A MINISTER'S SON
"Centerville, Iowa.
"Dear Carol and David:
"I am getting very, exceptionally wise. I am really appalled at
myself. It seems so unnecessary in one so young. You will remember,
Carol, that I used to say it was unfair that ministers' children should
be denied so much of the worldly experience that other ordinary humans
fall heir to by the natural sequence of things. I resented the
deprivation. I coveted one taste of every species of sweet, satanic or
otherwise.
"I have changed my mind. I have been convinced that ordinaries may
dabble in forbidden fires, and a little cold ointment will banish every
trace of the flame, but ministers' children stay scarred and charred
forever. I have decided to keep far from the worldly blazes and let
others supply the fanning breezes. For you know, Carol, that the
wickedest fires in the world would die out if there were not some
willing hands to fan them.
"There is the effect. The cause--Kirke Connor.
"Carol, has David ever explained to you what fatal fascination a
semi-satanic man has for nice, white women? I have been at father many
times on the subject, and he says, 'Connie, be reasonable, what do I
know about semi-satanics?' Then he goes down-town. See if you can get
anything out of David on the subject and let me know.
"Kirke is a semi-satanic. Also a minister's son. He has been in
trouble of one kind or another ever since I first met him, when he was
fourteen years old. He fairly seethed his way through college. Mr.
Connor has resigned from the active ministry now and lives in Mount
Mark, and Kirke bought a partnership in Mr. Ives' furniture store and
goes his troubled, riotous way as heretofore. That is, he did until
recently.
"A few weeks ago I missed my railway connections and had to lay over
for three hours in Fairfield. I checked my suit-case and started out
to look up some of my friends. As I went out one door, I glimpsed the
vanishing point of a man's coat exiting in the opposite direction. I
started to cut across the corner, but a backward glance revealed a
man's hat and one eye peering around the corner of the station. Was I
being detected? I stopped in my tracks, my literary instinct on the
alert. The hat slowly pivoted a head into view. It was Kirke Connor.
He shuffled toward me, glancing back and forth in a curious, furtive
way. His face was harrowed, his eyes blood-shot. He clutched my hand
breathlessly and clung to me as to the proverbial straw.
"'Have you seen Matters?' he asked.
"'Matters?'
"'You know Matters,--the sheriff at Mount Mark.'
"I looked at him in a way which I trust became the daughter of a
district superintendent of the Methodist Episcopal Church.
"He mopped his fevered brow.
"'He has been on my trail for two days.' Then he twinkled, more like
himself. 'It has been a hot trail, too, if I do say it who shouldn't.
If he has had a full breath for the last forty-eight hours, I am
ashamed of myself.'
"'But what in the world--'
"'Let's duck into the station a minute. I know the freight agent and
he will hide me in a trunk if need be. I will tell you about it. It
is enough to make your blood run cold.'
"Honestly, it was running cold already. Here was literature for the
asking. Kirke's wild appearance, his furtive manner, the searching
sheriff--a plot made to order. So I tried to forget the M. E.
Universal, and we slipped into the station and seated ourselves
comfortably on some egg boxes in a shadowy corner where he told his
sad, sad tale.
"'Connie, you keep a wary eye on the world, the flesh and the devil. I
know whereof I speak. Other earth-born creatures may flirt with sin
and escape unscathed. But the Lord is after the minister's son.'
"'I thought it was the sheriff after you?' I interrupted.
"'Well, so it is, technically. And the devil is after the sheriff, but
I think the Lord is touching them both up a little to get even with me.
Anyhow, between the Lord and the devil, with the sheriff thrown in,
this world is no place for a minister's son. And the rule works on
daughters, too.
"'You know, Connie, I have received the world with open hands, a loving
heart, a receptive soul. And I got gloriously filled up, too, let me
tell you. Connie, shun the little gay-backed cards that bear diamonds
and hearts and spades. Connie, flee from the ice-cold bottles that
bubble to meet your lips. Connie, turn a cold shoulder to the gilded
youths who sing when the night is old.'
"'For goodness' sake, Kirke, tell me the story before the sheriff gets
you.'
"'Well, it is a story of bottles on ice.'
"'Mount Mark is dry.'
"'Yes, like other towns, Mount Mark is dry for those who want it dry,
but it is wet enough to drown any misguided soul who loves the damp. I
loved it,--but, with the raven, nevermore. Connie, there is one thing
even more fatal to a minister's son than bottles of beer. That thing
is politics. If I had taken my beer straight I might have escaped.
