ARRESTED EVERYWHERE.
"Who is Dave Kittymunks?" was a question asked by the newspapers
throughout the country. Not the slightest trace of him could be found,
nor could "Lil" be discovered with any degree of certainty. But one
morning the public was fed to an increase of appetite by an article
that appeared in a Chicago newspaper. "Kittymunks came to Chicago
about five months ago," said the writer, "and for a time went under
the name of John Pruett. Fierce in his manner, threatening in his
talk, wearing a scowl, frowning at prattling children and muttering at
honest men, he repelled every one. Dissatisfied with his lot in life,
he refused, even for commensurate compensation, to perform that honest
labor which is the province of every true man, and like a hyena, he
prowled about growling at himself and despising fate. The writer met
him on several occasions and held out inducements that might lead to
conversation, but was persistently repulsed by him. He frowned upon
society, and set the grinding heel of his disapproval on every attempt
to draw him out. Was there some dark mystery connected with his life?
This question the writer asked himself. He execrated humanity; and,
moody and alone, the writer has seen him sitting on a bench on the
lake front, turning with a sullen look and viewing with suppressed
rage the architectural grandeur towering at his back."
The article was written by Mr. Flummers. As the only reporter who
could write from contact with the murderer, his sentences were bloated
into strong significance. Fame reached down and snatched him up, and
the blue light of his flambeau played about him.
"Pessimist as he is"--Flummers was holding forth among the night
reporters at the central station--"Pessimist as he is, and a skeptic
though he may be, papa goes through this life with his eyes open. Idle
suggestion says, 'Shut your eyes, papa, and be happy,' but shrewdness
says, 'Watch that fellow going along there.' I don't claim any
particular credit for this; we are not to be vain of what nature has
done for us, nor censured for what she has denied. We are all
children, toddling about as an experiment, and wondering what we are
going to be. Some of us fall and weep over our bruises, and some of
us--some of us get there. He, he, he."
"Flummers, have they raised your salary yet?" some one asked.
"Oh, no, and that's why I am disgusted with the newspaper profession.
The country cries out, 'Who is the man?' There is a deep silence. The
country cries again, 'Does any one know this man?' And then papa
speaks. But what does he get? The razzle. A great scoop rewarded with
a razzle. My achievements are taken too much us a matter of course. I
don't assert myself enough. I am too modest. Say, I smell liquor.
Who's got a bottle? Somebody took a cork out of a bottle. Who was it?
Say, Will, have you got a bottle?"
"Thought you said that your doctor told you not to drink."
"He did; he said that I had intercostal rheumatism. He examined me
carefully, and when I asked him what he thought, he replied, 'Mr.
Flummers, you can't afford to drink.'"
"And did you tell him that you could afford it--that it didn't cost
you anything?"
"Oh, ho, ho, no! Say, send out and get a bottle. What are you fellows
playing there? Ten cents ante, all jack pots? It's a robbers' game."
* * * * *
In every community a stranger wearing black whiskers was under
suspicion. A detective shrewdly suggested that the murderer might have
shaved, and he claimed great credit for this timely hint; but no
matter, the search for the black-whiskered man was continued. Dave
Kittymunks was arrested in all parts of the country, and the head-line
writer, whose humor could not long be held in subjection, began to
express himself thus: "Dave Kittymunks captured in St. Paul, also
seized in New Orleans, and is hotly pursued in the neighborhood of
Kansas City."
Witherspoon, sitting by his library fire at night, would say over and
over again: "I told him never to keep any money in the house. He was
so close, so suspicious; and then to put his money in a safe that a
boy might have knocked to pieces!" And it became Mrs. Witherspoon's
habit to declare: "I just know that somebody will break into our house
next." Then the merchant's impatience would express itself with a
grunt. "Oh, it has given you and Ellen a rare chance for speculation.
We'd better wall ourselves in a cave and die there waiting for robbers
to drill their way in. It does seem to me that they ought to catch
that fellow, I told Brooks that he'd better increase the reward to
fifty thousand."
Witherspoon and Brooks called at Henry's office. "You may publish the
fact that I have offered fifty thousand dollars reward for
Kittymunks," said Brooks, speaking to Henry, but looking into the room
where Miss Drury was at work.
"That ought to be a great stimulus," Henry replied, "but it doesn't
appear to me that there has been any lack of effort."
"No," said Witherspoon; "but the prospect of fifty thousand dollars
will make a strong effort stronger."
"By the way," Henry remarked, "this is the first time you have visited
me in my work-room."
Witherspoon replied: "Yes, that's so; and it strikes me that you might
get more comfortable quarters."
"Comfortable enough for a workshop," Henry rejoined.
"Yes, I presume so. Are you ready, Brooks?"
"Yes, sir."
"We have just come from police headquarters," said Witherspoon, "and
thought that we would stop and tell you of the increased reward. You
were late at dinner yesterday. Will you be on time this evening?"
"Yes, I think so."
When they were gone, Henry went into Miss Drury's room. "Was that your
father?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And he scolded you for being late yesterday. If he had suspected that
I was the cause, I suppose he would have come in and stormed at me."
