MR. PULSIFER SHAKES HIS HEAD
It was well along toward the middle of the following morning before
Russell had learned definitely what had happened at Number 112 West
street. Stick’s account had been exciting but vague. He had, however,
assured Russell that he had personally made an examination of the
premises and found everything all right, after learning which Russell
had been able to compose himself to slumber with the determination to
await philosophically the full explanation of the surprising event.
Not that he had sought sleep very early, for Stick, in spite of
small knowledge, had had much to say, and his theories had prolonged
conversation well toward midnight. In fact, Stick was still theorizing
when Russell dropped asleep.
When he did learn the particulars it was from the still agitated lips
of Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer. The two met in the police station, whither
they had been summoned, and on a bench in the outer room waited to be
conducted into the presence of the Chief. Shorn of unnecessary details
and repetitions, the facts were these. Mr. Pulsifer had gone to the
store after supper last evening and had remained there until nearly
ten o’clock. He had then put out the light, locked the door behind
him and reached the corner of Linden street, where the post office is
situated. There he annoyingly discovered that he had failed to bring
away with him two letters which he had early in the evening prepared
for the mail. As it was necessary that they should be delivered in
the city early in the morning, he had thereupon retraced his steps,
entered the store and, without troubling to light up, groped his way to
his desk and found the letters. He had again started toward the front
of the store when sounds at the rear had attracted his suspicion. The
sounds resembled the straining of a window sash, as though some one was
forcing it upward with a jimmy.
Mr. Pulsifer had promptly made his way silently to the window at the
left of the rear door. Sounds outside told him that burglars were
at work. What his emotions were at the moment Mr. Pulsifer didn’t
state. It is to his credit, though, that he quickly seized the nearest
available weapon, which happened to be a broom reposing in a corner,
and prepared to repel the marauders. He had barely got into position
when the window sash went up and he dimly saw some one swing across the
sill. What happened then was still doubtful so far as Mr. Pulsifer’s
memory was concerned. He recalled raising a loud shout of “_Police!_”
and of swinging the broom lustily. He recalled, less distinctly, the
crash that resulted when the broom, evidently missing the intruder,
struck the window glass. Then a surprising number of stars shot into
his vision and when he next took cognizance of events he was being
supported by a policeman, the store was dazzlingly illuminated and a
second policeman stood by with a firm grasp on the prisoner.
Mr. Pulsifer had a dreadful headache and a swelling under his right
eye, but after being given a drink of water was able to recount what
had happened. Fortunately, one of the officers had been crossing the
mouth of the alley on State street when the sound of breaking glass
had reached him. He had run toward the scene in time to see a figure
speeding away in the opposite direction, had shouted to it to stop and
was raising his revolver to fire when a second figure had collided with
him at the gate of the rear premises. The officer had been obliged to
use the butt of his revolver to make his capture, for the prisoner had
strongly objected to being detained. Mr. Pulsifer, having been assisted
from the floor, observed that the prisoner, who was hardly more than
a boy, although a very robust boy, looked extremely pale and that he
was holding a handkerchief to the side of his head. Mr. Pulsifer was
uncharitable enough to hope that the prisoner’s head was aching was
much as his was!
After that they had proceeded in a compact body to the station house,
accompanied by an ever-growing body of curious spectators. Inside,
the prisoner had, after several hesitations, given his name as William
Crocker and his residence as 43 Munroe avenue. Mr. Pulsifer had duly
made a charge against the prisoner and then been conveyed in a taxicab
to his home.
After some minutes of waiting Russell and his companion were summoned
into the Chief’s office. The latter did most of the talking. He had,
he informed them, got a confession from the boy. What had appeared
last evening as an attempt at burglary turned out to be no more than
a very silly school-boy prank. Of course, the Chief wasn’t excusing
young Crocker, but, on the other hand, Mr. Pulsifer of course knew
what boys were! The offender was a boy of excellent character, the son
of one of Alton’s prominent merchants and respected citizens and of
a hitherto stainless record. Young Crocker had earnestly disclaimed
having intended any theft or damage, and the Chief believed him. Now,
then, did Mr. Pulsifer think that any good would be done by prosecuting
the charge already made?