But I tried to dilute it with politics, and behold the result. My
father walking the floor in anguish, my mother in tears, my future
blasted, my hopes shattered.'
"'Kirke, tell me the story.'
"'Matters is running for reelection. I do not approve of Matters. He
is a booze fighter and a card shark and a lot of other unscriptural
things. As a Methodist and a minister's son I felt called to battle
his return to office. So I went out electioneering for my friend and
ally, Joe Smithson. You know, Connie, that in spite of my wandering
ways, I have friends in the county and I am a born talker. I took my
faithful steed and I spent many hours, which should have been devoted
to selling furniture, decrying the vices of Matters, extolling the
virtues of Smithson. Matters got his eye on me.
"'He had the other eye on that office. He saw he must make a strong
bid for county favor. The easiest way to do that in Mount Mark is to
get after a boot-legger. There was Snippy Brown, a poor old harmless
nigger, trying to earn an honest living by selling a surreptitious
bottle from a hole in the ground to a thirsting neighbor in the dead of
night. Plainly Snippy Brown was fairly crying to be raided. Matters
raided him. And he got a couple of hundred of bottles on ice.'
"'Served him right,' I said, in a Sabbatical voice.
"'To be sure it did. And Matters put him in jail and made a great fuss
getting ready for his trial. I had a friend at court and he tipped me
off that Matters was going to disgrace the Methodist Church in general
and the Connors in particular by calling me in as a witness, making me
tell where I bought sundry bottles known to have been in my possession.
Picture it to yourself, sweet Connie,--my white-haired mother, my
sad-eyed father, the condemning deacons, the sneering Sunday-school
teachers, the prim-lipped Epworth Leaguers,--it could not be. I left
town. Matters left also,--coming my way. For two days we have been at
it, hot foot, cold foot. We have covered most of southeastern Iowa in
forty-eight hours. He has the papers to serve on me, but he's got to
go some yet.'
"Kirke stood up and peered about among the trunks. All serene.
"'I am nearly starved,' he said plaintively. 'Do you suppose we could
sneak into some quiet joint and grab a ham sandwich and a cup of
coffee?'
"I was willing to risk it, so we sashayed across the Street, I swirling
my skirts as much as possible to help conceal unlucky Kirke.
"But alas! Kirke had taken just one ravenous gulp at his sandwich when
he stopped abruptly, leaning forward, his coffee cup upraised. I
followed his wide-eyed stare. There outside the window stood Matters,
grinning diabolically. He pushed open the door, Kirke leaped across
the counter and vaulted through the side window, crashing the screen.
Matters dashed around the house in hot pursuit, and I--well, consider
that I was a reporter, seeking a scoop. They did not beat me by six
inches. Only I wish I had dropped the sandwich. I must have looked
funny.
"Kirke flashed behind a shed, Matters after him, I after Matters.
Kirke zigzagged across a lawn dodging from tree to tree,--Matters and
I. Kirke turned into an alley,--Matters and I. Woe to the erring son
of a minister! It was a blind alley. It ended in a garage and the
garage was locked.
"Matters pulled out a revolver and yelled, 'Now stop, you fool; stop,
Kirke!' Kirke looked back; I think he was just ready to shin up the
lightning rod but he saw the revolver and stopped. Matters walked up,
laughing, and handed him a paper. Kirke shoved it in his pocket. I
clasped my sandwich in both hands and looked at them tragically,--sob
element. Then Matters turned away and said, 'See you later, Kirke. I
congratulate the county on securing your services. Just the kind of
witness we like, nice, respectable, good family, and all. Makes it
size up big, you know. Be sure and invite your friends.'
"For a second I thought Kirke would strike him. I shook the sandwich
at him warningly and he answered with a wave of his own,--yes, he had
his sandwich, too. Then he said in a low voice, 'All right, Matters.
But you call me in that trial and I'll get you.'
"'Oh, oh, Sonny, you must not threaten an officer of the law,' said
Matters, in a hateful, chiding voice. He turned and sauntered away.
Kirke and I watched him silently until he was out of sight. Then we
turned to each other sympathetically.
"'Let's go back after that coffee,' said Kirke bravely.
"He took a bite of his sandwich thoughtfully, and I did of mine, trying
to eat the lump in my throat with it. An hour later we went our
separate ways.