"You were not the cause."
"Yes, you were helping me with my work."
"It was my work, too." He tilted a pile of newspapers off a chair,
sat down and said: "I feel at home with you."
"Oh, am I so homely?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes, restoring the word to its best meaning. By the way, you haven't
cut off your hair."
"No, I forgot it, but I'm going to."
"My sister Ellen has hair something like yours, but not so heavy and
not so bright."
"I should like to see her."
"Because she has hair like yours?"
"What a question! No, because I am acquainted with her brother, of
course."
"And when you become acquainted with a man do you want to meet his
sister?"
"Oh, you are getting to be a regular tease, Mr. Witherspoon. After
awhile I shall be afraid to talk to you."
"I hope the clock will refuse to record that time. You say that you
would like to see my sister. You shall see her; you must come home to
dinner with me."
She gave him a quick look, a mere glance, the shortest sentence within
the range of human expression, but in that short sentence a full book
of meaning. One moment she was nothing but a resentment; but when she
looked up again the light in her eyes had been softened by that
half-sarcastic pity which a well-bred woman feels for the ignorance of
man.
"Your sister has not called on me," she said.
He replied: "I beg your pardon for overlooking the ceremonious
flirtation which women insist shall be indulged in, for I assure you
that their ways are sometimes a mystery to me; but I admit that the
commonest sort of sense should have kept me from falling into this
error. My sister shall call on you."
"Pardon me, but she must not."
"And may I ask why not?"
"My aunt lives in a flat," she answered.
"Suppose she does? What difference can that make?"
"It makes this difference: Your sister couldn't conceal the air of a
patron, and I couldn't hide my resentment; therefore," she added with
a smile that brought back all her brightness, "to be friends we must
remain strangers."
"But suppose I should call on you; would you regard it as a
patronage?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you are a man."
"You women are peculiar creatures."
"An old idea always patly expressed," she replied.
"But isn't it true?"
"It must be, or it wouldn't have lived so long," she answered.
"A pleasing sentiment," he replied, "but old age is not a mark of
truth, for nothing is grayer than falsehood."
"But it finally dies, and truth lives on," she rejoined.
"No, it is often buried."
"So is a mummy buried, but it is brought to light again."
"Yes, but it doesn't live; it is simply a mummy."
"Oh, well," she said, "I know that you are wrong, but I won't worry
with it."
John Richmond opened the door of Henry's room. "Come in," Henry
called, advancing to meet him. "How are you? And now that you are
here, make yourself at home."
"All right," Richmond replied, sitting down, reaching out with his
foot and drawing a spittoon toward him. "How is everything running?"
"First-rate."
"You are getting out a good paper. I have just heard that the reward
for Kittymunks has been increased."
"Yes, it was increased not more than an hour ago."
"Who is to pay it?"
"The State, you know, has offered a small reward; the Colossus Company
is to pay twenty thousand dollars, and the remainder will be paid by
the Colton estate."
"Who constitutes the Colton estate?"
"Brooks, mainly."
Richmond put his hand to his mouth. "That's what I thought," said he.
"Do you know Brooks very well?" he asked after a short silence.
"Not very."
"What do you think of him?"
"I despise him."
"I thought so. As the French say, whom does it benefit?"
They looked at each other, but said nothing. There could be no mistake
as to who was benefited. After a time Henry remarked: "I see that
Flummers has gone to Omaha to identify a suspect."
"He did go, but I heard some of the boys say that he returned this
morning. Is your work all done for to-day?"
"Yes, about all."
"Suppose we go over to the club."
"All right. Wait a moment."
Henry stepped into Miss Drury's room. "You must; forgive me," he said,
in a low tone.
"What for?" she asked, in surprise.
"For so rudely inviting you to dinner when my sister had not even
called on you."
"Oh, that's nothing," she replied, laughing. "Such mistakes are common
enough with men, I should think."
"Not with sensible men. What have you here?"
"Oh, some stupid paragraphs about women."
"They'll keep till to-morrow."
"But Mr. Mitchell said he wanted them to-day."
"Tell him if he calls for them that I want them to-morrow. You'd
better go home and rest."
"Rest? Why, I haven't done anything to make me tired."
"Well, you don't know how soon you may be tired, and you'd better take
your rest in advance. All right, John," he said in a louder tone, "I'm
with you."
When they entered the office of the Press Club, a forensic voice,
followed by laughter, bore to them the intelligence that Mr. Flummers
was in the front room, declaiming his recent adventures. They found
the orator measuredly stepping the short distance between this round
table and the post on which was fixed the button of the electric bell.
Led by fondness to believe that some one, moved to generosity, might
ask him to ring for the drinks, he showed a disposition to loiter
whenever he reached the post, and the light of eager expectancy and
the shadow of sore disappointment played a trick pantomime on his
countenance.
"Oh, ho, ho, here come two of my staff. John, I have been talking for
an hour, and the bell is rusting from disuse."