Mr. Pulsifer felt of his cheek, blinked a few times and shook his
head. The Chief smiled his approbation. Of course, he continued, if
Mr. Pulsifer felt that he had a claim for personal injury doubtless
that matter could be arranged easily and without publicity. The Chief
bore heavily on the last word. Mr. Pulsifer started to feel of his
cheek, thought better of it and again shook his head. The Chief looked
relieved and arose from his arm-chair, intimating that the consultation
was at an end and implying that Mr. Pulsifer had acted in exactly
the way he--the Chief--had expected a gentleman of his wisdom and
kindliness to act. It was Russell, who so far had said nothing, who, in
a way of speaking, spoiled the finale.
“I’d like to ask,” said Russell, “what Crocker intended to do when he
got inside the store.”
The Chief turned a displeased look on him. “Nothing at all, I
understand, nothing at all. They--that is, he had no plan. It
was merely a foolish prank, conceived hurriedly and carried out
without--er--without reflection.”
“There were two of them in it, I think?” asked Russell.
“Two of them? Possibly, possibly.” The Chief frowned darkly. “Only one
was apprehended, Mr. Emerson. As he refuses to state whether he had
an accomp--a companion, that is, we are left in doubt. And since Mr.
Pulsifer has decided not to prosecute the matter is of no importance.
You are not, I think,” added the speaker suggestively, “the lessee of
the premises?”
“No, but I sub-rent half the store, and--”
“Nothing has been stolen or damaged?”
“Not so far as I know,” acknowledged Russell.
“Of course not! Very well then!” The Chief was once more affable and
was herding them toward the door. “Thank you for your visit, Mr.
Pulsifer. The matter will be allowed to drop, and so, of course, I
trust that neither you nor Mr. Emerson will discuss it with others. I
have the boy’s promise, and his father’s, that nothing of the kind will
happen again. Good morning!”
Saying good-by to the florist, Russell hurried back to school and an
eleven o’clock recitation. At twelve he mounted to Number 27 and found
Stick anxiously awaiting his account of the interview. Russell told
what had happened, and Stick snorted. “Ha, that’s old man Crocker,”
he said. “I suppose he’s got enough influence to get Billy off if he
committed murder! J. Warren’s a spineless shrimp, if you ask me. Didn’t
intend any mischief! Oh, no, not a bit! If J. Warren hadn’t been there
those two would have put the place on the blink, I’ll bet! Maybe they
wouldn’t have swiped anything: I don’t believe they meant to: but
they’d have ruined a lot of our stock.”
“Do you think the other fellow was Throgmorton, Stick?”
“Sure! Why not? Billy was mad because he couldn’t get my share in the
business and he made up his mind to get square. Throgmorton’s a chunk
of cheese, if you ask me, and Billy probably made him think it was just
a sort of lark. Well, Crocker got a crack on the head and a couple of
hours in jail, and he ought to be satisfied!” Stick’s expression became
more mollified. “I guess we might as well be satisfied, too, Rus. The
laugh’s on our side, all right. Billy’s in bad with faculty, you see,
and out of football-- Gee, that reminds me!”
Stick stepped to the table and rummaged amongst the litter.
“Out of football!” exclaimed Russell. “Gee, that’s tough, Stick!”
“Tough?” Stick laughed unfeelingly. “I don’t see it. Where the dickens
is that-- Oh, here it is! That crazy guy Johnson left this a few
minutes ago.”
Russell took the folded sheet of paper and read the hastily scrawled
words amazedly.
“Emerson: Report at training table at twelve-thirty.
HY. JOHNSON, Mgr.”