"I heard nothing further for two weeks, then Mr. Nesbitt was called
East on business and said I might go home if I liked. Imagine my
ecstasy. I found the family, as well as all Methodists in general,
quite uplifted over the strange case of Kirke Connor. From a
semi-satanic, he had suddenly evoluted into a regular pillar, as became
the son of his saintly mother and his orthodox father. He attended
church, he sang in the choir, he went to Sunday-school, he was
prominent at prayer-meeting. Every one was full of pious satisfaction
and called him 'dear old Kirke,' and gave him the glad hand and invited
him to help at ice-cream socials. No one could explain it, they
thought he was a Mount Mark edition of Twice Born Men in the flesh.
"So the first afternoon when he drove around with his speedy little
brown horse and his rubber tired buggy and asked me to go for a drive,
father smiled, and Aunt Grace demurred not. Maybe I could give him a
little more light. I watched him pretty closely the first mile or so.
He had nothing to say until we were a mile out of town. He is a
good-looking fellow, Carol,--you remember, of course, because you never
forget the boys, especially the good-looking ones. His eyes were clear
and slightly humorous, as if he knew a host of funny things if he only
chose to tell. Finally in answer to my reproachful gaze, he said:
"'Well, I didn't have anything to say about it, did I? I did not ask
to be born a minister's son. It was foreordained, and now I've got to
live up to it in self-defense. There may be forgiveness for other
erring ones, but I tell you our crowd is spotted.'
"I had nothing to say.
"'Well, you might at least say, "Good for you, my boy. Here's luck?"'
he complained.
"I was still silent.
"'It is good business, too,' he continued belligerently. 'I am selling
lots of furniture. I have burned the black and white cards. I have
broken the ice-cold bottles. I have shunned the gilded youths with
mellow voices. I go to church. I sell furniture. I sleuth Matters.'
"'You what?'
"'I am trailing Matters. Turn about. Where he goeth, I goeth. Where
he lodgeth, I lodgeth. His knowledge is my knowledge, and his tricks,
my salvation.'
"'You make me sick, Kirke. Why don't you talk sense?'
"'He is crooked, Connie, and everybody knows it. But it is no cinch
catching him at it. Smithson is going to be elected and Matters knows
it. But the only way I can keep out of that trial is to get something
on Matters. So whenever he is out, I am out on the same road. He is
going toward New London this afternoon and so are we. I have got just
five more days and you must be a good little scout and go driving with
me, so he won't catch on that I am sleuthing him. He will think I am
just beauing you around in the approved Mount Mark style.'
"Sure enough after a while we came across Matters talking to a couple
of farmers on the cross roads, and Kirke and I stopped a quarter of a
mile farther down and ate sandwiches and told stories, and when Matters
passed us a little later he could have sworn we were there just for our
joy in each other's company. But we did not learn anything.
"The next day we were out again, with no better luck. But the third
day about four in the afternoon, Kirke called me on the telephone.
There was subtle excitement in his voice.
"'Come for a drive, Connie?' he asked; common words, but there was a
world of hidden invitation, of secret lure, in his voice for me.
"'Yes, gladly,' I said. Father did not nod approvingly and Aunt Grace
did not smile this time. Three days in succession was a little too
warm even for a newly made pillar, but they said nothing and Kirke and
I set out.
"'He raided Jack Mott's last night and has about three hundred bottles
to smash this afternoon. The old fellow is pretty fond of the ice-cold
bottles himself and it is common report that he raids just often enough
to keep himself supplied. So I think I'll keep an eye on him to-day.
He started half an hour ago, south road, and he has Gus Waldron with
him,--his boon companion, and the most notoriously ardent devotee of
the bottles in all dear dry Mount Mark. Lovely day for a drive, isn't
it?'
"'Yes, lovely.' I was very happy. I felt like a princess of old,
riding off into danger, and I felt very warm and friendly toward Kirke.
Remember that he is very good-looking and just bad enough in spite of
his new pillar-hood, to be spell-binding, and--it was lots of fun.
Kirke grabbed my hand and squeezed it chummily, and I smiled at him.
"'You are a glorious girl,' he said.
"I suppose I should have reminded him and myself that he was a
semi-satanic, but I did not. I laughed and rubbed the back of his hand
softly with the tips of my nice pink finger nails, and laughed again.