"Why don't you ring it on your own account?"
"Oh, no; you can't expect one man to do everything."
"Go on with your story."
"But is there anything in it?"
"If you mean your story, I don't think there's much in it."
"If you cut it short enough," said Mortimer, "we'll all contribute."
"There spoke a disgruntled Englishman," Flummers exclaimed. "Having no
humor himself, he scowls on the--the"--He scalloped the air, but it
failed to bring the right word. "Jim, you'd better confine yourself to
the writing of encyclopedias and not meddle with the buzz-saw of--of
sharp retort."
"He appears to have made it that time," said Whittlesy.
"Now, Whit, it may behoove some men to speak, but it doesn't behoove
you. Remember that I hold you in the hollow of my hand."
"Let us have the story," said Henry.
"But is the laborer worthy of his hire--is there anything in it?"
"Yes, ring the bell."
"That's the stuff."
"Flummers," some one remarked, a few moments later, "I don't think
that I ever saw you drunk."
Flummers tapped his forehead and replied: "The brain predominates the
jag. But I must gather up the flapping ends of my discourse. I will
begin again."
"Are you going to repeat that dose of bloody rot?" Mortimer asked.
"Jim, I pity you. I pity any man that can't see a point when it's held
under his nose."
"Or smell one when it's held under his eye," someone suggested.
"You fellows are pretty gay," said Flummers. "You must have drawn your
princely stipends this week." He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand
to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital:
"When I reached Omaha it was snowing. The heavens wore a feathery
frown."
"He didn't fill," said Whittlesy.
Flummers condemned him with a look and continued: "The wind whetted
itself to keenness on a bleak knob and came down to shave its unhappy
customers."
"He made his flush," said Whittlesy.
Flummers did not look at him. "I went immediately to the jail, where
one of the rank and file of the Kittymunkses was confined; and say,
you ought to have seen the poor, miserable, bug-bitten wretch they
stood up in front of me. He wore about a half-pint of dirty whiskers,
and in his make-up he reminded me of a scare-crow that brother and I
once made to put out on the farm in Wisconsin. I have seen a number of
Kittymunkses, but he was the worst. I said, 'Say, why don't you wash
yourself?' and the horrible suggestion made him shudder. 'Is this the
man?' the sheriff asked. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, disdaining the
sheriff, 'on the first train that pulls out I am going back to
Chicago; and whenever you catch another baboon that has worn himself
threadbare by sitting around your village, telegraph me and I will
come and tell you to turn him loose.' 'Then he is not the man?' said
the sheriff, giving me a look that told of deep official
disappointment. 'Gentlemen,' I replied, still disdaining the sheriff,
'I never saw this poor wretch before. Tra la.' I met one gentleman in
the town. I think he belonged to the sporting fraternity. He said,
'Will you have something?' and we went into a place kept by a retired
prize-fighter. My friend pointed to a noisy party at the rear end of
the room, and said: 'The city authorities.' 'Should they live?' I
asked, and my friend said, 'They should not.' And then papa was in
town. 'Make me a sufficient inducement,' said I, 'and I will take a
position on one of your newspapers and kill them off. One of my
specialties is the killing of city authorities. Nature has intended
them for my meat. I have killed mayors in nearly every place that is
worthy of the name of municipality; and between the ordinary city
official and papa,' I added, 'there is about as much affinity as there
is between a case of hydrophobia and a limpid trout stream trickling
its way through the woods of my native Wisconsin.' Say, do you know
what he did? He eyed me suspiciously and edged off toward the door.
Oh, it is painful to stand by helplessly and see fate constantly
casting my lot among jays."
"Mr. Flummers, do you think that you would recognize Kittymunks if you
were to see him?" Henry asked.
"Sure thing. Papa's friends may deceive him, but his eyes, backed by
his judgment, never do. Say, I'm getting up a great scheme, and pretty
soon I'm going to travel through the country with it. I'm going to
organize an investment company for country merchants. I've already got
about fifteen thousand dollars' worth of stock ready to issue. Has
everybody been to lunch? I have been so busy that I haven't eaten
anything since early this morning. Joe, lend me fifty cents."
"And take a mortgage on your investment company?"
"Oh, ho, ho, that's a good thing. The other day one of your so-called
literary men said that he would give me two dollars an hour to write
for him from dictation. 'Ha, I've struck a soft thing,' thinks I, and
I goes to his den with him. Well, when I had worked about half an
hour, taking down his guff, he turns to me and says, 'Say, lend me a
dollar.' 'I haven't got but forty cents,' I replied. But he didn't
weaken. 'Well, let me have that,' says he. 'You've got job and I
haven't, you know.' And he robbed me. I've got to go out now and see a
business jay from Peoria. With my newspaper work and my side
speculations I'm kept pretty busy. Joe, where's that fifty?"
"Gave it to you a moment ago."
"All right. Say, will you fellows be here when I come back?"
"Not if we can get out," Whittlesy replied.
"Oh, you've bobbed up again, have you? But remember that papa holds
you in the hollow of his hand."