announced he, as if every whit of responsibility for
the boy's good judgment were traceable to his name. "He has the stuff in
him--has had since babyhood."
But Mr. Inspector did not wholly agree.
"You've got to do more than have good blood in your veins," he asserted,
with a hint of scorn. "The young one used his brains, he did, and used
'em quick without thanks to his ancestors. Had he loitered about and
depended on his great-grandfather, Stuart would have got away."
There was a general laugh, in which even Mr. Burton, chagrined though he
was, joined.
Afterward the two police officers, Christopher, his father, Mr.
Rhinehart, and Hollings rolled away to headquarters to identify the
captured diamond thief.