"Then here came a light wagon,--Matters and Waldron,--going home, and
we realized we had been loitering on the job. Kirke shook his head
impatiently.
"'You distracted me,' he said. 'I forgot my reputation's salvation in
the smile of your eye.'
"But we drove on to look the field over. Less than half a mile down
the road we came to a low creek with rocky rugged banks. The banks
were splashed and splattered with bits of glass, and over the glass and
over the rocks ran thin trickling streams of a pale brown liquid that
had a perfectly sickening odor. I sniffed disgustedly as we walked
over to reconnoiter.
"'I guess he made good all right,' said Kirke in a disappointed voice,
inspecting the glass-splattered banks of the creek. Then he leaped
across and walked lightly up the bank on the opposite side. Stooping
down, he lifted an unbroken bottle and waved it at me, laughing.
"'They missed one. Never a crack in it and still cold.' He looked at
it curiously, affectionately, then with resignation. 'I am a
minister's son,' he reminded himself sternly. He lifted the bottle
above his head, and with his eye selected a nice rough rock half way
down the bank. 'Watch the bubbles,' he called to me.
"'Hay, mister,' interposed a voice, 'gimme half a dollar an' I'll show
you a whole pile of 'em that ain't broke.'
"Slowly we rallied from our stupefaction as we gazed at the slim,
brown, barefooted lad of the farm who was proudly brandishing a
forbidden cigarette of corn-silks.
"'A whole pile of 'em. On the square?' asked Kirke with glittering
eyes.
"'Yes, sir. A couple o' fellows come out in a light wagon a while ago
an' had a lot of bottles in boxes. First they throwed one on the
rocks, an' then they throwed one up in the tall grass, one up an' one
down. There's a whole pile of 'em that ain't broke at all. An' the
little dark fellow says, "A good job, Gus. We'll be Johnny-on-the-spot
as soon as it gets dark."'
"Kirke was standing over him, his eyes bright, his hands clenched. 'On
the level?' he whispered.
"'Sure, but gimme the half first.' Kirke passed out a silver dollar
without a word and the boy snatched it from him, giggling to himself
with rapture.
"'Right up there, mister, in that pile of weeds.'
"Kirke took my hand and we scrambled up the bank, pulling back the tall
grass,--no need to stoop and look. Bottle after bottle, bottle after
bottle, lay there snugly and securely, waiting for the sheriff and his
friend to rescue them after dark.
"The lad had already disappeared, smoking his corn-silks rapturously,
his dollar snug in the palm of his hand. And Kirke and I, without a
word, began patiently carrying the bottles to the buggy. Again and
again we returned to the clump of weeds, counting the bottles as we
carried them out,--a hundred and fifty of them, even.
"Then we got into the buggy, feet outside, for the bed of the buggy was
filled and piled high, covered with the robe to discourage prying eyes,
and turned the little brown mare toward town.
"'Connie, would you seriously object to kissing me just once? I feel
the need of it this minute,--moral stimulus, you know.'
"'Ministers' daughters have to be very, very careful,' I told him in an
even voice.
"We were both silent then as we drove into town. When he pulled up in
front of the house he looked me straight in the face, and he uses his
eyes effectively.
"'You are a darling,' he said.
"I said 'Thanks,' and went into the house.
"He told me next morning what happened that evening. Of course he was
there to witness Matters' discomfiture. He did not put in appearance
until the sheriff and his friend were climbing anxiously and sadly into
the light wagon to return home empty-handed. Then he sauntered from
behind a hedge and lifted his hat in his usual debonair manner.
"'By the way, Mr. Sheriff,' he began in a quiet, ingratiating voice, 'I
hope I am not to be called as a witness in that boot-legging case.'
"Matters snarled at him. 'Pooh,' he said angrily, 'you can't blackmail
me like that. You can't prove anything on me. I reckon the people
around here will take the word of the sheriff of their county against
the booze fightin' son of a Methodist preacher.'
"Kirke waved his hand airily. 'Far be it from me to enter into any
defense of my father's son. But a hundred and fifty bottles are pretty
good evidence. And speaking of witnesses, I have a hunch that the
people of this county will fall pretty hard for anything that comes
from the lips of the baby daughter of the district superintendent of
the Methodist Church.'
"Matters hunched forward in his seat. 'Connie Starr,' he said, in a
hollow voice.
"Kirke swished the weeds with his cane,--he has all those graceful
affectations.
"Matters swallowed a few times. 'Old man Starr is too smart a man to
get his family mixed up in politics,' he finally brought out.
"'Baby Con is of age, I think,' said Kirke lightly. 'And she is very
advanced, you know, something of a reformer, has all kinds of
emancipated notions.'
"Matters whipped up and disappeared, and Kirke went to prayer-meeting.
Aunt Grace saw him; I wasn't there.
"The next day, I met Matters on the street. Rather, he met me.
"'Miss Connie,' he said in a friendly, inviting voice, 'you know there
are a lot of things in politics that girls can't get to the bottom of.
You know my record, I've been a good Methodist since before you were
born. Sure you wouldn't go on the witness stand on circumstantial
evidence to make trouble for a good Methodist, would you?'
"I looked at him with wide and childish eyes. 'Of course not, Mr.
Matters,' I said quickly. He brightened visibly. 'But if I am called
on a witness stand I have to tell what I have seen and heard, haven't
I, whatever it is?' I asked this very innocently, as one seeking
information only.
"'Your father wouldn't let a young girl like you get mixed up in any
dirty county scandal,' he protested.
"'If I was--what do you call it--subpoenaed--is that the word?' He
forgot that I was working in a lawyer's office. 'If I was subpoenaed
as a witness, could father help himself?'
"Mr. Matters went forlornly on his way and that night Kirke came around
to say that the sheriff had informed him casually that he thought his
services would not be needed on that boot-legging case,--they had
plenty of other witnesses,--and out of regard for the family, etc., etc.
"Kirke smiled at him. 'Thank you very much. And, Matters, I have a
hundred and fifty nice cold bottles in the basement,--if you get too
warm some summer evening come around and I'll help you cool off.'
"Matters thanked him incoherently and went away.
"That day Kirke and I had a confidential conversation. 'Connie Starr,
I believe I am half a preacher right now. You marry me, and I will
study for the ministry.'
"'Kirke Connor,' I said, 'if any fraction of you is a minister, it
isn't on speaking terms with the rest of you. That's certain. And I
wouldn't marry you if you were a whole Conference. And I don't want to
marry a preacher of all people. And anyhow I am not going to get
married at all.'
"At breakfast the next morning father said, 'I believe Kirke Connor is
headed straight, for good and all. Now if some nice girl could just
marry him he would be safe enough.'
"Aunt Grace looked at him warningly. 'But of course no nice girl could
do it, yet,' she interposed quickly. 'It wouldn't be safe. He can't
marry until he is sure of himself.'
"'Oh, I don't know,' I said thoughtfully. 'Provided the girl were
clever as well as nice, she could handle Kirke easily. Now I may not
be the nicest girl in the world, but no one can deny that I am clever.'
"Father swallowed helplessly. Then he rallied. 'By the way, Connie,
won't you come down to Burlington with me for a couple of days? I have
a lot of work to do there, and we can have a nice little honeymoon all
by ourselves. What do you say?'
"'Oh, thank you, father, that is lovely. Let's go on the noon train,
shall we? I can be ready.'
"'All right, just fine.' He flashed a triumphant glance at Aunt Grace
and she dimpled her approval.
"'Now don't tell any one we are going, father,' I cautioned him. 'I
want to surprise Kirke Connor. He is going to Burlington on that train
himself, and it will be such a joke on him to find us there ready to be
entertained. He is to be there several days, so he can amuse me while
you are busy. Isn't it lovely? He really needs a little boosting now,
and it is our duty, and--will you press my suit, Auntie? I must fly or
I won't be ready.'
"Aunt Grace looked reproachfully at father, and father looked
despairingly at Aunt Grace. But we had a splendid time in Burlington,
the three of us, for father never did one second's work all the time,
he was so deathly afraid to leave me alone with Kirke.
"Isn't it lots of fun to be alive, Carol? So many thrilling and
interesting and happy things come up every day,--I love to dig in and
work hard, and how I love to drop my work at five thirty and run home
and doll up, and play, and flirt--just nice, harmless flirting,--and
sing, and talk,--really, it is a darling little old world, isn't it?
"Oh, and by the way, Carol, when you want a divorce just write me about
it. Mr. Nesbitt and I specialize on divorces, and I can do the whole
thing myself and save you lots of trouble. Just tell me when, and I
will furnish your motive.
"Lovingly as always,
"Connie."